PENTECOST SUNDAY

John 20:19-23

 

“I stopped going to the temple years ago,” confessed the young professional dressed in fine linen. He had taken a seat next to the apostle on the half-wall skirting the square. The crowd had melted away.

Before Thaddeus could speak, the clean shaven entrepreneur said, “I’m not here for baptism. I just have questions.” Thaddeus waited in silence as the fellow ran his fingers through his dark curls. “What became of him?”

The educated young man clearly a Roman was searching for Christ and Thaddeus, understanding, answered “He’s not here.”

The professional’s brow furrowed, “I need to talk to him.”

Again Thaddeus held back allowing the Roman freedom to ramble.

“I . . . my life’s a mess! I mean, I’ve got everything, a house, a family, enough money. I worked hard for it. Don’t get me wrong, the Gods have been kind.  I’m just not into religious structure.”

“Then why do you seek Christ?” Thaddeus sensed the fellow had reached a dead end, maybe there were dark skeletons in his past.

“I’m not looking for a cure. I’m fine,” he quickly said, then shrugged, “I guess he’s not around, huh?”

Thaddeus searched for the right words. Without insinuating Roman complicity he answered, “They crucified him.”

The young man’s face fell. “You know, I heard him once say to a paralyzed man, “Your sins are forgiven.”

Thaddeus said, “He did that a lot.”

“I don’t understand. I thought everybody just wanted a cure.”

Thaddeus could see this professional hungered for forgiveness. He remembered that Jesus knew people were sicker in soul than in body. He explained, “Sometimes broken hearts needed healing first.”

“Yeah, I . . .” the young man half rose to leave.

“What’s eating you?” asked Thaddeus wondering what he could say to help him.

The confused Roman sat down again. His story was long, his sins many. He was searching for understanding.

Thaddeus listened knowing the man wasn’t ready for baptism. Few Gentiles were. What he hungered for was absolution. Then he remembered Jesus words about his role as apostle. Jesus had breathed on him and the others and had spoken words of forgiveness.

He put his hand on the man’s shoulder and said, “May I bless you?”

The man said, “No baptism . . .not yet!”

“No,” said Thaddeus, “Just something to help the hurt.”

The entrepreneur knelt down in front of the apostle who, raising his hand in blessing switched to Latin saying, “Ego te absolvo . . .”

http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/01061a.htm

 

Feast of the Ascension

Mother

He came home to Bethany. All of them did. Mary could see they were lost.  Too much had happened in the last six weeks. She waited for them to pull themselves together. In the end they drifted off to pray in the temple, all except John. He stayed to ask, “What did he look like?”

His new mother’s lips turned up at the corner, “Does it matter?”

“People will want to know. I’m supposed to proclaim the good news, and they have vague ideas about Jesus. How should I describe what I can’t remember?” John searched her face for support. “You’re his mother,” he said wrapping his hands around hers.

“I’m your mother now,” she said. “Surely you remember that much.”

John hung his head. Of course he remembered standing at the foot of the cross. The blood, the thorns, the gash in the chest. He even remembered the words, “This is your mother,” but when Jesus rose from the dead, things got vague, elusive. Nobody was sure if he was real. Maybe he was a ghost, him coming through the walls like that.

He, John, would recognize Christ before the others. But why couldn’t wrap his mind around the man who had disappeared in the clouds. John shrugged his shoulders. Without looking up into Mary’s face he said, “I’ve lost sight of him. I can’t even remember the color of his eyes.”

“He’s no different now,” she said. “Don’t you see . . .?”

“No,” John wanted to say, but didn’t. He needed answers. Besides he needed to take care of his new mother. He raised his head to look at Mary. Instantly, he realized she was with Jesus in one of those unearthly contemplative moments. He’d seen it before. “She sees,” he knew, and buried his face in his hands, longing for light as he tried to remember her Son: his height, his manner, his voice.

He felt her hand on his shoulder. “Go, join the others in the temple,” she said.

And when he looked into her eyes once more, he understood why it didn’t matter.

 

Taken from Luke 24:46-53

Sixth Sunday of Easter

Quo Vadis

Judas left. Jesus had tried hard to hold him, but the money . . .

Judas shouldn’t have been trusted with the purse. Pete decided he should be treasurer. It was a bad decision, but Jesus allowed the mistake.

It broke his heart to watch Judas go, because he was leaving too. He said so to the rest of the group, and they all got clingy. They whispered among themselves: “What will we do without him?” “ Where is he going?”

They started to fall apart.  “I’ll be back,” he said.

It didn’t help. He changed the subject, “Peace.”  

They didn’t buy it. They saw his distress, and he knew that they weren’t sure if his glum mood was over Judas’ departure or about the announcement that he was leaving them. They had no idea he was as terrified as they were. Only he knew the next days would come from hell.

He dropped back into the only message they would understand, “If you really love me, you’d be happy to let me go.”

“We do love you,” they protested, confusion gripping their thoughts.

“If you love me,” he repeated heavily, “keep my commandments.”

The men looked at each other with a “we do keep them,” look on their faces.

Jesus rose from the table, his final words cryptic, “Then I will ask the Father to send the Paraclete.”      

Fifth Sunday of Easter

Glory

John remembered something about “glory.” Jesus had said the word so many times it made all the boys want to be part of the act.  Who wouldn’t want glory? After all, doesn’t the definition include grandeur, riches, high positions, or kingliness? They all burned for fulfillment of his words. They hung with him when everybody else gave up sure that there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He promised, over and over, the special places prepared for each of them.

What Jesus talked about that night was vague and depressing.  John followed along like the others, waiting for the glory. It started with Jesus taking off his cloak and washing the boys’ feet, even Peter’s. Then things got grim. There was talk of failure and betrayal and the walk to the garden. Real glory never came, not the glory that meant grandeur or riches. Even the kingly part wasn’t what he expected.  Oh yeah, Jesus was their king alright. The plaque Pilate planted over his head said so, though the crown was plaited thorns.

It was after Jesus rose from the dead that it all came clear. Glory wasn’t about most people’s sense of grandeur. True grandeur, real glory, had to do with the agony of defeat. John hadn’t understood that until he stood at the foot of the cross and watched him die. No human could die like Him. Only a God could. 

Fourth Sunday of Easter

Good Shepherd

John 10:27-30

I look above their heads to see

Which one looks lost or sick or glum;

The crowd that follows after me,

Thinks most of food or having fun

I wrap their broken bones and hearts

I call them back from straying off

To barren cliffs and desert parts

And bring them to their water trough

Sunup, sundown, early or late

I keep them safe from wolves and thieves

I gather them behind safe gate;

For I know mine, and mine know me.

Confession

John 21:1-19

 

Hungry from the long night of angling, his mouth watered at the scent of fish frying in the open air. A fellow mate caught sight of the campfire on the shore. He whispered excitedly, “It’s him,” and pointed to the man at the fire.

Jumping out of the boat before it touched land, he hurried to the warmth of the flames, bringing a few fish from his own catch to add to the pan. The gnawing in his belly increased as he neared the friend squatting by the fire. The gnawing, he knew, wasn’t from hunger alone. His friend had prepared this meeting. Time and location hadn’t been discussed, but this moment was anticipated. And his stomach began to churn. “Why did I do it?” he thought to himself. “How could I have let him down like that?” He felt the questions eat away at his insides.

Settling down across from the friend he knew he had betrayed, he exchanged a quick glance of greeting. His shipmates, having tied up the boat, joined him at the fire, but their company provided little comfort. He just kept glancing furtively at his friend hoping for the right moment to make a confession.

“Do you love me?” The friend suddenly asked, passing some fish to him, without raising his eyes from the fire he seemed to be studying.

Caught by surprise he answered, “You know I love you.” But the answer felt hollow. He wanted to say “I’m sorry,” but he just didn’t know how. He put a little fish in his mouth, though he’d lost his appetite.

“Feed my lambs,” said the friend.

The low conversation around him died. Everyone was becoming aware that something was up. There was tenseness in the air as friends looked at each other, trying to figure what was meant by the questions. Wanting to cover his shame, he ate more heartily.

Again the friend said, “Do you love me”

Eyes downcast, he thought of that awful night when he’d been asked, “You’re his friend, aren’t you?” and he had said “No.” He hadn’t meant it . . . he was just so scared. “Yes, I love you” he answered vehemently, trying to purge the awful denials away.

“Feed my lambs,” answered the friend.

Whispered questions passed between shipmates. He knew they didn’t understand what was happening. But he did. It was time for his confession. He looked up bravely to meet the eyes of his friend, but then broke down. His throat tightened and there was a stinging in his eyes. The words just wouldn’t come. Before tears blurred his vision, he caught the tenderest look of compassion in his friend who asked once more, “Peter, do you love me?”

Sobbing, he answered from the depth of his being, “Lord, you know all things. You know I love you!”

 

Thomas

Tom spoke the words of consecration, his eyes fixed on the Eucharist. It was the Lord he loved, though he did not see. He didn’t need to see; not anymore. Holding the Host in his hand he thought of another day long ago. He had come back from the dark days that had scattered all the disciples. He’d sent a messenger ahead to let the apostles know he would rejoin them. Martha ran out to meet him as he passed through Bethany. “We’ve seen him,” she said. “He’s alive.”

“Sure,” he said thinking ‘heck, she’s always seeing things.’ But she had a light about her and the sorrows of the last days seemed not to weigh on her like they did on him. How resilient the women, he thought, while he was still trying to come to grips with his faith.

He arrived in Jerusalem late in the day. Immediately, he joined the others in the upper room. They couldn’t contain themselves and bubbled, “He was here last week. We saw him!”

“Ya, ok,” answered Tom sitting down at table. He was hungry from the journey and they passed him some bread and fish. Their excitement should have been infectious, but he didn’t share it. Their talk about how Jesus had come through the walls was a bit freaky. Surely they had deluded themselves. He tested them, “That’s why you guys are still locking yourselves in, huh?”

He wasn’t being sarcastic; he just had real trouble stomaching ghostly encounters. Did they even check whether the specter was for real?  He downed the bread and fish with alacrity spouting off between bites of food. “Yeah well, unless I see the holes of the nails . . .” the words about his real feelings slipped out more harshly than he intended.  The past week had taken too much out of him; first, the death, then grappling with his beliefs about Jesus, and now this talk about a dead man come to life. He knew that if resurrection were possible, Jesus wasn’t just the Messiah, he would have to be God.

“Look guys,” he said not raising his head from his plate of food. “I’d like to believe you.” He took another bite of fish and finished, “I need to put my finger into the holes in his hands. I want to feel the gaping wound in his side.”

He was so self-absorbed that he didn’t notice the other men back away to give Jesus room. He just took another bite of fish and rambled on, “I just won’t b . . .” he couldn’t finish his sentence. A hand rested on his shoulder and he turned to look up.

“Thomas,” the voice he knew too well said, “Come put your finger into my wounds and believe.”

“My Lord and My God,” Tom answered, falling to his knees