I have no one

“Do you want to be well?” The sick man answered him, “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up; while I am on my way, someone else gets down there before me.” Jesus said to him, “Rise, take up your mat, and walk.”

Monday, I went to the oncologist in San Pedro Sula. My defenses are good, though my platelets are a bit low. We scheduled the third chemotherapy for next Wednesday. 

I returned to Copán and joined the diocesan clergy retreat that had started that afternoon. Tuesday morning at Mass, tears welled up within me as I read the Gospel of the paralytic at the pool of Bethesda. (The ruins of this pool are near the church of Saint Anne in Jerusalem.) 

Photo of the pool of Bethesda (November 2004)

The people believed that an angel would stir up the waters of this pool and those who arrived first would be healed, but this man was all alone, with no one to help him. So, he was waiting. He had been ill for thirty-eight years. 

Jesus approaches him. The paralytic looks to Jesus to move him into the water, but he is in for a surprise. Jesus does not carry him to the waters, but the Living Water, Jesus, comes to him, to hear his plea and to heal him. 

It is interesting how our life experiences often shed a new light on the scriptural text. What struck me that morning at Mass is how I feel surrounded by so many people, who are – in their way – carrying me to the water.

Yes, it’s lonely, sitting for hours in chemotherapy. But Padre German, our pastor, has come twice to be with me for a few hours. Sure, it’s so uncertain, but people ask about my health. How many people are ill, without someone to aid them, to accompany them! 

In his message for the World Day of the Sick this year, Pope Francis wrote pointedly,

Illness is part of our human condition. Yet, if illness is experienced in isolation and abandonment, unaccompanied by care and compassion, it can become inhumane. When we go on a journey with others, it is not unusual for someone to feel sick, to have to stop because of fatigue or of some mishap along the way. It is precisely in such moments that we see how we are walking together: whether we are truly companions on the journey, or merely individuals on the same path, looking after our own interests and leaving others to “make do”.

How true and how sad! One of the most challenging but fulfilling parts of my diaconal ministry has been visiting the sick. At times I don’t have much to say and will use the ritual prayers as a starting point. At times, I find myself inspired and we talk for a while. When the person is disposed, I will share the Eucharist. It is always a joy when those who accompany me offer a hymn after the ill person has received. I don’t know how much I can do this now. At least, I try to share this with the communion ministers (whose main ministry is to visit the sick.) And I can help others become more aware of the central need of the sick for that human touch, that touch of the hand of God, through our hands. I recently finished a book that helps me reflect on my situation: Father Tomas Halik's Touch the Wounds: On Suffering, Trust, and Transformation.

Here are a few quotes that sustain me:

Jesus is everywhere that there are the needy — and for us they are everywhere (and he in them) as an “opportunity,” as an open gate to the Father. (p. 43) 

The first step to healing the world’s wounds is our conversion, repentance, humility — or in everyday language: the courage to be truthful about ourselves. (p. 146) 

...when Christ comes and shows us his wounds it can rouse our “courage for the truth,” our courage to take off the “armor, masks, and makeup” that we use to conceal our wounds from others, and often from ourselves. (p.147)

Enter through the narrow door

I am working on my homily for this coming Sunday. It will be in Spanish of course, but I decided to share some of my thoughts in English. My final notes will be tuned to the reality of our people here, but I want to share the barrage of ideas that are going trough my heart.

The phrase from the Gospel (Luke 13:22-30) that hits me is “Strive to enter through the narrow gate.” In Spanish it reads a bit more forcefully: “Esfuércense por entrar por la puerta, que es angosta”. “make an effort, exert yourself, to enter by the gate that is narrow. The Greek is Ἀγωνίζεσθε εἰσελθεῖν διὰ τῆς στενῆς θύρας - struggle to enter by the narrow door. 

The Lord calls us to a struggle, because there are so many distractions and offers of an effortless life, which offer a false consolation. 

But, as I began to struggle with the text, I couldn’t get out of my mind an experience I had in 2004 when I was visiting the Holy Land.

I stayed with a friend in the Palestinian city of Bethlehem and visited parts of Palestine and Israel, often with him. Being in Bethlehem, I visited the Church of the Nativity several times. One morning I got up early for Mass near the site of the nativity. But before that, I had visited the church with my friend and entered the church by the Door of Humility.

There used to be three doors to the church but two are walled up and the third one was refashioned in the times of the Ottoman Empire.

The Door of Humility is less than five feet high and you have to stoop to enter the church.

Many have reflected that this door reminds us that we must be humble, remembering our status as creatures made from the earth – humus.

We also are called to remember that we are entering the place when God became human, taking on our flesh, “humbling himself” (Philippians 2: 6-8).

But there is another lesson to be learned when we recall the origin and purpose of this door. It’s important to that it was reconstructed during the Ottoman control of the Holy Land (and much of the Levantine Mid-East.)

The door is low to prevent soldiers entering on their horses.

To enter the birthplace of the Prince of Peace, we have to disarm, to dismount, putting ourselves on the level of others.

This reflects the wisdom of the psalms: 

 “Some rely on chariots, others on horses, but we on the name of the Lord our God,” reads Psalm 20:8. 

 “Useless is the horse for safety; despite its great strength, it cannot be saved,” reads Psalm 33:17 in the NAB translation; the NRSV is more pointed: “The war horse is a vain hope for victory, and, by its great might, it cannot save,” as is the Grail translation, “A vain hope for safety is the horse; despite its power it cannot save.” 

 

To enter the church of the Nativity we have to leave behind the false defenses of our personal lives as well as the security policies of the nations that trust in their weapons.

The narrow door, the low door of humility calls us to disarmament – of the nations and of the heart. 

Dorothy Day in 1938, during the Spanish Civil War, wrote of the need of the disarmament of the heat.

Yes, we must work for the disarmament of the nations as well as the disarmament of our cities, where all too many weapons lead to murders and mass killings.

But this must come from a disarmed heart, getting down off our high horses, laying aside our supposed superiority, renouncing attacks on our neighbors, and encountering the Lord Jesus in a manger, defenseless, surrounded by all our sisters and brothers.

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The full text of Dorothy Day's remarks put the disarmament of the heart in the context of the call to holiness.

“Today the whole world is in the midst of a revolution. We are living through it now – all of us. History will record this time as a time of world revolution. And frankly, we are calling for Saints…. We must prepare now for martyrdom — otherwise we will not be ready. Who of us if … attacked now would not react quickly and humanly against such attack? Would we love our brother [or sister] who strikes us? Of all at The Catholic Worker, how many would not instinctively defend [themselves] with any forceful means in [their] power? We must prepare. We must prepare now. There must be a disarmament of the heart.”

God as guest

Initial reflections on Sunday's readings 

Genesis 18: 1-19; Luke 10: 28-32

When I visit someone here in Honduras. I am almost always asked if I want a coffee. But much more than coffee arrives – often locally baked sweet bread.

I remember when I was in El Salvador in the countryside in the 1990s; people would offer me a tortilla – but that meant tortilla, beans, cheese, and coffee – a complete meal. 

Hospitality is a part of the culture. Their generous hospitality continues to astound me.

But it’s not always just food that is offered. When people want to talk and share a bit of their lives, I feel even more welcomed.

I wonder if this is not part of lesson we can find in the story of Jesus with Mary and Martha.

Jesus does not reprimand Martha for serving. Note how Jesus responds to the woman washing his feet at the table of Simon the leper. Note how he identifies himself as the servant of all.

The problem is that we sometimes get so involved in the details of serving that we forget to welcome the other as a person, to listen to her and to dialogue with him. Doing something replaces the harder discipline of listening and, in terms of Jesus, being a disciple.

I think this can also be applied to our work with the poor. Do we just provide the food or the clothes or the shelter? Do we really get to know the person, his family, her name?

It’s dangerous to get to know someone. We might love the person enough to sacrifice ourselves for her (and not just offer a little food). We might be moved by his story of losing his job, migrating to the US, and getting deported – and then start advocating for migrants. We might hear the young man talk about his use of alcohol and cocaine and his desire to change – and wondering what in the world I can do with him.

It might mean making ourselves neighbors of those who fall among thieves – not just common thieves but victims of white collar criminals.

It might mean listening to the poor – as Mary listened to Jesus.

God is our guest and comes to us in many disguises, just as the three men came to visit Abraham and Sarah.

Will we invite these guests to our table – as God invites us to his table? And will we listen?

The Mexican widow's mite and the US rich man

A homily I won’t give, since I’m not in the US, and which I probably wouldn’t give – since it would probably raise a ruckus. (But then, a Bishop of Rome named Francis urged youth to raise a ruckus.)

Tomorrow's Gospel (Mark 12: 38-44) reads:

Jesus sat down opposite the treasury and observed how the crowd put money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small coins worth a few cents. Calling his disciples to himself, he said to them, “Amen, I say to you, this poor widow put in more than all the other contributors to the treasury. For they have all contributed from their surplus, but she, from her poverty, has contributed all she had, her whole livelihood.”

Jesus sat down on a boat in the Gulf of Mexico and observed how the nations reacted to the caravan of refugees travelling through Mexico toward the US.

Many US politicians put lots of money into their coffers and planned to spend millions building a wall and sending military and other armed troops to the border. They also talked about withholding aid to the countries from which these people had come. (They had already cut assistance to the poor in the US and so this was not something unexpected.)

A poor Mexican also came by and with some friends spent all night making 700 tamales; another took the shoes off her feet and gave it to a Honduran woman walking barefoot and soon found other shoes to give to the people passing by. A poor church opened its doors and gave them a place to sleep. Others prepared meals and some nuns came and spent hours caring for the bodies of those who were walking, especially taking care of their feet. Other religious thumbed rides for the migrants.

Calling his disciples, Jesus said, “Amen, I say to you, these poor Mexicans put in more than all the others. The others contributed pittances to the poor and put money into building a wall. But the poor have contributed what they have, their livelihood.”

The issues of the caravan are complex and no one I know of is calling for completely open borders. But when we close our eyes to the poor we are in danger of closing our hearts to God.

What should we do, as followers of Christ?

1. Open our churches to the migrants. If there are 7000 migrants, many in family groups, and there are more than 17,000 US Catholic parishes, each parish or groups of three parishes, could agree to take in a family or a few people.

2. Advocate that the US accept as refugees those fleeing violence and persecution – including those fleeing gangs and drug traffickers who threaten their lives and women and children fleeing domestic violence. The US could send 3000 immigration judges and 3000 public defenders to the border, instead of militarizing the border.

3. Advocate changes to US immigration law that open the way to temporary work visas, easily obtained. I think that people who want to work would gladly take advantage of this type of immigration.

4. Refuse to support regimes that oppress their people, such as Honduras which has received lots of military and police aid, when what is needed is sustainable development.

5. Pray for the people, open your hearts and pocketbooks to them in their need.

6. Refuse to denigrate anyone, to demonize anyone, to look down on anyone (whether they be migrants or US government officials.)

7. Open your heart to all the poor and needed – where you live and throughout the world. Love should have no boundaries.

8. Recognize the truth of these words of Pope Pius XII, in Exsul Familia Nazarethana, August 1, 1952:

"The émigré Holy Family of Nazareth, fleeing into Egypt, is the archetype of every refugee family. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, living in exile in Egypt to escape the fury of an evil king, are, for all times and all places, the models and protectors of every migrant, alien and refugee of whatever kind who, whether compelled by fear of persecution or by want, is forced to leave his native land, his beloved parents and relatives, his close friends, and to seek a foreign soil.”

Whether they flee, “compelled by fear of persecution or by want,” they are children of God and deserve a hearing.

9. Will we let ourselves be moved by love or by fear?

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