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.”

The rulers of the nations and the Reign of God

This weekend I preached three times.

When I read the Gospel (Mark 10: 35-45), I thought of Martin Luther King’s “Drum Major Instinct” sermon on the text which he delivered two months before his assassination. It became the inspiration for my preaching.

Since I preached to people who are mostly not powerful, I had decided to concentrate on what King calls a new definition of greatness. Everyone can be great, because everyone can serve.

I made a reference to the difference between the way of the Lord and the rulers of this world and cited a few paragraphs from the Honduran Bishops’ Conference statement on the elections. But I mostly wanted to help people recognize their dignity and their capacities to be great – by being servants – as King emphasized.

Yet my first experience preaching moved me to a stronger critique of the powers of this world. 

When I arrived in Dolores on Saturday night , I found out that I couldn’t park near the church. The central park and the area in front of the City Hall had been taken over for a large rally for the mayor who is running for re-election. She is a member of the National Party. (The previous mayor was her husband who was murdered.)

The noise was deafening. The crowds were dense with little efforts for biosecurity measures, despite the fact that the mayor is a nurse.

I parked by the house of a Delegate of the Word and asked his wife who was outside their house if there would be a celebration tonight – with all the noise.

I walked up to the church past the rally as they cheered the candidates and entered the church.

The noise pervaded the church. At times, the noise from the political rally was overwhelming. Thanks be to God, the church had a good sound system, and the musician put the volume on high. 

 

I was frustrated. I knew that there was a danger of speaking out of my frustration and becoming strident. So, I prayed that God would help me speak a word that would give hope to the people.

But I could not help making a reference to the distinction between the noise outside which symbolizes the noise of the rulers of this world and the yearning for quiet humility which is at the basis of the Reign of God.

How often the political parties, especially here in Honduras, are like the rulers of the nations who lord it over their subjects and oppress them. So I preached on the greatness in the Reign of God, where everyone can serve, paraphrasing Martin Luther King.

 I also read a section of the Honduras bishops’ message on the elections, which I have put below. 

I noted that I was reading it without commentary – but it is a very pointed critique of the way politics is run here – seeking power, at whatever cost, and manipulating the people. Those who know the recent history of Honduras will recognize what the bishops mean when they write about politicians involved in corruption, drug-trafficking and organized crime. (I’ll leave that discussion to another post.)

When I preached twice on Sunday morning, I began noting the situation in Dolores the night before – the political hubbub outside, promoting a political candidate, and the desire of the people inside, to live a faith that is based on a God who became flesh – Jesús who washed the feet of his disciples. 

I ended all three homilies with a pointed contrast. 

John and James asked Jesus to sit on his right and left side – like those who sit at the right side of politicians at the front table of meetings and meals, representing power.

But Jesus offers another way of living; at his last supper, he knelt before his apostles and wiped their feet.

At this point, I was somewhat overcome – and ended up on my knees before the people. 

We serve a God who washes feet, in service of all, who came not to be served, but to serve and give his life as a ransom for everyone. What a contrast.

Inspiration for a Pentecost Vigil homily

Our parish is having a twelve hour Pentecost Vigil in the village of Oromilaca, starting at about 6 pm tonight. I was going to try to get there early – but a major thunderstorm has come in and I’ll try to wait it out for another half hour.

Thursday morning, my pastor asked me to preach at the Vigil. I tentatively agreed. I have my notes ready but it’s not written out. I’ll have time to prepare a bit more since Mass won’t begin until about 2;00 am.

We are using all the Vigil readings, plus the account from the Acts of the Apostles of the descent of the Holy Spirit and the Pentecost Sequence, Veni, Sancte Spiritus.

Pope Francis’ exhortation Christus Vivit, his response to the synod on youth, inspired me. He calls, very clearly, for a rejuvenation of the Church, as he wrote in paragraph 37.

Christ’s Church can always yield to the temptation to lose enthusiasm because she no longer hears the Lord calling her to take the risk of faith, to give her all without counting the dangers; she can be tempted to revert to seeking a false, worldly form of security. Young people can help keep her young. They can stop her from becoming corrupt; they can keep her moving forward, prevent her from being proud and sectarian, help her to be poorer and to bear better witness, to take the side of the poor and the outcast, to fight for justice and humbly to let herself be challenged. Young people can offer the Church the beauty of youth by renewing her ability to “rejoice with new beginnings, to give unreservedly of herself, to be renewed and to set out for ever greater accomplishments.”

He pointedly cites the prophet Joel, which we will hear tonight, and remarks in paragraph 192:

The prophecy of Joel contains a verse that expresses this nicely: “I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams” (3:1; cf. Acts 2:17). When young and old alike are open to the Holy Spirit, they make a wonderful combination. The old dream dreams, and the young see visions. How do the two complement one another?

This is a message we need to hear in Honduras – where the old systems of power, domination, violence, and poverty reign. We need to hear the dreams of the old people who have struggled for justice for decades and the visions that many young people have for a country that treasures its young, it poor, its old – and lets them lead toward a world that we pray for in the sequence:

Come, Holy Spirit, come!

And from your celestial home

Shed a ray of light divine!

Come, Father of the poor!...

Heal our wounds, our strength renew;

On our dryness pour your dew;

Wash the stains of guilt away:

Bend the stubborn heart and will;

Melt the frozen, warm the chill;

Guide the steps that go astray….

Give [your faithful] joys that never end.

This is not the homily I’ll preach – but these words have been my inspiration.

As I finished this post, the rain let up and so I'm off to the Vigil in a few minutes.

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Pentecost Vigil Readings 

for the Dulce Nombre de María Parish

Genesis 11: 1-9

Exodus 19: 3-8, 16-20

Ezekiel 37: 1-14

Joel 3: 1-5

Acts of the Apostles 2: 1-11

Romans 8: 22-27

John 7: 37-39

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A proposed Epiphany homily

Today I began preparing for my homily for Sunday, the feast of the Epiphany, which I’ll share at a Celebration of the Word with Communion in a village as well as at Mass in a town. Many ideas are going through my head and heart as I ask God to help me speak the words we need to hear. But I thought of a homily I might give if I were in the US. Here are some reflections.

Twice this week as I was walking to my house after an evening Mass, I looked up and beheld the heavens filled with myriad stars. I stopped and gazed in wonder.

                 

But as I began to prepare for my homily for the Epiphany, I began to wonder about the magi, these wise men from the East. How could they have noticed a single star in a sky filled with these little points of light. What could have led them to leave behind the security of their homes? They would have to travel overland, for weeks, probably on camels, without the assistance of GPS. They had an idea that a “king” had been born but they had no idea who he was or where he was. They were just following a star that they had somehow noticed.

On their way they were distracted by the bright lights of the city of Jerusalem and went there to ask questions. These star-struck foreigners must have surprised many of the city-dwellers. But when they asked Herod about the newborn king of the Jews, people were startled – and filled with trepidation. “Greatly troubled,” Herod conferred with the religious leaders, who were probably his cronies. They said that the king would be born in nearby Bethlehem, but they made no effort to go with the magi. They returned to their labors in the temple (and the court).

The magi left buoyed with the news that they were probably going in the right direction. But then they noticed the star – and they were “overwhelmed with joy,” or, as N. T. translates it, “they were beside themselves with joy and excitement.”

They entered the house and saw a mother with her child. I wonder if that might have felt like an anticlimax, a real disappoint.

But, falling down, crouching down, they worshipped the child.

 

These wise men had been filled with wonder at the sight of a star. They had not fawned over a king but merely sought his advice. But here they were, falling down, crouching at the feet of a baby.

Wonder led them to the stable; wonder and joy led them to prostrate themselves before a child.

Have we forgotten wonder? Can we look with delight at a star-filled sky – and see a special star? Can we look at a baby on his mother’s knee – and see God come among us? Can we adore God among us, on our knees?

The Jesuit priest Alfred Delp, from a Nazi prison, recognzied that they were free, having left all behind. As he wrote:

When those worshippers knelt in homage on the floor of the humble stable with everything else put behind them—their homes, the wilderness, the guiding star, the agony of the silent star, the palace of the king and the grandeur of the city—when all these had lost their value and their impressiveness and the worshippers’ whole being was concentrated in the single act of adoration, the symbolic gesture of laying gifts before the manger signified the achievement of liberty. Then they were free.

What was important was recognizing the mystery of God, here among us.

The star showed the way – but their hearts led them to fall down and worship.

Are we free enough to worship?

Are we free enough to follow the signs?

Have we left behind all, in search of Love come among us?

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The first image is from Ravenna, the second is by Ade Bethune.