Mark 4:26-34 | 11^th Sunday of Ordinary Time, Year B

Growth—“Of its own accord”

Matthew, Mark, and Luke all tell the parable of the Mustard Seed. The inclusion of the parable in all three synoptic gospels underscores the importance of the message. In all of us, faith starts small. But when it matures, it becomes exponentially more powerful. Only Mark, however, details the actual process of the plant’s growth: “the seed would sprout and grow, he knows not how. Of its own accord, the land yields fruit…the harvest has come” (vs. 27-29).

These verses in Mark apply to all kinds of growth. How does something that weighs just a few pounds grow into the young woman I picked up from college, one with a passion to help the less fortunate in ways that are more than just a Band-Aid? How does that bald scrawny bundle develop into the young man I just witnessed graduate from high school, the one who always pushes me to think in new ways? While I like to think Mark and I aided the process at least a bit, my children’s power existed when they were just a ball of cells, and (believe me), they let it be known.

Jesus wanted to emphasize this power that is in each of us. The right conditions are helpful of course. A good family, food to eat, a faith background, strong schools, all help to nourish people just as good soil and enough water, sun, and nutrients help seeds to flourish. But plants can spring up in the most unlikely places, and power in people can burst forth under the most surprising circumstances.

We never know when what is in us is going to burst forth. My son wanted desperately to be taller than his sister, but for years he had to look up to her. Then one summer—bam!— he grew seven inches. One afternoon, I visited my daughter her first summer as a camp counselor, and I saw a person who had truly grown into her own skin. She had grown seven inches too, but her growth wasn’t physical. The thing is, I couldn’t make either of those spurts happen. Nor was I responsible to do so. The same is true for faith.

We aren’t responsible for another’s faith. God gifts us our power and abilities, and we should use them to help others, but God alone is the author and creator. We are mere assistants. That reality should be freeing. It doesn’t resolve us of all responsibility in creating as optimal conditions as possible for another’s faith (and all) growth, but it does free us of the final responsibility.

Ultimately, we don’t understand how growth occurs. Science explains to a point—bones need calcium to grow— but there’s still the why. Why is calcium the necessary nutrient? It’s a mystery. The mystery of faith. God unleashes our growth and our power at the optimum time, and then and only then do we “yield fruit [because] the harvest has come.”

Mark 14:12-16, 22-26 | Body and Blood of Christ, Year B

The Eucharist—the Breaking of Temporal Bonds

When Jesus entered Jerusalem for what was to be the last time, it was on a high note. On Palm Sunday, He was hailed as a king and it was pandemonium in the streets. The disciples probably rode that wave, high-fiving each other. The Guy they had dropped everything to follow, He really was the Messiah, the One who had come to rally the Jews and lead them to victory. I bet more than one or two of them sent messages back to their families to crow that despite all the doubts, they had made the right choice. From this point on, Jesus’s followers probably thought they would go from strength to strength—that failure was not in the cards.

Failure wasn’t, but success wouldn’t look they way they thought it would either.

Jesus knew, at least in broad strokes, what was on the horizon. He knew the high the disciples basked in was not the end, that the success they craved was merely temporal, and Jesus was beyond temporal. He came to break the earthly bonds. But His followers didn’t understand that, maybe (like us) they couldn’t understand that. We are a temporal people, bound by natural laws. Jesus isn’t.

So, Jesus, out of His great love for them (and us), offered a thread (really a rope), a connection to Him for all eternity. At the crest of their wave, Jesus washed the disciples’ feet to remind them of their true mission of service. Then He gave them access to His body and blood for all eternity. He knew they needed the tactile reminder. What could be more human, more tactile, than His body and blood?

Jesus wasn’t saying don’t celebrate, don’t feel the victory deep. But He was reminding us that our definition of victory isn’t God’s. He was reminding us that our concept of victory is limited. So, when our wave crashes us to the beach, Jesus wants us to know He is still with us.

When the Eucharist is part of our daily lives, regardless of whether we’re at the top of the wave or buried in the sand, we have a tactile connection to the source and summit of Christian life—a reminder that Jesus has been in both places. If we regularly take part in Jesus’s last physical gift to us, we stay connected to Him in a way that defies temporal bonds. We can trust His way will lead to success, no matter how that may look.

Gifts can connect us physically to people who are no longer here. Jesus knew we needed that connection, so He gave us the most precious gift He could, Himself. He wanted to remind us that one day, though not necessarily now, we will understand, that when we are rejoined with Him, the temporal bonds will fall away.

Matthew 28:16-20 | Holy Trinity, Year B

With Us to the End

In Matthew, the disciples don’t go to the Upper Room to wait after Jesus’s death. In the Gospel of Matthew, they “went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had ordered them” (v. 16). They are still up high (on a mountain) and they are still unclear about the future (v. 17), but they aren’t locked in the Upper Room. Those details don’t really matter. What does matter is that even after the disciples had seen Jesus, they still “doubted” (v. 17). And even more importantly, after they “doubted,” Jesus still gave them the Holy Spirit and the Great Commission, “Go, therefore, and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit” (v. 20).

If the disciples, who had lived with Jesus and been taught by the Son of God Himself, could still doubt AND still be sent forth to do His work, then surely, God understands if I have some struggles. But, He wants me to understand that my struggles don’t preclude me from doing what He has sent me to earth to do, whatever that may be. That’s a pretty powerful message.

To do that, to live out my calling (and, perhaps, to first figure out my calling…), I have to get over myself. Ah, now there’s a stumbling block. I have to let go of all the preconceived notions I have about pretty much everything and see as God sees. What do I think makes for a successful life? Let it go. What do I think I should be doing? How do I think things should be managed? I may need to let that go too. That’s often my biggest stumbling block because we can’t just sit back and watch, nor do I think God wants us to. He calls us to be active participants in life, not merely passive observers. So how do I manage to let go of my expectations yet still be immersed in this worldly life? That’s the struggle in a nutshell—the same one the disciples faced and the same one God wants me to wrestle with.

I think this passage in Matthew offers hope in this quest. The disciples “saw him…worshiped…still doubted…” and then I imagine the cycle started again. But they kept turning to look at Jesus, and that’s what we have to do: look to Jesus. Not look to the people in charge or the institutions in our lives, but look to the source and summit of our lives here on earth, Jesus the Son of God. The people in charge and institutions may provide wise counsel, but ultimately, Jesus came so we could have a relationship with Him. That relationship is His gift and that is what we should ultimately depend upon.

We’ll never, on this side of heaven, get it 100% right. We can’t. We’re human, as were the disciples. But, we can keep trying and we can keep turning back when struggles and doubts weigh us down. We have to, because Jesus, the bearer of the Holy Spirit, commissioned us to do so, but He did it with the comforting reminder, “I am with you to the end of the age” (v. 20).

John 20:19-23 | Pentecost, Year B

The Breath of Life

I was struck by the phrase in this gospel “he breathed on them” (v.22). During the past year, we have all tried so very hard not to breathe on people for fear of infecting them with covid. A friend of mine was knocked out flat by the second dose of the vaccine, and when she described her symptoms to me, I commented, “Maybe it would have been better just to get the virus.” She responded, “Nope. Not being able to breathe doesn’t seem worth it.”

Breath is such a vital, yet mostly involuntary, function of our bodies. We breathe in and out thousands of times a day and, assuming all is well, never know it. Covid has reminded us of this essential function—both for the ill, whose lungs suffer from the disease and the effects on the lungs, and for the healthy, who wear masks to avoid spreading it. Covid has brought about an increased level of fear everywhere we look.

Immediately after Jesus’s death and resurrection, the disciples were in a similar place—mired in fear: “the doors were locked, where the disciples were, for fear…” (v.19). At that moment, even with knowledge of the risen Jesus, the disciples didn’t see a way out, couldn’t fathom what was going to happen next. I think that state often describes Christians. We have knowledge of the risen Christ, yet we are stuck, can’t see what’s down the road. For many of us, that open space is induces fear.

But, we aren’t supposed to know the gritty details of what’s coming next. The disciples had the general outline, as do we, and that was supposed to be enough. Jesus understood their fear, and ours. So, He appeared in the Upper Room and “breathed on them.” He strengthened them by giving (again) of Himself and sending the Holy Spirit to His disciples, which includes us. He didn’t tell them the future, but He gave them what they needed to face it.

Breath has been vital from the beginning. God “blew into [Adam’s] nostrils the breath of life, and so man became a living being” (Genesis 2:7). Jesus breathed the Holy Spirit into the disciples, and perhaps that moment is when they too became “living beings”. When we are paralyzed by fear or indecision or any other anxiety, we can’t truly live; we are merely alive and only exist within that fear. But, when we know deep in our bones, with every breath we take, that God is with us, then we can push past our limitations and produce fruit. When He breathed the Holy Spirit into us, He breathed that new reality into us.

Jesus did not promise to reveal gritty future details to us, but He did give us the resources and the strength to meet whatever those challenges are. Knowing the future without having the strength and wisdom to deal with it is a death sentence, perhaps not physically but certainly mentally and emotionally. Jesus gave us exactly what we need. In His breath, Jesus gave us His everlasting presence. We are blessed.

Mark 16:15-20 | The Ascension of the Lord, Year B

A Call to Learn

I’ve always thought of the phrase in this gospel, “they will speak in new languages” (v. 17) meant God would give the disciples the ability to speak an whatever the language of the people they were speaking needed. But what if, as God tends to do, the message is much more nuanced? Maybe God wants us to meet people where they are and also to push the disciples towards understanding and growth?

Perhaps the disciples themselves (that’s us too) are charged with learning a new language. It could also be the language of carpentry or computers or teaching or business. Perhaps God wanted to plant His people everywhere so learning was reciprocal: the disciples could learn from those they had come to serve just as much as the people could learn from the disciples. Maybe the disciples weren’t gifted with sudden language skills. Maybe they were gifted with the opportunity to learn alongside their fellow human beings,.

In his homily for the 4^th Sunday of Easter, Father Rob talked about Jesus as a shepherd—He lived with us, He felt our fears and our joys, He “took on the smells of the sheep.” Maybe that’s what Jesus wanted for His disciples, and by extension, for us as well. Native Americans said that you have to walk a mile in their moccasins to understand another, too suspend (and possibly surrender aspects of) our viewpoint. It’s not easy to do. Ask Jesus.

To live like that, we have to focus outward. The point isn’t our skills—the languages we can speak, the people we are able to convert. The focus becomes the other—their needs, their desires, their concerns. The focus shifts to meeting others where they are, a stance that requires understanding. While scripture makes it clear that Christians are to be in the world but not of it, we are in it, not above choreographing every movement. To be in it, we always have to be learning, always growing.

When Jesus ascended to heaven, He didn’t leave us to become the master choreographer from on high. He left because He had done what God intended Him to do. He hadn’t converted everyone on the planet. That wasn’t His job. His had come to live among the Jews, love His friends and family deeply, and teach those who were open to His message. He had come to experience life lived as a human being. Likewise, when He sent His disciples (and us too) “into the world to proclaim the gospel” (v.15), He wasn’t telling us to speak from on high. He wanted us to be with people, to be deeply affected by them, to love them, to take on their smell.

Prayer, a deep connection to God, enabled Jesus to live out His calling. The mystery of prayer is that it changes us, not the situation. Prayer stretches our limits and pushes our boundaries. Prayer keeps us both growing and grounded in the lived faith that Jesus came so we could experience life here and in heaven to the fullest.

John 15:1-8 | 5^th Sunday of Easter, Year B

Crushed Grapes in the Dirt

This passage made me think of a Sicilian vineyard we visited several years ago. It wasn’t a particularly wealthy estate, but the rows of grapevines were vast and meticulously tended. We wandered through the innumerable tangles of varieties, each slightly different in color, texture, or size, for hours one sunny afternoon, a sweet, mangy dog Luna at our heels.

The world is just that—a tangle of people, most of us sweet but mangy and nipping at something slightly inappropriate, and though we may not look it, each of us is meticulously tended by the Father. Just like grapes, people come in an infinite variety and often it’s the mix that produces the most interesting, yet most challenging, fruit.

Vineyards, we learned, are a lot of work, and much of that happens behind the scenes. I imagine God feels the same about us—we’re a lot of work, and He’s always laying groundwork that we don’t see. What we do see isn’t always pretty. When the plant doesn’t produce grapes, it must be cut back, way back, sometimes to the nub. The process can be painful to witness, particularly if the plant otherwise appeared healthy. Years seem to have been wasted on that plant, and it may take even more years for the pruning to result in fruit. Similarly, because we don’t see the groundwork, when God finally acts in or for us, it can seem ugly and painful. But somehow the pain is necessary. God wants us to be fruitful; He needs us.

As I pictured Jesus in the vineyard that afternoon, which happened to be Easter Sunday, I remembered a few grapes that had fallen and been crushed into the paths. The juice stains in the dirt physically tie Jesus to each of us. If Jesus is the vine, and we are the branches (v.5), the grapes, that which produce His blood, grow from us, just as we get our nourishment from Him. He needs us in order to produce fruit, and we need Him for the same reason. Without the vine, the branches are nothing more the firewood. We may look healthy, but unless we receive our sustenance from the vine, our fruit is either flavorless or non-existent. But, when we depend on the vine and allow growth from our pruning or cross-pollination, the results are more stunning than anything we could imagine. The mangiest, most imperfect of us can flourish in the most unexpected ways.

Vine growers like the Father (v.1) know each plant intimately despite our tangle of humanity. One plant’s pruning may not only help that one to regenerate and also provide an adjacent plant with additional nutrients or sunshine, thus strengthening the entire crop. In the crushed grapes, the blood stains we all wear, Easter points to the reality of our meticulously orchestrated, and interdependent, salvation history.

John 10:11-18 | 4^th Sunday of Easter, Year B

The Mission and Calling of Easter

A friend commented, very sincerely, on an essay I had poured over about my first dog, “Why did you love Abby so much? She sounds rather annoying.” I was taken back. I was sure my love for Abby echoed through every word. But when I realized that though my friend has many wonderful qualities, she’s not a dog person, her comment actually made me laugh. There was a time when I couldn’t imagine voluntarily giving up sleeping in on a Saturday for children. And then I had my own.

Though Jesus wasn’t talking about sleepless Saturday mornings given to children or dogs in this passage, He was referring to the sense of mission we have for the vocations God gives to each of us. “A hired man, whose sheep are not his own, sees a wolf coming and runs away…this is because he works for pay and has no concern for the sheep” (vs. 12-13). If the only reason we do something is for pay, when things get difficult, we are likely to weigh the value of the job and find it lacking.

But when something is truly our mission, it’s our vocation, it’s a gift. It’s no longer just a box on a checklist. Instead it’s a job that’s been designed for us and us alone, a piece of who we are at our very core. We are all hardwired to protect ourselves, and likewise we are also hardwired to do whatever is necessary to further our calling. It’s why we would do anything for our children. It’s why we do many things that have no apparent worldly payout.

Jesus’s job certainly had no worldly payout. As the Messiah, He voluntarily died to further the mission God had entrusted to Him. There isn’t a lot of worldly payout for shepherds either, but they would still do anything for their sheep.

The world says monetary gain is the bottom line, and there are many things to be said in favor of monetary gain. But if that is the be-all-end-all for us, it’s not a calling. It’s something we have to do. Only when we can say, like Jesus, “No one takes it from me, but I lay it down on my own,” can we also say about our mission, “This command I have received from my Father” (v.18). It’s what we are willing to do voluntarily, when no one’s looking, that reflects our calling.

Jesus wasn’t saying there shouldn’t be a worldly payout. But He did want us to consider the reason behind whatever we do. If the trappings of the job are to legitimatize our place in the world, then trappings alone won’t satisfy us.

Jesus didn’t die to further His reputation—although He might be the best-known person through the ages. He died to save us. Parents don’t get up on Saturday mornings to check a box. They do it out of love. Back then, nothing in this world was more satisfying than putting up with Abby’s antics—no matter how annoying they may have been.

Luke 24:35-48 | 3^rd Sunday of Easter, Year B

Dining in Heaven

I bet the macaroni and cheese in heaven is divine, the kind with white cheddar, smoked Gouda, and Parmesan, and I’m sure the sauce has been steeped with a fresh bay leaf. The risen Lord ate fish (v.43), so clearly we will have the pleasure of eating in the afterlife. That makes me happy—gourmet mac and cheese forever! I wonder if fish is Jesus’s favorite meal?

Jesus ate to show the disciples He was not a ghost—He had truly risen from the dead and was the same person they knew before while simultaneously being different. But He also ate to ground faith in the reality of our worldly life. While mountaintop experiences are an important part of our faith—they often happen just when we need a boost—they are the dessert of our faith life, not the bread and butter. If the only mountaintop experience we have is beyond the grave, we can absolutely still live a fruitful and faith-filled life. But if mountaintop experiences were to comprise the whole of our faith life, I don’t think we would find it very satisfying.

In a way, in eating fish with His disciples, Jesus balanced the otherworldly experience of the Transfiguration. It wasn’t that the Transfiguration wasn’t important, but the Transfiguration, the physical revelation of Jesus’s divinity, was just a part of who He was. Jesus wanted the disciples to understand that their own “Transfiguration moments”—those moments of sublime connection when the world falls away—are also just a piece of their life in Christ.

Later in the meal, Jesus tells the disciples they are to “preach in His name to all nations” (v.47). That’s the hard, grueling, worldly work—the part that when they lay down at night exhausted might not feel very holy. The part when they might even be entertaining a few distinctly non-holy thoughts. In those moments, they might wonder where that sublime connection went. In eating fish with the disciples, Jesus was saying, “I am there with you in it all.”

When I interviewed for a church job, my supervisor-to-be required us to have a spiritual director. She reasoned, “Yes, we think about God all the time. But we’re human and we work with humans. A spiritual director reminds you to look for God in all that.” It was good advice. My spiritual director has been instrumental in helping me find the Transfiguration moments in the middle of eating metaphorical fish, which isn’t always cooked as well as I’d like. (I’m not a fan of sushi.)

Life is mostly the worldly stuff of eating baked fish but the changed state which initially prevented the disciples from recognizing the risen Jesus, that, I think, is a product of heaven. We get to have both, but nobody, not even Jesus, gets away without eating the fish. Nobody gets gourmet mac and cheese all the time.