Spirituality

Between the Lines: Holy Week, washing feet.

Steve · April 17, 2014 · Leave a Comment

St. Louis Cathedral Basilica. SJG photo.

In John 13:1-20, Jesus teaches his disciples a new way of living their lives, in service to others. No doubt he catches them off guard with both the subject and the way he teaches it. Supper’s over and they’re wondering, “what next?” Perhaps a story, he’s good at that. Perhaps a little more wine. Perhaps a song. But no, Jesus has something else in mind to end their evening together:

“Fully aware that the Father had put everything into his power and that he had come from God and was returning to God,he rose from supper and took off his outer garments. He took a towel and tied it around his waist. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feetand dry them with the towel around his waist.” (John 13:3-5).

And we wonder, what are you thinking, Jesus? In the midst of all this talk of body and blood and sacred meals you start washing feet…

What I was trying to teach them I am still trying to teach. Some people get it, some refuse to hear what I’m saying because it’s not convenient and falls outside of their understanding of what faith in me means. But the lesson is this: You don’t become like me by belonging to some exclusive inner circle, some elite club, nor by having the correct political views. To become like me, you must learn to strip down your lives to what is essential and give your self in service to others. You must do the jobs others don’t want to do, must risk getting dirty and involved in things you would rather ignore.

You should have seen the looks on their faces as I came around with a towel around my waist and carrying a basin of water. They had no idea — could not comprehend at first — what I was trying to teach them. And even when they figured it, they wanted nothing to do with it. “No, no,” Peter said, “Let me do it to you.” His time would come, but this was my time.

But it eventually came to them, for actions really do speak louder than words. I saw the lights go on in their eyes, like children learning something that is obvious to the rest of us for the first time. They got it: If you love me, serve others and put them first. Do for them what you would really rather not do. Wash their feet. Gently pour water over their hardened soles and get the dirt out from between their toes. Feel their callouses and blisters. Nurse their open wounds. Pat them dry and put their sandals back on so they can continue their journey. This is the kind of servant I need you to be. The first shall be last and the last, first. Be last. And I will draw you to myself in the fullness of time. I will never forget those who forget themselves for the sake of others.

Singer-songwriter Michael Card has a beautiful song about this story called “The Basin and the Towel,” which includes these lines that we should all memorize:

And the call is to community,
The impoverished power that sets the soul free.
In humility, to take the vow,
that day after day we must take up the basin and the towel.

Ask yourself in silence: How am I called to serve others? Where am I holding back because it’s uncomfortable?

Between the Lines: Holy Week, at table

Steve · April 17, 2014 · 1 Comment

Mosaic at St. Louis Cathedral Basilica. SJG photo.

In Luke 22:14-20, Jesus yearns to once more eat the supper of unleavened bread with his disciples. In doing so, in sharing the bread and wine, he both recalls the history that made them God’s chosen people and institutes a new meal, one that will forever bind him to his followers of all succeeding generations who gather around a table in communion with him and each other. He gives them something that they cannot earn — only accept and take into themselves — his own body and blood…

I am grieved to be leaving these friends so soon, these men and women who were willing to follow me based on faith, on a sketchy idea that I was something more than a guy from Nazareth. They have been good, loyal friends. One of them will deny me three times within the day and yet be the rock I need to build my church upon when I am no longer here. Another will betray me, but that’s all part of the plan, too. For without that denial and betrayal, and without my death, there is no reason for me to be here among them, as one of them.

I need them to remember me in a special way, and I think this simple and special meal is just the thing. It is sacramental ritual, of course, a physical sign of my invisible truth, but it is also ordinary. It is the most common activity of human life – eating and drinking, drawing sustenance from the fruit of the vine and the work of human hands.

This is a free gift I offer, and anyone who accepts this gift accepts me. That is how I made my way through this world — accepting and ministering to those who came to me just as they were — and I see no reason to change that now. Indeed, no one is worthy to receive me; no one can earn my presence in their lives. I come for the broken and hurting, as well as for those who seemingly have life figured out.

My presence is mine to give, and I give it freely to all who call my name. It would pain me deeply if this meal became something else, something set apart for the elite and the elect, for those who believe they have earned it. I came for the least of these, for the poor, the sick, the confused. I came for those willing to choose a different path of freedom because something deep inside them calls them to do so.

This meal is free. It is me. It is for all.

Ask yourself in silence: Where does this powerful sign of Christ’s true presence in the world sit in my life? At the center or on the edges?

—

Note: In the “third week” of the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius, we are asked to look into the heart and mind of Jesus during his last days, to have compassion for him (to be “with him in his passion”) and feel as if he might have felt with his world collapsing around him. We are asked to remember three things: that he was fully human in his suffering, that he could have retreated into his divine nature but didn’t, and that he did all this for us. In these “Between the Lines” reflections during Holy Week, I share some of my imaginings, contemplative glimpses into the story of Christ’s passion that are meant only to pull you further into the story and draw you closer to Christ.

Between the Lines: Holy Week, preparation

Steve · April 14, 2014 · 6 Comments

St. Augustine, Florida's "Great Cross." SJG photo.

In the “third week” of the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius, we are asked to look into the heart and mind of Jesus during his last days, to have compassion for him (to be “with him in his passion”) and feel as if he might have felt with his world collapsing around him. We are asked to remember three things: that he was fully human in his suffering, that he could have retreated into his divine nature but didn’t, and that he did all this for us.

In the coming days I will share some of my imaginings, contemplative glimpses into the story of Christ’s passion that are meant only to pull you further into the story and draw you closer to Christ. We begin with preparations. In Luke 22:1-13, Jesus and his disciples prepare for Passover and Judas Iscariot makes plans for his betrayal. And we ask ourselves, how might have Jesus felt?

I know the end is coming. I know my followers are faltering and one has even crossed over to the side of those who want me dead. This makes me sad, but I know it’s all part of the Father’s will. If it were not Judas it would just be someone else. But it is Judas, has always been Judas. From the day I called him, he has been moving toward this. I love him deeply, despite what he’s about to do.

So I know what’s coming, can sense what’s about to happen, and I know I need to fortify myself with the ritual of Passover, which carries with it both ancient memory and a new meaning and purpose. This is a new form of worship, an offering of my body and blood, a thanksgiving celebration that will go forward from this day, giving strength and sustenance to all who share in it.

And yet, this is my body that we’re talking about, my passion, suffering and death. There’s no other way around this. Not even my divinity, my connection to my Father, can take a way the pain of being a man facing death. I am afraid of what this will do to my friends, afraid they won’t be able to take it all, afraid that the work and way we have started will cease.

So I am unsure, but I know somehow that there is strength in this meal, this time around the table with my friends. Let’s begin.

Ask yourself in silence: What is this meal, this “last supper” to you?

Today’s Word: Gaze

Steve · March 16, 2014 · 3 Comments

We spend so much of our lives creating and maintaining the person that our friends, family and co-workers see. This is the “self” of our upbringing, education and career, as well as of the myriad of other roles we take on — parent, spouse, church member, little league coach, employee or boss or volunteer. This is the self that becomes what people say about us: Nice guy or jerk, selfish or generous, authentic or fake. This is, to a great extent, how we will be remembered when we’re gone. But who are we, really?

St. Ignatius suggests that we always begin prayer by becoming “aware of God aware of me.” Caught in this mutual gaze of adoration (for surely God adores us even more than we adore God), we begin to find our true selves. Aware of God’s gaze, we can have the confidence to be our true selves before God, taking off the masks that we often put on just to make it through our days in all of the different roles that we must play.

There is nothing wrong in playing roles. We have mortgages or rent to pay. We have family obligations to meet. We have passions to pursue. But all of these will fade with time and we will find ourselves alone before God, who cares little for our masks and greatly for our naked souls. So we must ask ourselves, to which of our selves do we give the most attention and time? Which of our selves do we feed most often?

If we’re not sure how to answer that question, we need to spend more time in God’s gaze. For only that time of solitude and prayer will remind us of our true selves, as writer and Franciscan priest Richard Rohr writes: “I am who I am in God’s eyes, nothing more and nothing less. This is the serenity and the freedom of the saints.”

Ask yourself in silence: How much time do I give to nurturing my true self that is held in God’s gaze? How much time do I give to nurturing my career and the rest of my life? Do I need to readjust my priorities in any way?

Today’s Word: Shaped

Steve · March 15, 2014 · 3 Comments

A few weeks ago, I visited Taroko Gorge National Park in Taiwan, a beautiful forest green and marble white region in the northeast part of the Island. The views were breathtaking, and on one of our stops I found myself staring down into the gorge near the area where the Laoxi River flows from the marble valley into the Liwu River. There, the unrelenting flow of the river cuts and shapes the marble and limestone ever so slowly, as it has for millions of years. It is this constant, slow force and flow that made and continues to make the gorge what it is, slightly different with each passing day and yet seemingly unchanged to even watchful eyes.

So, too, are we shaped and formed by the flow and presence of God through our lives. Like watching an infant grow, it is nearly impossible to see the distinct changes that are happening on a daily basis, but nevertheless we are being carved out of the stone of human existence, shaped by sacred waters into something beloved by the creator. This shaping happens whether we recognize it or not, pay attention or not, believe in the carver or not. We are shaped through no effort of our own for, despite what pop psychology might want to teach us, we cannot change our true, inner selves. We can play with our exterior, surface selves that the world judges to be “us,” but only the gentle, unrelenting will and grace of God can shape and change our true, inner selves. For we are not God, no matter how we have been changed by the divine power that flows through us. God re-creates us with each passing day, ever so slightly made less so that we might be more for others.

Ask yourself in silence: How has God’s presence and power changed my life over time?