A few folks kindly said they wanted to applaud after this one...but it might have been a bit better if they'd started to throw things...
I
think we all have been to
a
school concert or children’s dance recital
at
one point or another.
And
whether or not you’re really into that sort of stuff,
we
all know what you’re supposed to do
at
the end of the performance:
you’re
supposed to clap, maybe even cheer a bit.
If
you’ve ever been to a professional symphony or watched a ballet,
the
expectation is much the same:
when
the piece is over, you’re supposed to applaud;
if
it was pretty good, then you ought to stand up;
and
if it was really, really good, you should call for an encore.
the
Russian Ballet premiered a new work in Paris
entitled,
Le Sacre de printemps—The Rite of Spring—
with
a musical score by Igor Stravinsky.
This
would not be your typical ballet, to say the least.
The
Rite of Spring depicted a rural
Russian village,
before
the arrival of Christianity,
celebrating
winter’s end.
The
village elders were seen choosing a young maiden
to
be offered in sacrifice;
she
then proceeded to dance herself into such a wild frenzy
that
it kills her—leaping into death
that
the earth might experience the new life of spring.
Contrary
to what the audience came expecting that evening,
the
dancers were not in light, airy costumes—leotards and tutus—
but
were wearing dark makeup and animal skins.
The
choreography did not have them
moving
about on their toes and flying through the air,
but
instead stomping their feet and writhing on the ground.
And
then there was the music:
ominous
and brooding
familiar
instruments were played in such eccentric ways
that
listeners couldn’t determine what was making those sounds.
If The Rite of Spring was meant to
provoke,
then
it certainly accomplished its goal.
And
the audience in that glitzy Parisian theatre
didn’t
wait till it was over to react.
Within
the first few minutes of the performance,
the
entire crowd began to murmur.
Soon,
people began to laugh, boo, and hiss.
They
yelled disparaging comments.
The
noise coming from the audience grew so loud
that
the choreographer went backstage
and
began shouting out the count to the dancers
who
could no longer hear the music clearly.
A
few men in the seats
even
began to physically beat on one another.
By
some accounts,
the
police removed those who were most unruly
as the
assembly nearly erupted into a riot.
Despite
all these disturbances,
the
performance continued without interruption.
Needless
to say,
the
reviews in the newspapers were equally hostile,
calling
the production ridiculous, barbaric,
and
“the work of a madman.”
But
as time went on,
and
the piece was performed again in more places,
The
Rite of Spring failed to provoke such
impassioned reactions.
In
fact, today it is hailed as a brilliant masterpiece—
a
landmark of twentieth century classical music.
What
once shocked and incited Paris’ high society to a brawl
can
now be heard playing as background music at a coffee shop;
what
was once completely revolutionary
has
become perfectly comfortable.
There’s
a part of me that really, really wishes every Mass
were
like the debut of The Rite of Spring.
Now,
don’t get me wrong!
I’m
glad you don’t hiss at my homilies
or
drown out the organ with loud complaints.
But
how I wish the Mass retained its power
to truly
grab people’s full attention and shake them up!
Consider
St. Paul’s account of the Last Supper.
Those
words of Jesus are all-too-familiar to us
after
nearly 2,000 years of constant repetition.
But
try to hear them again for the first time,
and
you realize just how provocative they are:
“This
is my Body, this is my Blood: eat and drink.”
If
any one of us were to make that claim and give that command
to
folks sitting on the other side of the dinner table,
they’d
rightly conclude it was crazy talk!
If
we were really listening to the words of the Mass
and
paying close attention to their significance,
if
we were really taking what we do here seriously
and
believing it all to be true…
…then
we couldn’t help but be a little rattled.
And
yet—more often than not—
we depart
from here little challenged or changed.
The
conclusions we’re left to draw from this
aren’t
exactly encouraging.
had
been following Jesus for some time
and—like
the crowds—had heard his preaching
and
seen the healing wonders performed at his hands.
Maybe
they’d become just a little too comfortable with Jesus.
Maybe—when
faced with the possibility of feeding 5,000—
they’d
lowered their expectations
of
what Jesus could actually do.
Even
more likely:
maybe
they feared what Jesus would ask of them
to
respond to this overwhelming problem.
And
so they propose the obvious, easy way out:
send
these hungry people off to fend for themselves.
But
Jesus will have none of that.
Instead,
he challenges his Apostles to meet the people’s needs:
not
by their own practical calculations,
but
by trusting in Divine Providence.
God
had once before
miraculously
fed his hungry people in the desert.
Why
couldn’t they believe
that
God could—that God would—do it again now?
This
solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ
is
the perfect opportunity for us to pause and reflect
on
why it is that we come to Mass.
Unlike
in an earlier age,
it’s
becoming rare these days for people to come to Mass
because
they see it as a serious obligation.
You’re
more likely to hear folks say
that
it’s a nice thing to do as a family.
Ask
yourself that question: Why am I here?
And—please—really
ponder it.
Don’t
let yourself off the hook!
Is
it because it’s a good habit? A
family tradition?
Do
you view Holy Communion
as
a reliable form of hellfire insurance?
Or
are you here at Mass
because
you personally believe with all your heart
that
Jesus Christ is Lord
and
that the Only Begotten Son of God—
who loves you enough to die for your sins—
who loves you enough to die for your sins—
becomes
really and truly present on this altar
and
you simply cannot stay away?
If
we’re not sure of our own motives
or
find them to be less than pure,
then
how can we be surprised that so many Catholics stay away?
What
God wants to do for you and me today
is
far and away more miraculous
This
sacred offering,
foreshadowed by that of Melchizedek,
foreshadowed by that of Melchizedek,
utterly
surpasses it.
In
this wondrous Sacrament,
the
Passion, Death, and Resurrection of Christ
are
not only recalled with devotion,
but
are made real for us in every generation.
And
yet we have domesticated the Holy Eucharist;
we
have tamed its transformative power.
Churches
built or renovated in recent years
look
more like cozy living rooms
than
temples outfitted for sacrifice.
My
friends, we are not here
to
witness a maiden’s frenzied, lethal dance
for
the sake of another spring;
we
are here to proclaim the Death of the Lord,
which
is for us eternal life.
May
the Mass provoke and deeply disturb us,
but
nonetheless leave us crying for an encore:
Come,
Lord Jesus!
Come
again and again!
1 comment:
Thanks!
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