Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time B
A bus passed in front of a leper hospital
and
two patients, with obvious deformities,
flagged
it down and got on board.
There
was an uneasy silence
as
they wedged themselves between other passengers.
When
they later asked the bus driver to stop so they might get off,
one
reached out her hand to pay the fare.
The
driver—not wanting to touch her hand or the coins
for
fear of catching the disease—said,
“Never
mind. Your ride was free.”
The
patient was so very grateful…
…that
she immediately grabbed his hand
and
wouldn’t stop kissing it!
The
driver nearly fainted.
Whenever
reflecting
on Jesus’ interactions with lepers—
and
they are frequent enough in the gospels—
it’s
rather common to consider
the
plight of those in our own times
who
live on the margins as outcasts—
those
considered “unclean”
and
forced to dwell “outside the camp,”
in
the language of Leviticus.
In modern
society, it might be
the
undocumented immigrant
who cannot speak English,
the
AIDS patient or the addict,
the
sex offender
who’s considered beyond redemption.
In
the present day Church, it might be
unwed
parents, the divorced and remarried,
homosexuals,
or the woman who had an abortion.
This
week, at a meeting here in the parish,
I
heard a couple of parishioners share an experience
of
being pushed to the margins that I never expected—
and
which stopped me in my tracks.
They
shared—
as
very devout and involved Catholics—
how
it often feels to them
that
when the Church is planning programs,
we’re
always catering to the far less committed;
for
example: that when we’re making up
the
religious education schedule,
we
seem much more concerned
about
the family which might choose hockey practice instead,
rather
than those who make Sunday Mass
and
the Catholic upbringing of their children
a
priority above anything else.
I
haven’t been able to get their comments
out of my head.
out of my head.
On
the one hand, I want to ask in reply,
“But
isn’t that what the Church is supposed to do?
To
rescue the wandering? To lead back
the stray sheep?
To
go out to the ‘peripheries’—in the language of Pope Francis?”
But
on the other hand, I must also admit that they have a point.
In
an effort to keep our numbers up and the parish viable,
we
do worry about keeping as many people on board as possible.
It
does sometimes seem like compromise.
I
guess I’d never really considered how
it
might leave some of our “regulars” feeling left out—
faithfully
returning to the table,
but
not always satisfied by the way they’re being fed.
Needing
some further insight,
I
did what I find myself doing more frequently
when
facing a parish predicament:
I
turned to St. André Bessette for wisdom.
What’s
clear to me in this is that we’re all wounded:
for
some, our wounds are quite readily apparent;
for
others, they’re hidden well out of sight.
So
if we’re dealing with open wounds,
why
not turn to a man known to be a great healer?
Br.
André was widely celebrated
for
the many miraculous cures wrought at his hands.
Of
course, he always gave the credit
to
the powerful intercession of St. Joseph.
Yet
in his constant dealings with the sick,
Br.
André was much more preoccupied
with
the health of their souls than of their bodies.
“If
the soul is sick,” he’d say,
“one
must begin by treating the soul.”
He’d
ask to see if the sick person
went
to confession and communion regularly,
and
would invite them to do what was necessary
to get
themselves back into a state of grace.
But once
asked why, in some cases,
the
sick were healed right away,
while
in others it would take a long time,
Br. André gave an answer opposite what you might expect:
Br. André gave an answer opposite what you might expect:
“Those
who are healed quickly,” he said,
“are
those who do not have faith or have just a little faith,
that
they might then have faith;
whereas
those who already have a solid faith
are not healed quickly,
are not healed quickly,
because
the good God prefers to test them,
to let
them suffer in order to make them holier.”
We are all lepers on this bus.
We are all the walking wounded.
We are all the walking wounded.
And
our woundedness—whatever it’s cause—
makes
us feel a bit cast out and cut off.
Maybe
it’s some past hurt, as of yet unhealed.
Maybe
we’ve got a sort of “spiritual infection”:
unforgiveness
or resentment, apathy or anger.
Our
wounds are as individual as are our life stories.
In
his homespun way,
I
think St. André provides us all with some insight
into
what it will take to be healed, to be made clean,
to
be made whole again.
That being said,
there's certainly a lot more to ponder here.
No
doctor can prescribe proper treatment
until
we reveal our symptoms to him.
The
coming 40 days of Lent are a privileged time
to
look deep within our hearts,
to
be honest about the wounds we find,
and
ask the Lord to touch us there.
On
our way to Easter,
we’ll
behold Christ’s flesh marked,
not
with the sores and blotches of leprosy,
but
by the instruments of his Passion.
My friends,
Jesus does more than identify with us
Jesus does more than identify with us
in
our brokenness and rejection;
through
his wounds flow hope and new life.
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