Author: John Drymon

+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

To get the full impact of the parable Jesus tells in this morning’s Gospel, I think we need to step back and examine the preconceptions with which we enter into the story today. “Two men went up into the temple to pray,” Jesus says, “one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector.” Even if we hadn’t heard this particular parable a hundred times, we’d know who’s supposed to be the good guy and the bad guy, right? Well, no. If you’ve grown up in the Church you might have a pretty strong sense that Pharisees were Jesus’ enemies, the “bad guys.” They have come to be regarded as a lot of hypocrites.

But, Jesus never denounced the Pharisees as a whole, only individual Pharisees. To his audience, the Pharisees were well-respected religious leaders, and I think they’re due for a bit of rehabilitation in our own day. Yes, they were a bit rigid. But, if nothing else, they were on the whole a faithful group of religious Jews who spent a great deal of energy in their quest to abide by God’s law. At the beginning of the story, Jesus’ audience would have assumed the Pharisee was going to be the good guy.

And then there’s the tax collector. We know that tax collectors were not well-loved by Jesus’ Jewish contemporaries, but I don’t think we know the extent of their unrighteousness. To us, taxes are a necessary evil. None of us likes paying taxes, but it’s for the common good and the men and women who work for the Internal Revenue Service are doing an important job.

Tax collectors in Jesus’ day were not just officious bureaucrats executing a necessary task. They were thugs. You see, the Roman Empire would have told these tax collectors how much they expected from each taxpayer, and then it was up to the individual tax collector to determine by how much he would overcharge each of them. His salary would basically be how much extra money he could collect through extortion. The Empire understood that this was the case, and would encourage the tax collector to wring as much out of his already overtaxed compatriots as he could.

So, Jesus sets his audience up to expect the opposite of what he gives them in the parable. We have a good, faithful person and a thug, and a standard view of justice would hold that the Pharisee—whom we can assume was being honest about fasting and tithing and so forth—would go home from the temple justified, and that the tax collector would get his just deserts. Perhaps the Pharisee was being a bit haughty, but he had earned the right to be proud of his faithful obedience.

Jesus turns the expectation of his audience on its head, and we can assume that they didn’t like what they heard. We wouldn’t if we were in their shoes.

It all gets back to that same old struggle we have in accepting how God works. As much as we might affirm the fact that our salvation is not our own doing, that our justification is a gift from God rather than a reward for our goodness, we never seem to believe it deep down. And, sometimes, our religion can have the opposite effect of what religion ought to have. It can convince us that we are righteous people set up to reap the rewards of our righteousness, rather than sinners in need of saving. It is paradoxical, but it seems that the best among us can have the hardest time being justified. The tax collector knew that he was a sinner, and could say the one prayer that really meant anything besides “look at me, ain’t I grand.” He could say that prayer which needs to be on the tip of our tongues, too: “God, be merciful to me a sinner!” When we can get beyond being impressed with how good we are, we can say that, and we can remember how merciful God has always been to us.

+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

One of the ways in which my childhood was very different from my wife’s is that I watched a lot of television and she did not. That being the case, she is often shocked (and perhaps irritated, though she is too kind to make that known) when something jogs the memory and I’m able to sing an entire cartoon theme song or advertising jingle that has lain dormant in my subconscious for thirty-plus years. Whether it be the theme song to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or Duck Tails or the jingle for Bagel Bites or Mentos (the Freshmaker), I reckon I could have used that mental space for something a bit more salutary, but alas.

Occasionally, though, just a snatch of a song will arise in the mind, and I have to engage in a deep dive on Google to try to remember fully what I’m only partially remembering. This happened earlier this week, when for some reason I remembered part of a little ditty:

Have patience, have patience, don’t be in such a hurry.

When you get impatient, you only start to worry.

And then I couldn’t remember the rest. After some searching, I discovered that the song was sung by an uncanny looking, cartoon creature called Herbert the Snail. I can’t remember ever watching this cartoon, or where I would have heard this (on television or in the schoolyard or whatever). Listening to the rest of the song, though, I noticed it took a turn:

Have patience, have patience, don’t be in such a hurry.

When you get impatient, you only start to worry.

Remember, remember that God is patient too,

And think of all the times when others have to wait for.

I must admit that patience is not my most well-practiced skill, so it would have been better for me to have let this silly little song take up the mental real estate that is currently occupied by, I don’t, the Alka-Seltzer jingle. I am not as patient with others as I ought to be, and I’m certainly not as patient with God as I ought to be. When I want some kind of help from on high, some affirmation of myself or some experience of consolation, I want it fairly quickly. Sometimes, deep down, I convince myself that I could do God’s job more efficiently than He does. Of course, that’s the kind of pride which preceded the fall, and which precedes my own embarrassing falls from time-to-time. I can be pretty patient in my relationships with each of you, I can even force myself to be patient in my relationship with people on the other end of the telephone line at the internet company or pension group helpline. Believe it or not, I’m getting more patient with people in the left turn lane who never want to go “go for it”. All that said, though I’m getting more patient on those fronts, I have trouble being patient in my relationship with God.

I wonder if Jacob had that problem, too, and that’s why God decided to wrestle with him at Penu’el. You’ll remember that up to this point, Jacob had done pretty well at getting what he wanted, even if it meant being a little less than honest. Perhaps, Jacob needed to learn an important lesson which had heretofore been beyond him, namely, that the blessing of God, which once seemed so easily forthcoming due to Jacob’s cleverness would eventually require more persistence. Jacob’s struggle with the Lord at Penu’el would be realized by the nation of which he was the father, which had to fight to remain faithful, whose relationship with God would indeed become an extended struggle, as they strayed and wrestled with the sin that led them astray and, indeed, with the prophets whom God appointed to bring them back. God’s persistence in remaining faithful to Israel demanded that Israel itself show such persistence in maintaining its end of the relationship.

Likewise, the widow in the parable from Luke is meant to stand as an example for believers who must remain persistent in prayer. Just like the children of Israel had to persevere in keeping the law, to wrestle with the powers that would prevent them, so too must the Christian wrestle with the pride and indolence which tears her away from maintaining her relationship with God—a relationship which requires the Christian to pray diligently, to read the scriptures faithfully, and to receive God’s Grace in the Eucharist regularly.

In his Second Epistle to Timothy, the Apostle Paul encourages his young protégé to “be unfailing in patience” to “always be steady [and] endure suffering” for the sake of his ministry. Timothy could have had all of the skills we associate with effective ministry: a clear understanding of and passion for the Gospel, an engaging preaching style, a “thick skin” (a critical trait for a priest to have), but none of that would get the job done if he had not the patience to persevere. Perseverance, Paul knew, was the most important factor for a successful fisher of men.

But persistence is not required only because sloth can creep up on our souls. Persistence is necessary because our expectations can sometimes lead to disappointment: when our prayer seems hollow and God seems not to answer, when our study of Holy Scripture seems to leave us with little inspiration, when the strength and consolation we once drew from the Sacrament seems to have ceased. That is to say, when we’re “just not feeling it”, as if God’s job is to make us feel like we’re always on the right track and we’re always making progress rather than it being our job to plug away during those times when we’re feeling a bit dry and desolate.

St. Teresa of Avila, whose feast day was yesterday, called this phenomenon “aridity”, which means “dried up”. We’ve all probably experienced this at one point or another. It can be discouraging, and it can elicit some unfortunate reactions if we’re not ready for it. It can feel like we’re trudging through the desert rather than being led through green pastures beside still waters.

We can stop praying and reading the bible and receiving the Sacrament altogether. This is like assuming the oasis in the distance must be a mirage, so it’s better to sit down in the desert and die instead of venturing toward the potential life right in front of us. Or, we can blame the Church. This has become a very popular way of avoiding the call to persevere.

The proper response, I think, is to keep praying and reading scripture and receiving the Sacrament. The proper response is to keep at it. You’ll make it to that oasis in the desert eventually. You’ll experience Grace and consolation eventually. Don’t let discouragement get hold and decide to just give up. Keep at it, and in the end the struggle will seem a distant memory compared to the abiding peace we can experience in Christ Jesus, in this world and the next.

+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

This week’s gospel reading picks up where last week’s left off, both literally and thematically. Jesus has just told his disciples that they ought not to expect gratitude for the services they provide in their ministries; anybody who works in the helping professions can probably attest to the practical truth of this advice. It is their job, Jesus told them, they are servants to the gospel now and to demand thanks from every life they touch would be both haughty and unrealistic. After this teaching our Lord, now on his way to Jerusalem, meets ten lepers, one of whom is a Samaritan and the other nine of whom we are supposed to assume are Jews. He heals them and instructs them to show themselves to the priests, in accordance with Levitical law. Upon realizing that Jesus had healed them, only the Samaritan returns to give thanks. Jesus’ advice to his disciples seems to have been prophetic.

I have often wondered what precisely went through the minds of the nine other lepers, the ones who didn’t give thanks, upon realizing they had been healed. I presume that they were probably taking the long walk to Jerusalem together, the Samaritan having taken off in the opposite direction to Mount Gerazim to see his own priests. I wonder if perhaps the nine were a little relieved to be rid of the Samaritan. Jews and Samaritans having rarely interacted except to bicker during this period of history, their “friendship”, as it were, was probably a case of misery loving company, and there are few things more miserable than leprosy. Samaritans prayed to the God of Israel just like the Jews, but they did it on the wrong mountain and they kept all nature of strange Assyrian customs. A dubious lot, indeed! Best to be rid of that one!

They were probably also rather anxious to get back to life as usual, their families and friends and farms. And we can hardly blame them. The sooner they could get checked out by the priest in Jerusalem the sooner they could be home after an absence of what could easily have been years. Besides, this Jesus character probably understood that they had important, unfulfilled obligations. He probably knew they appreciated it anyway. They might send a nice birthday card next Christmas to let Him know how things are going. Sound familiar?

I’ve clearly presented caricatures of nine raging ingrates, precisely because I think that Luke is, himself, presenting us with caricatures. This is why it is significant that the one who returns is a Samaritan. I think we are supposed to envision the nine as a group of profoundly needy people but with a disturbing sense of entitlement. Do we not often petition God with this same mindset? Do we not often receive the blessings of this life assuming that we have earned them by virtue of our hard work or our piety or simply the fact that we have been lucky enough to be blessed in the past?

The Samaritan comes into the world an outcast amongst the people of his own land by virtue of his birth, and so leprosy is but another factor contributing to a more general marginalization. When Jesus heals him, life remains far from ideal. It is precisely because of this that he is able to appreciate the kindness that Christ has afforded him. He gets a glimpse of the wondrous power of God who is the creator of all things and giver of all gifts. He is better able because of his circumstance to see that all things come from God and that it is only by his grace that we are sustained.

Ironically, the nine others don’t go back to perfect lives, either. They have their own struggles and difficulties. If they are not grateful for the tremendous gift Jesus gave them right after they were healed, how much less grateful will they be in a couple of years when they have all but forgotten their miraculous recovery due to other challenges in their lives. What’s more, they lack the kind of attitudes which open the way to the realization of the countless blessings which they also experience.

“Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice. He prostrated himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him.” Here we begin to see what true gratitude looks like. It is not an issue of quid pro quo, as there is nothing, alas, that we could give, even our heartfelt worship, which is to the benefit of our God, who is perfectly complete in Himself. We have thankfully grown beyond burning offerings to sate vengeful gods, as our pagan ancestors did in the days of antiquity. No, the gratitude we are obliged to show God is somehow an end in itself.

It helps, I think, to have some knowledge of the original Greek text. The word in this passage that our English bibles translate as “thanked” is the word εύχαριστών, from which we derive the word “Eucharist.” We all know that our weekly celebration of the Eucharist is a profoundly meaningful act of faith. It is also the single most profound act of the kind of gratitude that we see in today’s gospel reading. We join the Samaritan, “praising God with a loud voice” as we join the company of heaven singing the Sanctus “Holy, holy, holy Lord, God of power and might, heaven and earth are full of your glory.” We join the Samaritan prostrating at the feet of Jesus as we kneel before his altar here. Just like the Samaritan, we are foreigners- we are foreigners entering the realm of the divine, living on the border of the holy, where, as one writer put it “(the) single most determinative aspect of our humanness, our finitude, is exposed. The presence of the Holy reminds us of our limits, our weaknesses, our death. Yet in this borderland we also know joy and transcendence and we experience life as Gift.” It is with the earnestness and humility of this Samaritan that we approach this altar here and the metaphorical altars in all of our lives. And it is when we do this with true thanksgiving, with εύχαριστώσ, that we can begin to see the work of God in us and through us.

“Who is like the Lord our God, who sits enthroned on high but stoops to behold the heavens and the earth? He takes up the weak out of the dust and lifts the poor from the ashes.” The psalmist gives us a picture of a God who is very present, who though lofty by nature meets us along the road, just as he did the lepers. Sometimes God meets us when we are most uncomfortable: when we are weak or poor or ill or sad. It is at these times that God may seem the most distant. But, it is during these times when we must try to not shut our eyes to God’s grace but rather gaze at its resplendent fullness which is illumined to us by the living Christ. And we must approach God with gratitude, bowing before the one who gives us himself.

+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.