23rd Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Ezekiel 33:7-9; Romans 13:8-10; Matthew 18:15-20

Many people,
of various political persuasions,
love participating in protests:
the exhilaration that comes
with marching in the streets
and speaking truth to power;
the deep sense of solidarity
of a people united
in standing up for what is right
and holding evil-doers accountable.

I am not one of those people.

While I have done my share of marching—
protesting wars and police brutality,
advocating for nuclear arms reduction
and a more just economic system—
I can’t say that I have ever enjoyed it all that much.
I am the type of person who can’t help wondering,
even as I march—especially as I march—
whether all this marching is really going anywhere,
if power listens when you speak truth to it,
if the people united will really never be defeated.
I look around at the signs that others carry
and say to myself,
“I’m not sure that I entirely agree
with the precise wording of that sentiment.”
I join in chanting slogans,
while at the same time thinking, “Well, you know,
the issue is really a bit more complicated than this.”

And yet our Scriptures today seem to say
that when you see wrong being done,
when you see people separating themselves
from God’s love by their evil actions,
you have a moral obligation to raise your voice,
to call them to repentance and conversion.
God tells the prophet Ezekiel in our first reading
that he must “speak out
to dissuade the wicked from his way,”
and Jesus in our Gospel reading confers on the Church
the power to “bind and loose,”
the obligation to exercise judgement
and to hold people morally accountable
for their actions.
Our Scriptures recognize
that speaking out
may or may not prove to be effective
in changing someone’s behavior,
but regardless of its effectiveness
we still have a moral obligation to speak,
we cannot keep the truth hidden
when it is under attack,
for if we do it is we who will be judged,
it is we who will be held accountable
for the evil we did not protest.

This past week the Catholic bishops of the United States,
fulfilling their role as successors to the apostles—
the role of binding and loosing,
of holding morally accountable—
issued a statement
in response to President Trump’s cancelation
of the policy of Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals.
This Obama-era policy allowed people who were
brought illegally to the United States as children
to remain in the country and to obtain work permits,
rather than being deported back
to countries of which they often have no memory,
and whose language they might not even speak.
The bishops, in their statement,
call the cancellation of this policy “reprehensible”
and say that such action represents
“a heartbreaking moment in our history
that shows the absence of mercy and good will,
and a short-sighted vision for the future.”

Depending on the issue,
some people on both the political left
and the political right
get annoyed
when the bishops do this sort of thing,
saying that the bishops are meddling in politics—
that they should stick to religion and the Bible
and leave politics to the politicians.
But it is precisely our religion that compels us to speak up.
It is our sacred Scriptures that tells us that all people
are created in the image and likeness of God;
it is our sacred Scriptures that command us,
“You shall treat the alien who resides with you
no differently than the natives born among you” (Leviticus 19:34);
it is Jesus Christ himself who says to us,
“I was hungry and you gave me no food,
I was thirsty and you gave me no drink,
a stranger and you gave me no welcome…
I say to you, what you did not do
for one of these least ones,
you did not do for me” (Matthew 25:42-43, 45).
In speaking out, the bishops
are simply obeying God’s command
to stand up for the weak and defend the defenseless,
to welcome Christ in welcoming the stranger,
to call the wandering to repentance.
Just as when they advocate for the unborn or the elderly,
just as when they denounce racism or exploitation of the poor,
they are continuing the apostolic tradition
of prophetic protest against evil,
of binding and loosing and holding accountable.

You may be one of those people who, like me,
find yourself in the midst of such protest
saying, “I’m not sure that I entirely agree
with the precise wording of that sentiment,”
or “well, you know, the issue
is really a bit more complicated than this.”
And it is true,
the details of immigration law and policy
are incredibly complicated.
But the heart of the Gospel is not complicated:
“Owe nothing to anyone, except to love one another;
for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law…
Love does no evil to the neighbor;
hence, love is the fulfillment of the law.”

This law of love is simple, but it is not easy;
it demands that we come to see the world
through the eyes of Christ,
who fearlessly spoke the truth
and who laid down his life
out of love for us sinners;
it demands that we ourselves
love one another as he has loved us.
We love the oppressed
when we speak up
to denounce their oppression;
we love the oppressor
when we call them
to repentance and conversion;
we love the truth itself
when we refuse to let it be hidden
and give our lives to its service.

22nd Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Jeremiah 20:7-9; Romans 12:1-2; Matthew 16:21-27

When we are baptized,
we come to share in Christ’s identity
as prophet, priest, and king.
Of course, for us today
the roles of prophet, priest, and king
might seem like relics of a culture long-passed,
but they embodied privileges that,
even today, one might desire for oneself.
In the world of the Bible, a prophet was one
who conveyed the wisdom and will of God
to the people;
and who of us would not like to be thought of
as a person of wisdom and insight?
A priest was one who offered sacrifices
that mediated between God and humanity,
bestowing God’s blessing and forgiveness;
and who of us would not like to be thought of
as a person of spiritual depth and power
(particularly if we can be
“spiritual but not religious”)?
A king was one with authority,
whose will was law,
and to whom people looked
to grant them life and livelihood;
and who of us would not like to be thought of
as a leader who is powerful and generous and in control?
Though we may not use the terms
“prophet,” “priest,” and “king,”
they name things that most of us still find desirable,
things that bestow a certain privilege.

But our scriptures today
take the privilege of prophet, priest, and king
and turn them on their heads.

From Jeremiah, we hear the true meaning
of being a prophet of the God of Israel:
“All the day I am an object of laughter;
everyone mocks me.”
Funny enough, it turns out
most people don’t really want
to hear God’s wisdom and word,
and they are not inclined to show respect
to those who relentlessly proclaim it.
Yet the true prophet cannot shut up,
no matter what the consequences:
God's word, “becomes like fire
burning in my heart,
imprisoned in my bones;
I grow weary holding it in,
I cannot endure it.”

From the apostle Paul we hear the true meaning
of sharing in the priesthood of Jesus:
not simply being a conduit of spiritual blessing,
but offering our own bodies,
as Jesus offered his body,
as a sacrifice to God;
and in this sacrifice to be transformed,
just as our gifts of bread and wine are transformed,
into the crucified body of Christ;
to share in Christ’s priesthood
is to give of our very substance
to those ravaged by spiritual and material hunger.

And from Jesus himself we hear the true meaning
of being God’s anointed king.
Recall: Peter has just responded to Jesus’ question,
“Who do you say that I am?”
with the answer
“You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.”
Both of these terms—
“Christ,” or “anointed one,”
and “Son of God”—
are terms that were applied to King David,
and it seems that Peter is presuming
that they are journeying to Jerusalem
so that Jesus can assume the throne of David,
to take on the role of one whose will is law.
But Jesus knows that his kingship is different;
it is not about power and control;
rather, “he must go to Jerusalem and suffer greatly
from the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes,
and be killed and on the third day be raised.”
To rule is not to be in control,
but to surrender control to God.

It is a privilege to share through Baptism
in Jesus’ ministries of prophet, priest, and king,
but it is not privilege as the world counts privilege.
Jesus makes this clear in saying,
“Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself,
take up his cross, and follow me.
For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it,
but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.”
Paul makes it equally clear when he exhorts us,
“Do not conform yourselves to this age
but be transformed by the renewal of your mind.”

In Baptism, we surrender all human privilege
for the privilege of becoming by grace
what Jesus Christ is by nature;
we lose all human claim to status
in order to take on the status
of God’s adopted sons and daughters.
A life of privilege
based on race or social class or gender
must be left behind in the waters of Baptism;
we must lose that life in order to save our lives
on the day when Christ will return to judge the world.

Of course, this does not happen automatically.
Baptism sets us on a road:
a road of daily dying to our old self,
of daily rising again from sin,
of daily embracing the new identity
that is ours in Jesus.
It is not an easy road.
But we do not walk that road alone.
We walk it in the company
of our fellow members of Christ’s body,
and we walk it with Jesus Christ himself,
who goes before us
so that no obstacle,
whether within us or without us,
will ever to be too great for us to surmount.
For Baptism gives us not simply a call to follow,
but also the grace to follow:
it gives us the gift of the Spirit
who will never abandon us
but will make of us
prophets in whose bones God’s word burns,
priests who offer their very lives as spiritual sacrifices,
and leaders who will take up the cross of Jesus our king
in the struggle for justice and mercy.
This is the privilege we have as baptized Christians,
the privilege that we are called to live out
each day of our lives.