14th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Ezekiel 2:2-5; 2 Corinthians 12:7-10; Mark 6:1-6

“He was not able to perform 
any mighty deed there…
He was amazed at their lack of faith.”
In today’s Gospel reading
it seems that Jesus’s ability to work mighty deeds
is somehow dependent on the faith of others,
either the faith of those whom he cures
or the faith of those who intercede for them.
Last week we heard from Mark’s Gospel
dramatic stories of Jesus’ power and ability: 
the ability to heal the woman with the hemorrhage,
and even to restore Jairus’s daughter to life.
And we might think that his mighty deeds 
didn’t depend on anyone or anything.
But now, it is as if Mark wants 
to make sure that,
in the face of such mighty deeds,
we do not mistake Jesus
for some sort of superhero or magician.
Here we have underscored for us,
just how much he seems like other people:
“Is he not the carpenter, the son of Mary?”
As St. Symeon the Theologian put it,
“He ate, he drank, he slept, 
he sweated, and he grew weary.
He did everything other people do, 
except that he did not sin.”

And a big part 
of the “everything other people do”
is being dependent on others.
The philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre argues
that being vulnerable and therefore dependent
is so much a part of what it means to be human
that it is a grave mistake to look upon 
those whom we describe as “disabled,”
as somehow possessing a lesser form of humanity
simply because they are vulnerable and dependent.
As MacIntyre puts it, 
they are in their dependence,
“ourselves as we have been,
sometimes are now 
and may well be in the future.”
The vulnerable dependence we all share
is simply more obvious in those we call “disabled.”
Dependence is, as they say, 
a feature and not a bug 
of our human nature.

And in taking that human nature upon himself
Christ willingly takes on our dependence,
our vulnerability,
even our disability.
“He was not able…”
He made himself dependent on their faith,
just as he made himself dependent on his mother
who carried him in her womb 
and fed him at her breast;
and made himself dependent on his disciples 
who spread his word far and wide;
and made himself dependent on followers 
who offered hospitality and financial support;
and made himself dependent on Simon of Cyrene,
who carried his cross when his 
tortured and exhausted body
could do so no longer.

Christ made himself like us
in our dependence and disability,
and we are called to make ourselves like him
in rejecting our illusion of independence
and embracing the disability 
of ourselves and others.
St. Paul says, 
“I will…boast most gladly 
of my weaknesses,
in order that the power of Christ 
may dwell with me….
for when I am weak, 
then I am strong”
The power of Christ in me
is the power to see the dependence of others,
not as an imposition or a threat, 
but as a summons to expand 
the narrow limits of my humanity
by seeing it as woven into a vast tapestry
of beings who depend upon each other
and all of whom together
depend upon God.
Indeed, to depend on God for our existence
is what it means to be a creature,
and to recognize that dependence
is what it means to be human.

Last week I read a news story
of scientists identifying the fossil remains 
of a six-year-old Neanderthal child
with Down Syndrome
who lived at least 146,000 years ago.
As today, this child would have faced
considerable physical and cognitive challenges,
but these would have been made all the worse 
for living among a group
of highly mobile hunters and gatherers
whose day-to-day existence was quite precarious.
She would seem to have had little to offer
such a group in its quest for survival.
And yet someone cared for her,
cared for her in a way that allowed her,
defying all expectation,
to reach the age of six.
Indeed, it seems likely 
that the whole group cared for her,
since what she would have needed
was more than her mother alone could provide.
They cared for her 
not because of what she could do
but because she called forth compassion
from the deepest wellspring of their humanity,
called forth in them a recognition
that they too are vulnerable and dependent
and unable to do any mighty deed
without the faith of others.
Think about that: these early humans
living over a thousand centuries ago
knew that their humanity 
depended on dependence,
on sharing the burden of vulnerability.
“for when I am weak, then I am strong.”

On Thursday we observed the Fourth of July,
a holiday that celebrates American values
of independence and individualism.
These values certainly have their positive side,
but they also have their dark side,
for they tend to exclude those who
in various ways are dependent on others: 
the child in the womb
and the elderly person at the end of life,
those with physical or cognitive disabilities,
the refugee and the alien in a foreign land,
the person who’s made bad life choices
or simply had bad luck.
We must remember that American values

of independence and individualism,
as good as they may be,
are not necessarily Christian values,
and maybe do not get to the core 
of what it means to be human.
For as Christians we know the power of Christ
not in our independent individualism,
but in our common dependence 
on God and each other

Today, we gather at the Lord’s altar
as beggars asking for bread,
to celebrate our dependence and vulnerability,
our common dis-ability to do any mighty deed
apart from God’s grace and the faith of others,
our common call to find strength in weakness
and to bear each other’s burdens.
So let us pray 

that we would know our need,

so that God in his mercy
might have mercy on us all.

14th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Ezekiel 2:2-5; 2 Corinthians 12:7-10; Mark 6:1-6

We all like to feel ourselves in tune with those around us.
We like our words not just to be listened to
but to be welcomed and confirmed in their truth,
especially by those whom we think of as our own,
those with whom we have an affinity.
But our readings today suggest
that speaking the truth that God would have us speak,
very well might make us out of tune,
even with those whom we think of as our own.
The word of God that we find on our lips
might prove to be an unwelcome word.

Our first reading presents God speaking to Ezekiel,
whom God has called to bring the unwelcome word
of divine judgment to the people of Israel.
The Israelites were convinced
that because of God’s covenant with them
no evil could befall them,
no matter how evil they themselves became.
One who suggested that, despite the covenant,
they might stand especially under God’s judgment
was the bringer of an unwelcome word,
and would not be greeted with open arms
and a warm embrace,
but with ridicule and dismissal
and perhaps outright hostility.

In the Gospel we see Jesus himself
bringing an unwelcome word
to his hometown of Nazareth.
We are not told of the exact content of his words—
we are only told that he began to teach in the synagogue—
but his words must have come across
as self-aggrandizing nonsense
because his former friends and neighbors
immediately tried to take him down a notch:
“Who do you think you are, Mr. Smartypants?
We know where you’re from.
We know your family.
Don’t go getting a big head.”
Clearly, Jesus was trying to rise above his station
and the folks in Nazareth were having none of it.

Both the story of Ezekiel and the story of Jesus in Nazareth
suggest that the unwelcome word is especially difficult to speak
when you are among your own people,
those whose approval and validation you value most.
It is there, oddly enough,
that the prophet is least likely to meet with success.
As Jesus says, “A prophet is not without honor
except in his native place
and among his own kin and in his own house.”
But the prophet faces not only external rejection,
but also internal resistance,
since we all want those who are our own,
those with whom we feel generally in tune,
to welcome our words.
God suggests to Ezekiel, however,
that faithfulness, and not success,
is the ultimate criterion by which a prophet will be judged.
God tells Ezekiel that whether or not the people listen to him,
at least they will know that a prophet has been among them.

I think about this sometimes when I preach.
I have no illusion that I am a prophet
in the sense that Ezekiel was,
but I have been called and ordained by the Church
to preach God’s word
in season and out of season.
But I know that some words that I might speak,
particularly on controversial issues of the day,
might be more welcome than others,
and I can find myself shying away
from speaking the unwelcome word.
For example, I find that here at Corpus Christi,
where I am, as it were, in my native place
and among my kin,
it is easy for me to preach about
the Church’s stand on welcoming immigrants
or economic justice,
but it is not so easy to preach about
the Church’s defense of unborn life
or religious liberty.
It is easy for me to denounce
the boorishness of our president,
but not so easy to criticize
the boorishness of some of his critics.
It is easy for me to foster outrage
at the reactionary forces in our society,
but not so easy for me to commend Paul’s example
of being “content with weaknesses, insults,
hardships, persecutions, and constraints,
for the sake of Christ.”
Part of the reason none of this is easy
is that some of these issues are very complex,
and might be a better topic
for a discussion group than for a sermon
(which is one of the reasons why I enjoy so much
working with our RCIA process).
But mainly, it’s not easy
because I want you all to like me.
I want to greet you at the door after Mass
and be told “great sermon!”
and not “who the hell do you think you are?”
I want to find acceptance among the kin of my own house.

But (as hard as this might be to believe)
this isn’t really about me,
because the task of proclaiming God’s word
is not the sole preserve of the clergy
but of all Christians,
we who have been baptized
into Christ’s ministry as priest, king, and prophet.
And all of us, whether we think of ourselves
as politically progressive or conservative,
should find some parts of God’s word
that make us squirm
and do not fit easily with the ideologies
of our various affinity groups.
All of us need to examine our consciences
and ask ourselves whether we, like Ezekiel and Jesus,
have listened with open hearts to God’s word;
whether we have let it challenge us
and make us feel uncomfortable,
or whether we have let ourselves
grow smug and self-satisfied
in the bosom of the like-minded people around us.
Have we let that uncomfortable word
find a home in our hearts and on our lips?
Are we willing to speak the uncomfortable word
to those with whom we normally feel in tune,
willing to risk sounding a discordant note?

This is difficult,
but this is our call.
Not to be obnoxious and provocative
for its own sake,
like someone trolling on Twitter,
but to be willing to listen to God’s word
with open hearts
and, when we must,
to speak an unwelcome word
even to those we love most,
those with whom we are otherwise in tune,
those from whom we seek validation.
We may be pleasantly surprised
at the welcome our words receive.
But whether our words are welcomed or not,
they at least shall know
that a prophet has been among them.

14th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Ezekiel 2:2-5; 2 Corinthians 12:7-10; Mark 6:1-6

I don’t typically look to summer blockbusters or superheroes
for the starting point of a homily,
but in light of today’s readings
I could not help but think
of the new “reboot” of Spider-man
that debuted this past week.
The villain in the movie,
the one-armed mad scientist Dr. Curt Conners,
is driven to harness the regenerative power of reptiles –
you know, the way that lizards can regrow their tails –
not only so that he can regrow his own missing arm,
but so that he might create, as he puts it,
“a world without weakness.”

Well, as usually happens to mad scientists,
Dr. Connors’s ambitions involve him
in some serious technological overreach and
(spoiler alert!)
he ends up turning himself
into a giant reptilian monster
and terrorizing New York City
until Spider-man comes along
to save the day.

As I said, I don’t usually look for wisdom from movies,
particularly not from ones
in which the main character dresses in Spandex,
but in this case I think that,
in addition to some awesome 3-D special effects,
we have a genuine insight:
our desire to create a world without weakness,
no matter how well intentioned it may seem,
will in the end destroy our humanity,
because in this life
weakness is part of our human condition.

It was the rhetoric of ridding the world of weakness
that accompanied Hitler’s murderous campaign
to cleanse the world of so-called inferior races.
It is perhaps a desire for a world without weakness
that accounts for the fact that at least 70% of pregnancies
in which the fetus is diagnosed with Down Syndrome
are terminated.
It is the quest for what we might call
“a Church without weakness”
that leads some to desire a smaller, “purer” Church,
presumably one that is rid of all those
who might struggle with the teachings of the Church
on various matters of faith and morals.
And it is the desire for a self without weakness
that leads us either to deny our own frailty,
or to loath the frailty within ourselves
that we cannot deny.

Our second reading,
from Paul’s Second Letter to the Corinthians,
is one of the New Testament’s profound reflections
on the grace of living in a world of weakness.
Paul says that God gave him
a “thorn in the flesh,
an angel [or ‘messenger’] of Satan” –
in order to remind him of his weakness.
This might refer to a physical disability
or perhaps to some sort of moral temptation
to which Paul was prone,
but, whatever the nature of this “thorn,”
when Paul prays three times to have it removed
God says in reply, “My grace is sufficient for you,
for power is made perfect in weakness.”

Power is made perfect in weakness.
St. Thomas Aquinas comments
that this is “a remarkable way of speaking,”
sort of like saying
“fire increases in water” (Super 2 Cor. cap. 12 lec. 3).
But this remarkable way of speaking
should be, for we who are Christians,
our native language,
because it allows us to speak eloquently of God’s grace.
If we boast of our weakness –
if we acknowledge our fragility –
then, Paul tells us,
the power of Christ will dwell in us.
The power of Christ is not a power
that makes a world without weakness
but rather a power that makes its dwelling
within our world of weakness,
a power that inhabits weakness,
in order to offer a way through weakness
into God’s embrace.
The cross shows us
the perfection of power in weakness in all its mystery,
for it is our faith as Christians
that through the cross of Jesus
God has poured out the power of grace,
a grace abundant to save an entire world of weakness.
And when we know our own weakness we are set free
to embrace the very power of God.

When we accept our own weakness
we are also set free to accept the weakness of others,
to give up our dream of the perfect spouse or child,
our dream of the perfect Church,
our dream of a world without weakness.
To know your own weakness is to have God’s Spirit
open your heart to others
in compassion and mercy.

What is your weakness?
What is the thorn in your flesh?
In a sense, it doesn’t matter.
What matters
is that we all live in a world of weakness.
What matters
is that God invites us today to know our weakness
so that we may know fully
the power of God’s grace at work in us.
We should not seek a world without weakness,
for when we are weak –
when we know our own helplessness
and our need for mercy –
it is then we are strong in mercy
through the power of God.