LITURGY
AND LIFE
By
Anne Strachan
14th
Sunday in Ordinary Time
July 4, 2010
Isaiah
66:10-14
Psalm 66
Galatians 6:14-18
Luke 10:1-12, 17-20
In 1984, Pope John Paul II
prepared to celebrate the eucharist in Abbotsford, British Columbia.
An assembly estimated at
250,000 people gloried in joyful anticipation. Driving from the interior
with a carload of women and my infant son Patrick, our arrival and this
gathering of thousands of pilgrims felt pageant-like; a tangible and
powerful image of what might be a classic manifestation of the kingdom
of God.
The pope’s helicopter
landed. Along with everyone else, I craned my neck to catch a glimpse
of the Holy Father. Choirs sang like angels; the sun cast bountiful
warmth and light upon the unfolding scene.
As the opening strains of
the entrance hymn — “Lift high the cross” —
echoed in the air, Patrick, just over a month old, began to stir. Soon
he was positively screeching. I’d hoped his hunger might at least
wait until I’d satisfied my need to see and take in the presence
of, well, the pope, for Pete’s sake! But no, this was not to be.
Patrick was hungry, and his hunger pangs escalated with each introductory
phrase spoken by John Paul II.
Scrambling to arrange a blanket
over myself and my baby, his small head wildly seeking sustenance like
a fledgling robin, beak wide open, still I continued to attempt to gaze
over the crowd at the faraway man beside the altar. Not exactly the
picture of a nurturing Madonna consoling her child, impatiently I manoeuvred
this squalling morsel of humanity toward my breast, trying to be modest,
yet speedy. I did not want to miss anything of importance, be it prayer
or any form of pontifical wisdom.
My friend Marilyn, noting
my obvious distress, thoughtfully took her gaze off John Paul to look
at Patrick and me. She mused, “Anne, think of it . . . this is
the same mass we celebrate every week, at home, in our tiny parish .
. . exactly the same. So don’t panic. You need to feed your baby
. . . relax!” This sensible, profound insight restored my perspective.
I stopped gaping at the pope and fixed my attention upon my nursing
child, now euphorically “drinking deeply with delight,”
and at peace.
“The kingdom of God
has come near to you.” In Scripture, Jesus gives a message to
be passed on through 70 disciples he sends out, in pairs, “like
lambs into the midst of wolves.” Eating with people, curing the
sick or casting out demons, these disciples are to declare a clear message
of the presence of God’s kingdom, whether they’re accepted
with hospitality or herded unceremoniously out of town.
The disciples are not to
fret if — and when — they experience rejection. Jesus tells
them in Luke’s Gospel: “Whatever house you enter, first
say, ‘Peace to this house!’ And if someone of peace is there,
your peace will rest on that person; but if not, it will return to you.”
Peace, then, is crucial to the manifestation of God’s mysterious
kingdom.
Indeed, what is this place
— or state of being — we call the “kingdom of God”?
Is it a medieval palace perched on a hilltop housing a benevolent dictator
with vast farmlands requiring labourers to bring in the harvest? Or,
as in the psalm, is this kingdom a sea full of marine life that miraculously
parts to reveal dry land at one swish of God’s hand, thus allowing
us to pass safely through and beyond?
Could the kingdom of God
be manifest in a waiting crowd of humanity gathered at a papal mass,
all seeking some measure of forgiveness and healing through God’s
abundant, steadfast love as presented in Scripture and sacrament? Perhaps
it’s all of this, and much more.
In the kingdom of God, are
we all, at heart and despite our chronological age, hungry infants?
Hungry for the hope offered in the words of Isaiah: “As a mother
comforts her child, so I will comfort you; you shall be comforted in
Jerusalem (and Abbotsford!). You shall see, and your heart shall rejoice;
your bodies shall flourish like the grass . . .”
The kingdom of God is intimate
and nourishing, like a mother nursing her child. It is infinitely healing,
no matter how deep our wounds. For St. Paul, it transformed everything
into “a new creation.” We don’t need to crane our
necks, seeking a more dramatic, superior kingdom. We might try to see
with new eyes, love with a new heart right where we are. Then we will
experience God’s kingdom in the ordinary as well as in the extraordinary.
One tiny human child, satiated and peaceful at his mother’s breast,
or a pope celebrating the eucharist for 250,000 people: When we pay
attention, the kingdom of God is present in myriad, unexpected ways.
Do we recognize and respond to this God who is always with us?
Strachan is married with three children and lives in Nakusp, BC. She is a Benedictine Oblate with St. Peter’s Abbey in Muenster, SK., and a member of the Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild.
 |
|