Category: Scripture

Liturgy, Scripture, Spirituality

Do You Not Care?

Christine Eberle

“Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” (Mark 4:38)

These words from today’s Gospel are on my shortlist of saddest lines in Scripture. It’s right up there with Martha’s and Mary’s response when Jesus finally shows up after Lazarus has been in the tomb for four days: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

In the other accounts of the Storm at Sea, the disciples simply cry out “Lord, save us! We are perishing” (Matthew 8), or “Master, master, we are perishing” (Luke 8). Those sound like the desperate prayers any of us might utter in a crisis. But in Mark, they say “Do you not care that we are perishing?” Ouch. (I suspect that “Do you not care?” was the subtext of the sisters’ words as well—implying that a caring Jesus would have arrived in time to save his friend.)

Mark’s Gospel is shorter and terser than than the other two, so it’s unusual that his account would have more words. It’s also the oldest Gospel, though, so perhaps the other evangelists edited out the apostles’ accusation, finding it unseemly. Yet their question strikes me as perfectly human—and refreshingly honest.

Read more: Do You Not Care?

The feeling that we are going under, or that someone we love is about to slip from our grasp, is indeed terrible. This morning, I’m thinking of the people evacuating Ruidoso, New Mexico ahead of raging wildfires, the couple from my parish racing across the country to be there for their son’s brain surgery, and all the suffering souls in Gaza, Israel, Ukraine, Sudan, and countless other places. The enormity of what people endure is staggering; feeling like God is asleep or indifferent compounds the misery.

Does knowing that even Jesus’ closest friends doubted his care for them offer any consolation? Does belief in their eventual rescue—the storm stilled, Lazarus raised—offer the least bit of solace when we’re in the thick of our own distress? That, my friends, is a question only you can answer for yourself.

What helps me is remembering how many times I’ve reached the other side of a metaphorical storm—emotional, medical, financial, interpersonal—and found my feet on the damp sand of life’s next chapter. Awareness of what God has done nurtures trust in what God may yet do, so I try to begin from a place of gratitude.

One of my favorite Easter hymns is “Sing with All the Saints in Glory,” set to the tune of Beethoven’s “Hymn to Joy.” It contains these marvelous lines:

All around the clouds are breaking,
Soon the storms of time shall cease;
In God’s likeness we awaken,
Knowing everlasting peace.

The song doesn’t minimize suffering, but it does put it in perspective. No storm lasts forever. We will know relief, whether in this world or the world to come.

Whatever storms you are experiencing right now, I invite you to be as honest with God as Martha, Mary, and those soaking-wet disciples were with Jesus. From that place of honesty, may you grasp the outstretched hands of gratitude and hope, waiting to lead you to a place of peace.

Scripture, Spirituality, Writing

What Happened Next?

Christine Eberle

What treasures from my chest would I not shove
if Jesus looked at me with that much love?

For months now, I’ve been playing around with the story of the Rich Man in Mark (which you can read here) as an assignment for the Jesuit Media Lab’s Imagining the Gospel series. It’s the Gospel for the 28th Sunday in Ordinary Time (October 13), so I have months left to muse on it. But when I began my morning with Pray As You Go, I discovered that it is also the Gospel for today—Monday of the 8th Week of Ordinary Time. So it felt right to share with you my thoughts in progress.

Although poetry is not my medium, something about this passage kept pulling me in that direction—specifically, the discipline and economy demanded by a sonnet. Perhaps Jesus’ invitation to pare down the rich man’s possessions made me want to do the same with my words?

I’m not saying it’s a good sonnet; mostly, it feels like a high school English assignment—compressing my thoughts into fourteen lines of iambic pentameter. But the ending couplet that began this post has stayed with me:

What treasures from my chest would I not shove
if Jesus looked at me with that much love?

The story begins with the rich man running up to Jesus, ostensibly seeking guidance but quick to say he’s kept all the Commandments from his youth. (Oy. Brag much?) We know how it ends: after Jesus tells him he’s only lacking one thing (go, sell all you have, give to the poor, and come follow me), the man goes away sad, for his possessions are many. But sometimes we forget the middle, the pivot-point: “Jesus, looking at him, loved him.”

Why did Jesus love him? I don’t think it was his spiritual resume. (Oh, you’ve kept all the Commandments?) Perhaps he was touched by the man’s earnestness or even his anxiety—that someone who’d followed all the rules would still have such deep unease about the path to salvation.

On the other hand, maybe asking “why” Jesus loved him is not the right question. Maybe that spontaneous, compassionate regard is the nature of the beholder, not the merit of the beheld. Maybe to be looked at by Jesus is to be loved by him.

So, what happened next? Was that love transformative? Did the rich man go away sad because he knew he wouldn’t be able to tear himself away from all those possessions—or because he knew how much work lay ahead of him?

I hope it was the latter, but the pressing question today is simply this: Can we allow ourselves to stand in that divine gaze long enough to be transformed by the knowledge of how deeply we are loved?

“What Happened Next?” (with apologies to Shakespeare)

As on a journey they were setting out,
I bet the muttered epithets were rife
When some rich guy delayed them with a shout:
What must I do to gain eternal life?

Our Lord, so patient, listed out the Ten
Commandments. Oh, I’ve kept them from my youth!
“You have but only one thing lacking, then:
Sell all and give, then come and follow Truth.”

Poor foolish burdened ass, you well may say—
Too tied to “stuff” for generous reply.
But I suspect that, as he walked away,
Sheer magnitude of work’s what made him sigh.

What treasures from my chest would I not shove
If Jesus looked at me with that much love?

And here’s the final version, if you’re curious.

Liturgy, Scripture, Spirituality

This is Only a Test

Christine Eberle

“In this you rejoice, although now for a little while you may have to suffer through various trials, so that the genuineness of your faith, more precious than gold that is perishable even though tested by fire, may prove to be for praise, glory, and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ.” (1 Peter 1:6-7)

For decades, I have maintained that the Lent we get is harder than the Lent we choose.  We choose give-ups and take-ups that feel challenging yet manageable, then life gets busy throwing at us things that are challenging yet unmanageable. That’s why I’m always encouraging people to “Live the Lent You Get,” allowing life to become its own Lenten discipline.  Nevertheless, the intensity of this one caught me by surprise.

Photo of Valerie Lee-Jeter McKenzie with a link to her obituary.
Valerie Lee-Jeter McKenzie
1957 – 2024

Or maybe it was just February. In the first half of the month, four friends lost close relatives—not one at a “ripe old age.” One former colleague died; two others landed in the hospital. On the evening of February 6, one of my aunts broke her hip and my choir director stopped breathing at home. My aunt came through surgery and is progressing well, but Valerie never regained consciousness, dying on the day before Ash Wednesday after forty years at the musical helm of St. Vincent’s.

That’s how this Lent began.

Continue reading “This is Only a Test” →
Scripture, Spirituality

The Grace of Pajamas

Christine Eberle

We’ve reached the end of the Christmas season. Today, Luke’s shepherds and angels yield to Matthew’s magi with their exotic gifts. Tomorrow is the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord. On Tuesday, with a sigh of sadness or possibly relief, we return to Ordinary Time.  As we put away our nativity sets, it may be comforting to remember John’s description of the Incarnation, which needs no crèche to hold it:

“And the Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.”  (John 1:14)

Often, nuances of familiar passages can reveal themselves in unfamiliar translations. Using Bible Gateway, I discovered that the Orthodox Jewish Bible (a 21st century English translation drawing on Yiddish and Hebrew cultural expressions) tells us that “the Dvar Hashem (Word of God) made his sukkah among us.” This is a poignant image for those of us blessed to live in Jewish neighborhoods, where even Catholics know it’s the Feast of Sukkot because of the sukkahs that spring up in nearby yards—or, for the yardless, on decks and balconies.

My favorite translation, however, may be the Message Bible’s chatty paraphrase: “The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood.”

Image by Alisa Dyson from Pixabay

What each of these translations captures in its own way is the startling proximity to which God committed in the Incarnation—experiencing life among and as one of us.  This has me musing about times when I have experienced the goodness of proximity with others, or what I’ve taken to calling The Grace of Pajamas.

Three times during this season, Porter and I have awakened in someone else’s home—with family over Christmas and New Year’s weekends, and now in Boston, at the home of fellow pilgrims from our Ignatian Camino.  As fun as it is to talk on the phone or go out to dinner, there’s nothing quite like sharing space: encountering sleepy relatives or friends over the coffee pot, experiencing their morning routines, cooking together, visiting the local shops that mark their days, accompanying them on their favorite walks or to their beloved place of worship.  There’s a quality of conversation that unfolds over time, an intimacy that grows from the simple sharing of life. 

Such opportunities are as golden as they are rare.  We can’t do it with everyone; a certain threshold of comfort precedes the invitation to pajamas. But these encounters point—as all good and beautiful things do—to an everyday truth.  In Jesus, God has taken on flesh and blood and moved into the neighborhood. God shares life with us not just in the special times, but especially in the ordinary ones.  

The One who made us and loves us and knows us better than we know ourselves promised to be with us always (and thus in all ways). We don’t need to clean up for God. We don’t need to put our face on. We just need to say, Welcome! 

In this new year, as you go about the ordinary routines of your days . . . coffee pot, meal prep, dishes, laundry, work, errands, rinse, repeat . . . may you know God’s startling proximity, trust God’s abiding friendship, and experience the grace of those divine pajamas.

Liturgy, Scripture, Spirituality

When?!?

Christine Eberle

This weekend, we celebrate the Feast of Christ the King (technically, “The Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe”). At Mass, we’ll hear Matthew’s account of the Last Judgment (25:31-46), in which Jesus tells a parable about a king who sets the criteria for separating (saved) sheep from (damned) goats:

I was hungry and you gave me food,
I was thirsty and you gave me drink,
a stranger and you welcomed me,
naked and you clothed me,
ill and you cared for me,
in prison and you visited me.

What always moves me about this story is the cluelessness of both the condemned and the righteous. When?!? they both exclaim. When did we see you and do (or not do) what you said? (Cue Felix Unger in The Odd Couple: “When? When? When was I redundant?)

The actual recognizing of Jesus, interestingly, is not the thing rewarded; it’s the behavior alone. The question is not what we professed, but what we did.

We’re not much into monarchs now unless they’re butterflies, but back in Jesus’ day, a monarch was revered (or at least feared). The idea that a king would be present in every human being was astounding—and should be behavior-upending.

Ideally, the conviction that Jesus abides in every person should transform our own random acts of kindness into persistent habits of character and courageous action on behalf of the common good. Yet, too often, Matthew’s warning stirs only a sporadic awareness that any given hungry / thirsty / strange / naked / ill / imprisoned character we meet might be Jesus—as though He had a side hustle as a mystery shopper or undercover boss. The notion fails to compel, as evinced by our own behavior.

After reading Matthew Desmond’s Poverty, by America for the Sanctuary Farm book club (follow-up session January 24; stay tuned), I began wondering what Christ the King might say to us today. How about:

  • I was hungry, and you wouldn’t open a decent grocery in walking distance of my home, forcing me to pay more for less at the corner store.
  • I was thirsty, and you got me hooked on sugary beverages while overlooking the contaminated water flowing from my tap.
  • I was a stranger, and you zoned your neighborhoods so I’d never be able to live there.
  • I was naked, and you flooded the market with cheaply made clothes and other consumer goods that keep profit margins high and workers’ wages low.
  • I was ill, and you wrung your hands and said what a shame it was that the nation couldn’t afford to provide me with health care.
  • I was in prison, and upon release you limited my housing and employment options so severely that I wound up right back where I started.

When?!? we bleat, clueless as a damned goat. We didn’t do ANY of these things personally. Why blame us?

More and more, I’m becoming aware that we are responsible not only for what we do, but for what we tolerate—especially when we benefit from policies that subsidize the already-affluent while penalizing the poor. I am not going to pretend that our societal ills have easy solutions. But if we take Matthew 25 seriously, we have to acknowledge that anything we consent to have done to the “least of these,” we consent to have done to Jesus.

It’s a sobering thought—as befits an end-times Gospel. May you be blessed with friends who keep you thinking.

Scripture, Spirituality

Don’t Be Foolish

Christine Eberle

Today’s Gospel has a title problem. Matthew 25:1-13 is called “The Parable of the Ten Virgins,” but it’s often referred to as the parable of “The Wise and Foolish Virgins” or sometimes, simply, “The Foolish Virgins.” Setting aside the fact that the noun in the title (virgins) makes most of us think Jesus is talking about someone else, I believe the real difficulty lies with the adjectives (wise, foolish). What can I say? Once an English major, always an English major.

Permit me a quick recap. In Matthew, this chapter is the last one in which Jesus tells any stories. (The next one begins, “When Jesus finished all these words. . .” at which point the events leading up to the crucifixion begin to unfold.) So basically this is Matthew’s version of Jesus making sure he’s said everything that most needs saying.

So, what does he say?

Jesus tells three parables, starting with today’s, in which “the kingdom of heaven will be like ten virgins who went out to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish and five were wise.” The wise packed extra oil for their lamps; the foolish did not. The bridegroom, the parable continues, was “long delayed.”

Okay, we think, with our post-resurrection brains. The bridegroom is obviously Jesus, and we know he’s coming again, but we don’t know when. This must be a parable about preparedness; obviously, the Foolish Virgins had never been Girl Scouts.

Sure enough, when the women are awakened by the cry “Behold, the bridegroom! Come out to meet him!” the foolish virgins with their flickering lamps try to bum a little oil off the wise ones, only to be told “No, for there may not be enough for us and you. Go instead to the merchants and buy some for yourselves.”

Now, stop right there. Do we really think “wise” is the right adjective for these gals? Sure, they were prepared, but they also sound like Mean Girls. Maybe this should be called “The Parable of the Stingy Virgins” or even “The Parable of the Manipulative Virgins,” because what lamp oil merchant is open in the middle of the night?

But sure enough, the foolish ones heed the advice of the wise / mean / stingy / manipulative ones; they scamper off in search of a 24-hour convenience store while the bridegroom is in shouting distance. They come back to find the door barred and themselves unrecognized and thus unadmitted, and Jesus concludes the parable with his customary instruction to “Stay awake, for you know neither the day nor the hour.”

But notice this: he doesn’t say “Be sure to pack enough oil, for you know neither the day nor the hour.” Now, that’s interesting. Wasn’t that the whole point of the parable? Wasn’t that the one thing that distinguished the wise from the foolish? Maybe not.

“Be sure to store up enough fuel for an indefinite wait” doesn’t really sound like Jesus, does it? This is the Jesus, after all, who taught us to pray for our daily bread—a clear reference to the manna in the desert that rotted when hoarded—and who elsewhere told a parable actually titled “The Rich Fool” about a man who tore down his grain barns to build bigger ones for his plentiful harvest on what turned out to be the last night of his life. Jesus was pretty clear: “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth . . . for where your treasure lies, there your heart will be” (Mt 6:19-21).

I believe that the real foolishness of the Underprepared Virgins was revealed the moment they stopped watching for the bridegroom and ran off to make themselves look better when he arrived.

Of course, this might be where the analogy falls apart, as every analogy does at some point. I don’t know enough about first-century Jewish marriage customs to know what would have happened if half the welcoming committee had unlit lamps. But we’re talking about the kingdom of heaven here, so it’s not some imaginary bridegroom coming; it’s Jesus. He’s not coming in rage or scorn or condescension, unhinged by our frailties. He’s coming as himself: tender, compassionate, loving.

Put yourself in the scene. Imagine for a moment this Jesus approaching as you stand there, wide awake, useless lamp discarded. Imagine how much your desire to be in his presence outshines your desire to hide your ineptitude. Imagine his face as he spots you, approaches you, embraces you.

Now, aren’t you glad you stayed?

Scripture, Spirituality

Steady Your Hearts

Christine Eberle

The farmer waits for the precious crop from the earth, being patient with it until it receives the early and the late rains. You also must be patient. Strengthen your hearts, for the coming of the Lord is near. (James 5:7-8)

Spring takes its time here in Maine.  Back home in Philly, the temperature is headed over 90 for the second day in a row, but in Boothbay Harbor we still are sweatered-up, basking in a 57-degree Sunday afternoon on our deck, enjoying this weekend’s first peek of sunshine and the foggy breeze off the water.

Since Porter inherited his mother’s summer cottage a few years ago, we’ve been trying to establish perennial garden beds, filling them with hearty, low-maintenance items that can survive both the assault of winter storms and the neglect of summer renters.  When we return each spring, we race to inspect the beds, assessing what survived and what needs replacing.  But we are not yet accustomed to the pace of a Maine spring.

In late April, I was sorry to see no sign of the liatris (“blazing star”) I’d planted out front, but consoled myself with the purchase of a bleeding heart instead—another favorite, and a proven winner.  As I knelt to dig the hole, however, I discovered the barest green shoots emerging where the blazing star used to be; two weeks later, my beloved plant is indeed blazing back to life!  The other thing we were watching was a tuft of brown stuff, formerly a decorative grass intended to camouflage an unattractive foundation wall.  Taking a lesson from the liatris, we waited a couple weeks before buying something to replace it.  Sure enough, just as I went to pull the dried clump from the ground, Porter spotted a hint of green; apparently, the grass is on its way as well.

Scripture would have us look to nature for a lesson in patience, an abundance of which is called for these days. How we struggle to be patient with ourselves, our neighbors, and our loved ones; with our church, school, and civic communities; with our government, our electorate, and our world.  We know that forces for good are at work—sometimes through our efforts, but usually from beyond our imagining. We would do well to “steady our hearts,” as a musical rendition of James 5:8 encourages.

I do know this.  But what spring in Maine is reminding me is that my sense of how long is reasonable to wait may be flawed, shaped as it is by my limited experience of nature.  In human nature, the “precious crop” arrives on its own schedule, watered by the early and late rains of our tears and our prayers.

What are you waiting for?  Whatever it is, may you have the perseverance to wait, and the attentiveness to spot the presence of hope, even in its tiniest and most vulnerable forms.

Scripture, Spirituality

Blessed are the Single-Hearted, for they shall not Multitask.

Christine Eberle

We’re in the homestretch of Lent, a time when most people’s Lenten resolutions lie in tatters. Many of you have heard me say this before: In Lent, as in the rest of the spiritual life, the goal is not victory, but responsiveness. Success teaches us almost nothing. We learn precious little from perfectly-executed three-point Lenten plans. The most “effective” resolution is one that drives us back into the merciful arms of God, over and over again.

Nevertheless, in case you are feeling some kind of way about how your Lent is going, I thought I’d share a spectacular resolution-fail of my own from this weekend. (You’re welcome.)

Continue reading “Blessed are the Single-Hearted, for they shall not Multitask.” →
Scripture, Spirituality

On Fire, but Not Consumed

Christine Eberle

There the angel of the LORD appeared to Moses as fire flaming out of a bush. When he looked, although the bush was on fire, it was not being consumed. (Exodus 3:2)

What a remarkable sight: a bush on fire, but not consumed. “I must turn aside to look,” Moses thinks, asking “Why does the bush not burn up?”

On fire, but not consumed. Have you ever experienced this?

Continue reading “On Fire, but Not Consumed” →
Scripture, Spirituality

How Do we Honor the Holy Innocents?

Christine Eberle

The choice of readings for today’s Mass perplexed me. December 28th is the Feast of the Holy Innocents, Martyrs, as recounted in Matthew 2:13-18. It’s a grim feast that comes three days after Christmas every year.

On the day we remember the Bethlehem boys aged two-and-under slaughtered by Herod in an unhinged, prophylactic power grab, the Church pairs that account with Psalm 124, beginning with these words:

Had not the LORD been with us,
when people rose against us,
Then they would have swallowed us alive,
for their fury blazed against us.
Then the waters would have engulfed us,
the torrent overwhelmed us.

How is a psalm praising God for rescue appropriate on the day we remember murdered children?  The Matthew account itself cites Jeremiah’s agonizing description of “Rachel weeping for her children,” refusing to be consoled.  No wonder, if this is the thin consolation offered: that someone else’s child was saved. Mary and Joseph’s child, yes, but still a nightmare to the grieving parents.

The psalm smacks us right up against theodicy and the problem of evil.  “Had not the LORD been with us . . .” What does that imply?  Was God not with the toddlers of Bethlehem?  How do we praise God for rescue (which we should, if rescued) without implying that those who perished were somehow abandoned, unworthy?

There’s a song called “I Know Something About God’s Grace” whose theology drives me batty. The lyrics begin:  I know something about God’s grace; I know something about God’s amazing grace.”  So far, so good; then it runs off the rails. “It could have been me with no food to eat; it could have  been me with no place to sleep, if not for the grace of God.”  I know it’s a musical riff on the common expression “There but for the grace of God . . . ” And yet . . . those guys sleeping on the steam vents in downtown Philly—are they devoid of grace?  Or are they wrapped in it?

Maybe the problem is with our casual use of the word “grace.”  Do we believe that God’s unmerited favor comes in the form of this-worldly bonuses like a Christian comp & benefits package?  Or is grace more interior, like a spiritual attitude adjustment?  OR is grace what holds us up every single day, whether we’re aware of it or not?

Today is not the day to figure that out.  Today is the day to admit that our warm language around grace and blessing leaves a lot of people out in the cold.  Today is the day to figure out how to be a touch of grace for someone else.  Today is the day to stand with the innocents (and the not so innocents) who are in the process of being swallowed alive or otherwise engulfed by the storms of life.  

That’s how we honor the Holy Innocents—today and every day.

P.S. If you are similarly intrigued by these questions, I highly recommend an intense little book by Brother Joe Hoover, SJ called O Death Where Is Thy Sting (see my Goodreads review here), as well as the books, blog posts, and podcasts of Kate Bowler, author of Everything Happens for a Reason (And Other Lies I’ve Loved).