The title of my homily is, “Death and Resurrection.”
Serious topic – obviously.
Lent begins with ashes – a symbol of death and end – and ends with Easter – resurrection.
Ashes – the house, the forest – is burned down – and that’s all that remains – ashes – so too skeleton and dust.
Resurrection – rebuilding – reforesting – the sound of hammer and nail – a new house rising on the ruins of a former house – the sight of buds and new trees – new life – rising to new life – resurrection – Monday morning in eternity.
For the Christian, Lent can be a good season of challenge and spiritual growth.
Lent – 40 days: Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday. This year, February 25th till April 12th.
Moving from winter into spring – dark empty branches – slowly budding – breakthroughs.
Surprise – waking up one of these days in March to see those empty branches now breaking forth in green leaves.
Death to resurrection.
Emptiness to new life.
We who live in the northern hemisphere – with our homes and landscape in 4 season geography – get to see all this happen year after year after year – coinciding with Lent – moving towards the Spring of Easter.
Geography impacts us.
It makes a difference in how we think and feel, see and sing. It does depend on where we live. Those who grow up in South Florida or the Caribbean can have a different attitude towards life than those who grow up experiencing, spring, summer, autumn, winter, especially cold winter and empty trees – and then spring and on and on and on.
Whom we live with makes a difference. Whom we interact with makes a difference. What we eat, read, see, experience, become us.
The Christian is called upon to be salt and light – to help others to be zestier and brighter.
The Christian is called to make a difference in this world: in the home, in the neighborhood, in the church, how we enter and exit parking lots and stores – and especially how we treat each other in the work place.
Easy and poetic to say – difficult to do.
We are called to put others ahead of ourselves. Less self; more concern, care, kindness towards neighbor – spouse – children –parents – stranger.
We are called to die to self – and rise to new life.
We are called to be joyful Christians – to pray and practice the prayer of St. Teresa of Avila whose statue is here in our sanctuary, “From silly devotions and sour-faced saints, good Lord, deliver us.”
Christians believe in recovery after the disaster – starting again – and helping those who find recovery difficulty – whether its alcoholism, storms, floods, bankruptcy, out of work, depression, divorce, sickness or death.
Arriving at 30, 40, 50, 60, 70, 80, 90, 100 – and somewhere along the line the graveyard – is not the end of life.
The Spanish writer, Miguel de Unamuno [1864-1936] quoted an old peasant who said, “If there is no immortality, what use is God?”
For the Christian, we have the faith to say, “We are immortal – because of Christ.”
As we say and sing at Mass: “Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again.”
The tree of the cross is the tree of the horror of death – the worst we human beings can do to each other. The tree of the cross is also the tree of the seed of hope: resurrection. Christ forgave from that cross. Christ redeemed us from that cross. Christ was taken down from that cross – and many that day, that Bad Friday thought that was the end.
Resurrection is the central act of faith and hope for the Christian.
This is the big Lent to Easter – winter to spring message.
Notice Lent is a season – a period of time. Life is not instant fix.
Conversion – recovery – new beginnings takes time.
So the 40 days of Lent is a model for all of us to realize growth is 40 days, a day at a time, a step at a time, a week at a time.
It’s good to take time out to pray and to fast.
It’s good to give up something for Lent – like fasting from TV one night a week, or the computer one day a week (unless we use one for our job – or we’re doing school work) or fasting from alcohol or bad language or self and my way – and surprise we discover we’re addicted to things and patterns and behaviors we didn’t realize we were chained to.
It’s good to do something extra for Lent – like 5 minutes of prayer per day. Designate a favorite chair as our prayer chair in some quiet place in our home - some inner room - and escape to that prayer chair for time to be with God. I don’t know if there are any more Lenten materials in the back. Use them or the scriptures or say one decade of the Rosary. Father George cut up thousands of little strips of paper. They are in the baskets in the back. Grab one. Put it in your wallet. Look at each day for a moment. See all the things it will say to you this Lent.
Today is Ash Wednesday – the beginning of Lent.
Lent is a good time to have the reality of our life span rubbed in our face.
ON HAVING LEPROSYI have leprosy.
The priest in our village was the one who broke the news that I had to leave my wife and kids. I had leprosy.
I don’t know where or how I got it, but I got it.
It began on the side of my head – above my right ear. It was a lump – a hard skinned lump – composed of a dark something. It itched at times. I scratched it at times. It bled at times. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”
Then the same thing appeared on my right leg above my ankle and then my back. It was like I was getting camel skin.
I was supposed to head for the hills: “Leave!” “Go!” “Disappear!”
Well, I left. I didn’t want to. Who would? But I had to.
At first, I didn’t go too far from our village.
I camped myself behind this rock – on a hill just above our village. It allowed me to watch our house from a distance.
Sometimes at night, my oldest son would come half way up the hill – half way up to me – and we would talk from a distance – about what was going on. It had to be at night – and even that was risky – because in a small town everyone knew everything – warts and all.
My wife was like a widow. She felt isolated like me – becoming what I had become – because of me – but without leprosy. She remained inside our tiny house most of the time. She continued to weave baskets and make bread – but my five kids had to bring the bread and baskets to a market in the next village which was about 7 miles away – if they wanted to sell them.
They needed money – daily bread and daily coins – and it would have been nice if daily forgiveness came along with them. It did from some, but others would point out my wife from the other side of the street, “There’s the woman whose husband has leprosy and had to leave her. They must have done something wrong for God to punish them like this."
In the meanwhile, what do you do to put food on the table?
I felt helpless – isolated – stupid – and all alone. My wife didn’t understand any of this either. I don’t blame her. It killed me. I itched more. I scratched more.
Then word got out that I was hiding just above our village.
The priest – whose job it was to bark out such orders – came half way up the hill and told me that I had to leave the area.
“Unclean!” “Unclean!”
It must be tough being a priest.
I left. It wasn’t easy. But I did.
Finally, I found a group of men who had what I had: leprosy.
They hung out in these “Godforsaken” caves – high up in the hills.
They had little gardens – some sheep and goats – and were able to make it – with a lot of difficulty.
In the evenings we could laugh at times. Two men in our small group could play a flute – and three were good with bells – so the dozen of us or so – could sing and laugh at times.
However, when it came time to sleep, we were a sorry bunch – all alone – sleeping with the feeling of rejection and not being wanted.
In the morning some would wash up – but some had given up even that. What’s the use? It was good there weren’t mirrors. However, it’s always easy to see the other person’s lumps and cuts and dirt more than one’s own.
Each new lump – each new sore – lowered our expectations and our hopes about life.
We had to say, “Unclean!” if some shepherd or kid wandered into our camp in the hills.
We had to wear a bell around our neck and ring it if we ran into a caravan or stranger on a road we might be traveling.
I was ugly. I was alone. I was miserable.
Then this crazy guy – who didn’t care about us or anyone – went to the synagogue in Capernaum and met a man named, “Jesus of Nazareth.”
And Jesus healed him. Jesus healed him and he went outside and told everyone in the market – in the carpenter shops – in the inns – as well as in the hills – that he had met Jesus and Jesus healed him.
Hearing that I heard hope.
Hearing that I gathered up my stuff, said, “Good bye!’ to the men in our camp, and headed in the direction of Jesus. I had to find him. I had bundled myself up and wore a turban. I covered all my sores.
I asked folks on the roads, “Do you know where Jesus of Nazareth is?” Some hadn't heard of him; some had and pointed me in his direction. I just missed him two times.
Good News.
There he was – all alone – early in the morning. I knew it was him. I just knew it.
Surprise!
I followed him. He didn’t see me. This was up in the hills. He rested behind a rock. I could identify with that. It looked like he was praying. I watched and watched.
After about an hour he stood up – bowed to the heavens – and headed back down to the road. Well, here was my chance.
I yelled to him, “Jesus of Nazareth!”
He turned.
I said, “If you want to, you can cure me!”
Jesus looked at me. He looked me in the eye – even though my tendency by now was to constantly be looking at the ground. I felt ugly – very ugly – and not worth anything.
Jesus walked towards me. He reached out and touched me. He then said, “I want to heal you. You’re cured.”
I could feel something happen to my skull above my right ear. I could feel tingle in the sores on my feet. I could feel the sores on my back itch in a new way. Something was happening to them.
Jesus said, “Don’t tell anyone. Go back to your priest and make the offering that Moses prescribed. That should be a proof for anyone who thinks you still have leprosy.”
I stood still for a moment – shocked, surprised, stunned.
Jesus hugged me and then he headed back towards where his disciples were encamped.
There was a stream of water nearby. I headed for it and washed myself and my clothes completely and rung them out to dry. While waiting for them to dry in the sun I found myself singing. I felt as clean as a naked new born baby. Then I dressed – singing like I used to love to sing when I was a kid.
First thing I did? You know it. Everyone I met on the road I told my story. They thought I was another crazy person. I headed back to my camp. There were ten people there with leprosy. I told them what happened. They quickly got together their stuff and headed in the direction I told them Jesus went.
I went home. I went to the priest and told him what happened. He was skeptical till I showed him the side of my head – above my right ear – and my feet and my back. I was a brand new person.
He was dumbstruck – a priest with nothing to say. Amazing.
Then I headed home to my wife and 5 kids.
Then the celebration began.
[This Sunday in the Archdiocese of Baltimore we had the Archbishop's Annual Appeal 2009, so we didn't have a sermon - so I wrote this reflective story on today's first and third readings for this 6th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year B: Leviticus 13:, 1-2, 44-46; Mark 1: 40-45]
