January 7, 2007 - The Sunday After Theophany

January 7, 2007
The Sunday After Theophany
Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

Arguably among the earliest themes of Christian theology was a contrast between Christ and Adam. The letters of Paul are an obvious source of this contrast, chiefly in two places, the earlier being 1 Corinthians 15, and the second, Romans 5. These two texts differ, however, in emphasis and application.

Paul's argument in 1 Corinthians 15, which may be called cosmological, has to do with the quality of created matter, the "dust" of Genesis 2-3. Paul's case here is largely centered on Adam's legacy of death and corruption, to which the Apostle contrasts the immortality of the body through the Resurrection of Christ. Adam was formed of dust, to which he returned. Because of Christ's Resurrection from the dead, nonetheless, this inheritance of corruption from Adam is not the final word about the human prospect, says Paul. Although humanity certainly shares in Adam's corruption, in Christ it is made to share in the incorruption of the Resurrection: "The body is sown in corruption, it is raised in incorruption (15:42). Thus, "as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we shall also bear the image of the heavenly Man" (15:49).

In the later text, Romans 5, Paul returns to the contrast between Adam and Christ, but now with a different emphasis and application. He here develops the theme from an historical rather than a cosmological perspective. Whereas in Adam, Paul argues, "sin entered the world, and death through sin," through the obedience of Christ "many will be made righteous" (5:12,19). In short, "if by the one man's offense many died, much more the grace of God and the gift by the grace of the one Man, Jesus Christ, abounded to many" (5:15).

Each of these two contrasts between Adam and Christ serves the general concern of the specific epistle in which it appears. In 1 Corinthians, it is the Paschal Mystery ("Christ, our Passover, was sacrificed for us," says 1 Corinthians 5:7), and in Romans it is Justification. The second, which treats of the obedience of Christ, reflects the theology of Holy Thursday and Good Friday. The first, which is based on the Resurrection, pertains to the theology of Easter Sunday.

The contrast between Christ and Adam, however, does not appear to have been original with Paul. It seems to me (as it does to others) that we already find that contrast in what is apparently an ancient hymn verse cited by St. Paul in the Epistle to the Philippians: "Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form he humbled himself and became obedient unto death, even death on a cross. Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name which is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father" (2:5-11 RSV).

Two points may be made about this passage, I believe.

First, its rich doctrinal character is surprising in a context where we would not expect it. The context is not doctrinal. It is, rather, a moral exhortation, in which Paul describes how Christians are to be humble and obedient in their regard and behavior toward one another (2:1-4,12-16). Settled in the middle of that context, the Christological passage quoted above has the feel of an insertion. It takes the reader in a specifically doctrinal direction. It appears that Paul, wanting to hold up the example of the obedience of Christ, reminds them of a text that he expects his readers to recognize. Familiar texts like this are frequently taken from well known hymns, and a close reading of the passage suggests a strophic structure.

Second, at least part of the content of this hymnic insertion clearly relies on a contrast between Christ and Adam. Adam, we recall, was disobedient in trying to become like God. This is implied in what the serpent told Eve with respect to the forbidden fruit: "For God knows that in the day you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God" (Genesis 3:5). That is to say, disobedient Adam "regarded equality with God a thing to be grasped" (harpagmon egesato to einai isa Theo).

God's Son, in contrast, being "in the form of God" (en morphe Theou), was already "equal to God" (isa Theo). He had not need to grasp it. Yet He emptied Himself and assumed "the form of a servant" (morphen doulou), becoming obedient to death on the Cross. This is the model of obedience that Paul holds out to Christians, telling them, "Have this mind (touto phroneite) among yourselves." Believers are to abandon the example of Adam and pursue the standard of Christ.

In sum, Paul himself apparently inherited this contrast between Adam and Christ from the hymnography of early Christian worship. For this reason it should be regarded as coming from the most primitive theological insights of Christians. In 1 Corinthians and Romans Paul himself represents new developments on the theme, applied to the two disputed questions he hadd in mind to address, the Resurrection and Justification.

August 12, 2007 - The Sunday After the Transfiguration

August 12, 2007
The Sunday After the Transfiguration

Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

Although the Apostle Paul did not write of the Lord's Transfiguration on the
mountain, one is forcefully reminded of that event by a passage in the Second
Epistle to the Corinthians. He wrote, "For it is the God who commanded
light to shine out of darkness, who has shone in our hearts unto the light of
the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ" (4:6).

Paul's reference to the glory of God shining on the face of Christ, which
perfectly expresses what the evangelists describe in the Transfiguration, is
even more striking by reason of its immediate context. Just a few verses
earlier Paul had written, "But we all, with unveiled face, beholding as in
a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transfigured (metamorphoumetha)
into the same image from glory to glory, as by the Spirit of the Lord"
(3:18, my translation). That is to say, Paul's reference to the glory of God on
the face of Christ is set in the context of our own transfiguration in Christ.
The verb he uses here, metamorphomai, appears in only three other places
in the New Testament, two of them descriptive of the Lord's Transfiguration on
the mount (Matthew 17:2; Mark 9:2).

As in Luke's account of the Transfiguration, Paul's development lays special
stress on the Christian understanding of the Old Testament. Indeed, he
introduced this subject of transfiguration by treating of biblical
interpretation. The Jew, Paul wrote, understands only the "letter" (gramma)
of the Old Testament, whereas the Christian understanding penetrates more
deeply to "the Spirit" (to Pnevma). The first kind of biblical
understanding leads to death, he affirmed, the second to life (2 Corinthians
3:6-7). That is to say, Paul's preoccupation here is the orthodox understanding
of the Bible.

His initial reflections on this subject next prompt the Apostle to remember the
special glory that had shone from the face of Moses on the mountain. Step by
step Paul then goes from the glory on the face of Moses to the glory on the
face of Christ.

He begins by observing that "the children of Israel could not look
steadily at the face of Moses because of the glory of his countenance, which
was passing away" (3:7). Even this fleeting glory on the face of Moses had
to be covered by a veil. Moses, the Apostle explains, "put a veil over his
face so that the children of Israel could not look steadily at the end of what
was passing away" (3:12).

That veil over Moses' face becomes, for Paul, a symbol of the Jews' failure to
grasp the significance of their own Scriptures. This terrible (but tear-able)
veil is the exegetical impediment that divides Jew from Christian: "But
their minds were blinded. For until this day the same veil remains unlifted in
the reading of the Old Testament, because it is taken away in Christ. But even
to this day, when Moses is read, a veil lies on their heart" (3:14-15).

What is the advantage, then, of the Christian in this respect? It is Christ's
removal of the hermeneutic veil, to reveal the Spirit's understanding of the
Old Testament. This veil is lifted when a person is converted to Christ through
the Gospel. He now understands the Scriptures correctly: "Nevertheless
when one turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away. Now the Lord is the Spirit;
and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty" (3:17).

This Spirit-given understanding of the Holy Scriptures in Christ is the context
in which Paul proceeds to write of Christian transfiguration: "But we all,
with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being
transfigured (metamorphoumetha) into the same image from glory to glory,
as by the Spirit of the Lord."

>From the face of Christ, this ever increasing glory shines into the heart
and transfigures the Christian's mind. It delivers believers from those
darkening forces that blind those "who do not believe, lest the light of
the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God, should shine on
them" (4:4).

Similar in this respect to Luke's account of the Transfiguration, Paul
considers the glory on the face of Christ as throwing light on the Bible,
penetrating beneath the gramma. This is orthodoxology, the study of the correct
glory, removing the veil of exegetical blindness. This Spirit-given glory sheds
its light on the writings of Moses and the other biblical writers. It is
"the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus
Christ."

August 26, 2007

August 26, 2007
The Thirteenth Sunday After Pentecost

Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

It has sometimes caused surprise that St. John, though a witness to the Lord's
Transfiguration, does not narrate that scene, as did Matthew, Mark, and Luke.
More than one student of his gospel, however, has explained the absence of the
Transfiguration in John by remarking that Jesus is always transfigured
in what John wrote.

There is much merit in this remark. If the Transfiguration is the manifestation
of the glory of God in Christ, who spoke more often on this theme than John?
This apostle, who saw the transfigured Lord and heard the Father's voice
claiming Him as His Son, is the very one that wrote, "we beheld His glory,
the glory as of the only begotten of the Father" (1:14).

The Jesus presented in John's Gospel appears as the eternal Word, in whom
"was life, and the life was the light of men" (1:4). Becoming flesh
and dwelling among us (1:14), He is the living revelation of God's glory on
this earth. Even though "no one has seen God at any time," John says,
"the only begotten Son, who is in the bosom of the Father, He has declared
Him" (1:18).

The divine glory manifest in Christ is not only a theme in John's gospel; it
also serves as a structural component of the narrative. John records exactly seven
miracles of Jesus, which he calls "signs." Seven--the mystic number
of these signs--symbolizes the fullness of the revelation of the divine glory.

Leading in each case to the commitment of faith, these signs do not reveal the
divine glory as static, so to speak, but as active. Who
Jesus is, is revealed in what Jesus does. Each of these signs is enacted;
it has motion.

The signs commence with the transformation of the water into wine at the
wedding feast, concerning which John tells us, "This beginning (arche),
of signs Jesus did in Cana of Galilee, and manifested His glory; and His
disciples believed in Him" (2:11, emphasis added).

John's second sign enacted by Jesus is the curing of the nobleman's son
(4:46-54); as in the case of the miracle of Cana, the man himself
"believed, and his whole household" (4:53). Next comes the
restoration of the paralytic at the pool (5:1-15), followed by the miracle of
the bread (6:1-14), the walking on the water (6:15-21), and the healing of the
man born blind (9:1-41). The final sign in John is the raising of Lazarus from
the dead (11:1-44). It was of this culminating sign that Jesus told Martha,
"Did I not say to you that if you would believe you would see the glory
of God?" (11:40, emphasis added).

These Johannine signs are also accompanied by theological comments on their
significance, either in the detailed conversations of the narrative itself (as
in the raising of Lazarus and the healing of the blind man) or by the Lord's
own subsequent elaboration (as in the Bread of Life discourse).

Thus, each of these events is a transfiguration, a revelation of God's glory in
the activity of Jesus. In His life and ministry each sign becomes a window
through which believers contemplate the divine glory, and Jesus is transfigured
with light through John's whole narrative.

In the midst of these seven signs, moreover, John inserts two lengthy
conversations, one with Nicodemus (3:1-21) and the other with the Samaritan
woman (4:5-42). These pursue the same theme of revelation that John elaborates
in the stories of the signs.

At the end of the seven signs, John summarizes the tragedy of the unbelief with
which the enemies of Jesus responded to His revelation (12:37-41). This summary
appeals to the prophet Isaiah, who had foretold the hardness of heart of those
who refused to believe. According to John, "These things Isaiah said when
he saw His glory and spoke of Him" (12:41, emphasis added). This
transfigured Christ, that is to say, was already contained in the Old Testament
Scriptures. Christ, as gloriously revealed in these signs, was the object of
prophetic vision. Even Moses had spoken of Him (1:45; 5:46). For John, then, as
for Luke, Peter, and Paul, the revelation of the divine glory in Christ is the
key to the understanding of biblical prophecy.

The final unbelief leads directly to the Lord's Passion, which is introduced by
the great Last Supper discourse, which speaks also of the divine glory of
Christ (13:31,32; 14:13;17:5,22,24). In every scene of this gospel, then, from
the Lord's appearance at John's baptismal site all the way through the Lord's
death and Resurrection (7:39; 12:16,23,28), the divine light appears among men.
John records all these things that we readers too may "believe that Jesus
is the Christ, the Son of God" (20:31).

July 1, 2007 - Saints Cosmas and Damien

July 1, 2007

Saints Cosmas and Damien



Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings



In the biblical narratives of our Lord's Transfiguration it is easy to discern different points of inclusion and emphasis peculiar to each writer. Only Luke, for instance, mentions that Jesus was praying was He was transfigured, and only Matthew remarks that the disciples "fell on their faces."



In Mark's account (9:2-10) one of the most notable features of the Transfiguration is the curious way the evangelist speaks of the arrival of Moses and Elijah. Whereas Matthew and Luke say simply, "Moses and Elijah appeared" on the scene, Mark lays a special stress on Elijah. He writes, "Elijah appeared to them with Moses." Not only does Mark mention Elijah before Moses, but the verb he uses, "appeared" (ophthe), is singular, not plural. His is an account of the arrival of Elijah, Moses playing a rather secondary role.



Why is Elijah so prominent in Mark's story of the Transfiguration? This emphasis can hardly be insignificant. To throw light on this question, I suggest three steps.



First, let us observe that Mark's version of the Transfiguration is followed immediately by a question about the return of Elijah. Speaking of the three apostles that had just witnessed the scene, Mark writes, "And they asked Him, saying, 'Why do the scribes say that Elijah must come first?'"



As it stands in Mark, this question strikes one as curious, a bit odd in context. Why, right between the Transfiguration and the healing of the little boy at the bottom of the mountain, do the apostles suddenly become inquisitive about the return of Elijah? It is rather strange.



Second, if their question is rendered odd by its context, perhaps we should look more closely at that context. What I propose to do here is remove the Transfiguration from Mark’s story and have a look at the context without it.



If this procedure seems strange, let me explain. I don’t intend to alter or rearrange the biblical passage. On the contrary, I simply want to understand how the Transfiguration story is set within its context in Mark. This is why I want to examine that context without the Transfiguration. This is something in the order of picturing a ring without its gem, which is a perfectly reasonable thing for a jeweler to do.



Now, if we remove the story of the Transfiguration from Mark's sequence for a moment, we will notice something very peculiar and interesting. Without the Transfiguration, here is the way chapter nine of Mark begins:



"And He said to them, 'Amen, I say to you that there are some standing here who will not taste death till they see the kingdom of God present with power.' And they asked Him, saying, ‘Why do the scribes say that Elijah must come first?’ Then He answered and told them, ‘Indeed, Elijah is coming first and restores all things. And how is it written concerning the Son of Man, that He must suffer many things and be treated with contempt? But I say to you that Elijah has also come, and they did to him whatever they wished, as it is written of him.’"



We immediately notice that this narrative sequence flows more logically (if this is the word I want) than the actual story in Mark. The apostles' question about the return of Elijah no longer seems odd or abrupt. It appears, rather, as a natural and expected response. The Lord predicts, "some standing here who will not taste death till they see the kingdom of God present with power," and the disciples answer, “Well, all right, but isn’t Elijah supposed to come first?” That is to say, the narrative sequence makes perfect sense without the Transfiguration.



Third, if the sequence is completely logical without the Transfiguration, then what does the Transfiguration add to the story? This question brings me to the substance of my argument, namely, in Mark's account, the Transfiguration seems to have been inserted (whether by Mark or by an earlier source on which he relies--this question is not important to our purpose) into an earlier narrative sequence, because it does, in fact, directly address the question of the return of Elijah. Indeed, this is exactly what Mark says with respect to the Transfiguration: "Elijah appeared"!



We see, then, how the Transfiguration story functions in the sequence of Mark’s narrative. Its position serves to answer a question about Elijah’s return. He came back at the Transfiguration! In the theology of Mark, Elijah's arrival at the Transfiguration of our Lord places that event into the context of a specific prophecy abut Elijah: "Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord" (Malachi 4:5).



As the story flows in Mark, moreover, this appearance of Elijah at the Transfiguration scene not only fulfills the prophecy of Malachi; it also identifies this prophet’s "day of the Lord" with the Resurrection. We see this very clearly in Mark's sequence, where the question about Elijah expresses the apostles puzzlement about the Resurrection. Mark writes, "Now as they came down from the mountain, He commanded them that they should tell no one the things they had seen, till the Son of Man had risen from the dead. So they kept this word to themselves, questioning what the rising from the dead meant. And they asked Him, saying, "Why do the scribes say that Elijah must come first?"



Finally we may comment that this Markan emphasis on Elijah in the Transfiguration story is very different from that in Matthew and Luke. Although Matthew (17:1-12) follows Mark in the sequence of these two stories, he does not give a special emphasis to Elijah in the story of the Transfiguration. On the contrary, he adds an explanatory note that symbolically identifies Elijah with John the Baptist (17:13). Luke, who makes the same identification (1:17), completely omits the apostles’ question about the return of Elijah from the story of the Transfiguration.



Although the full meaning of Elijah’s return has never been completely settled in Christian theology, it is worth remarking that St. Ambrose followed Mark’s lead in seeing the fulfillment of Malachi 4:5 in the Lord’s Transfiguration (De Virginibus 1.3.12).

July 15, 2007 - Seventh Sunday After Pentecost

July 15, 2007
Seventh Sunday After Pentecost

Father Pat’s Pastoral Ponderings

Although Matthew's account of the Lord's Transfiguration seems at first to differ only slightly from that of Mark, closer inspection of its details, especially considered in the light of Matthew as a whole, shows a very different presentation of the event.

I want to open this inspection with what may first appear to be an unimportant difference-namely, in Matthew's narrative Simon Peter does not address Jesus as "Rabbi" (as in Mark), but as "Lord"—Kyrie (17:4). Let me suggest two ways in which this change is significant.

First, it conforms to a pattern found all through Matthew, who avoids the title "Rabbi" with respect to Jesus. While Jesus was surely called "Rabbi" ("teacher) during His earthly time with the apostles, and although we do find Him addressed this way in Mark and John (never in Luke), Matthew is more circumspect in his use of this title. Indeed, in Matthew the only person to address Jesus with the Semitic title "Rabbi" is Judas Iscariot, and then only in the context of the Passion (26:25,49). Matthew's consistent usage here is probably related to Jesus' injunction not to use the title "Rabbi" among Christians (23:8). Thus, when Jesus is addressed at "teacher" in Matthew, it is always through the Greek word didaskalos (8:19; 12:18; 19:16,24,36). This is likewise the title by which Jesus refers to Himself (26:18). Here in the Transfiguration scene Matthew avoids the term "teacher" altogether.

This brings me to my second consideration: In this scene Jesus is vastly more than a teacher. He is the "Lord," ho Kyrios, the name signifying the Church's fully articulated faith in the risen Christ. As Kyrios, Jesus is the object of worship, and Matthew describes the Transfiguration as a scene of worship, which is why Jesus is addressed in His full, post-Resurrection title (Acts 2:36; Philippians 2:11).

This theological intent is the key to understanding other features in Matthew portrayal of the Transfiguration. For example, the posture of the apostles. Only in Matthew's account do we read, "And when the disciples heard [the voice from the cloud], they fell on their faces and were greatly afraid." (17:6). This is an important detail, because throughout Matthew this full prostration is the proper Christian response to the revelation of God's Son.

Indeed, this is a distinguishing characteristic of Matthew's Gospel, where the life of Jesus begins and ends with believers prostrate before Him (2:11; 28:17). Only in Matthew is prostration in the presence of Jesus described with respect to the leper (8:2), Jairus (9:18), the apostles in the boat (14:33), the Canaanite woman (15:25), the wife of Zebedee (20:20), and the myrrh-bearing women at the empty tomb (28:9).

Here in the Transfiguration, as the Church's affirmation of the divinity of Jesus, such prostration fittingly responds to the voice that proclaims, "This is My beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased" (17:6). When the apostles respond to this proclamation by falling down in reverence, the whole Church prostrates with them. In Matthew these are not Jews on their faces before Jesus; they are Christians, who recognize the truth proclaimed by the voice from the cloud.

This intent also explains Matthew's omission of Mark's comment that Peter "did not know what to say" (Mark 9:6). His omission here is consistent with Matthew's sustained emphasis on "understanding" as a component of the Christian life. For this reason Matthew rather habitually leaves out Mark's references to a lack of understanding on the part of the apostles (for instance, Mark 6:52; 9:10,32).

This preoccupation also explains why Matthew leaves out Jesus' questions found in Mark (4:13): "Do you not understand this parable? How then will you understand all the parables?" The parable in question is, of course, the parable of the sown seed, and it is significant that Matthew alone refers to "understanding" in connection with that parable: "When anyone hears the word of the kingdom, and does not understand, then the wicked one comes and snatches away what was sown in his heart" (13:19; contrast with Mark 4:15).
Corresponding to this, at the end of the parable, Matthew writes, "But he who received seed on the good ground is he who hears the word and understands, who indeed bears fruit and produces: some a hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty" (13:23; contrast with Mark 4:20). Finally, at the end of the series of parables, Matthew writes, "Jesus said to them, 'Have you understood all these things?' They said to Him, Yes, Lord'" (13:51; no parallel in Mark). True discipleship, that is to say, includes understanding.

It is no surprise, then, that in his portrayal of the transfigured Christ, Matthew will include no suggestion that the apostles failed to understand the meaning of the event. They are, after all, Christians who are prostrate in worship, in response to the Father’s voice.

Finally, Matthew alone mentions the gentle detail that "Jesus came and touched them and said, 'Arise, and do not be afraid'" (17:7). Here we are presented with another component of the Christians' relationship to the transfigured Son of God—intimacy. The disciples are not only prostrate in fear; they are reassured in faith. This combination of transcendence and communion pertains to Matthew's understanding of the Transfiguration, in which he portrays the response of the Church to God's glorious revelation of His Son.

July 22, 2007 - The Feast of St. Mary Magdalene

July 22, 2007
The Feast of St. Mary Magdalene

Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

Every year, on a Sunday in July, Holy Church sets aside a day to reflect yet again on an event that transpired in the year 451, when our bishops gathered at Chalcedon, a city of Bithynia, across the channel from Constantinople. Those 600 or so bishops, who were convened from October 8 to November 1, 451, did not assemble to enjoy a sunny vacation on the shores of the Bosporus. There was business to attend to.

They had to deal with a highly respected monk named Eutyches, a very ascetical man, who had for thirty years served as the abbot of a monastery near the capital. Renowned for his piety, Eutyches was a highly influential monk, with a large following in the theological world. This influence was unfortunate, because the popularity of Eutyches was supported by neither an adequate education nor an ability to think straight. The German historian Albert Hauck described Eutyches as "unfamiliar with the laws of thought."

Twenty years earlier the Council of Ephesus had declared that Jesus of Nazareth was a "single being," mia physis, and Eutyches had interpreted that conciliar declaration to mean that Jesus, because He is a divine being, is not a "human being" in our usual sense. His humanity was different from ours, Eutyches taught, the body of Jesus was not homoousios, or "of the same being," with the bodies of other men. He is not fully at one with us in our humanity.

Guided by an official letter of Pope Leo I of Rome, the fathers meeting at Chalcedon adopted a formulation of the Christian faith concerning Jesus of Nazareth. In response to the question, "what think ye of the Christ?" the bishops of Chalcedon solemnly proclaimed, "Therefore, following the holy fathers, we all with one accord teach men to acknowledge one and the same Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, at once complete in Godhead and complete in manhood, truly God and truly man, consisting also of a reasonable soul and body; of one being (homoousios) with the Father as regards his divinity, and at the same time of one being (homoousios) with us as regards his humanity; like us in all respects apart from sin; as regards his divinity, begotten of the Father before the ages, but yet as regards his humanity begotten, for us men and for our salvation, of Mary the Virgin, the Theotokos; one and the same Christ, Son, Lord, Only-begotten, recognized in two natures, without confusion, without change, without division, without separation; the distinction of natures being in no way annulled by the union, but rather the characteristics of each nature being preserved and coming together to form one person and subsistence, not as parted or separated into two persons, but one and the same Son and Only-begotten God the Word, Lord Jesus Christ; even as the prophets from earliest times spoke of him, and our Lord Jesus Christ himself taught us, and the creed of the fathers has handed down to us."

Three points are suggested by this proclamation of the Fathers of Chalcedon:

First, the intent of the council was soteriological; the fathers at Chalcedon were concerned with human salvation. In this respect they quoted the council of Nicaea: "for us men and for our salvation." They reasoned that the eternal Son's assumption of our full humanity was essential to our salvation--Christ had to suffer, die, and rise again in total solidarity with the human race.

On this point the reasoning of the Council followed that of the Epistle to the Hebrews: "Inasmuch then as the children have partaken of flesh and blood, He Himself likewise shared in the same, that through death He might destroy him who had the power of death, that is, the devil, and release those who through fear of death were all their lifetime subject to bondage. For indeed He does not give aid to angels, but He does give aid to the seed of Abraham. Therefore, in all things He had to be made like His brethren, that He might be a merciful and faithful High Priest in things pertaining to God, to make propitiation for the sins of the people. For in that He Himself has suffered, being tempted, He is able to aid those who are tempted" (2:14-18).

The Chalcedonian Fathers went on to reason that in the Incarnation all of the constitutive parts of a human being had to be assumed, because whatever was not assumed was not redeemed. This became a rallying principle for all orthodox Christology.

Second, our attention is also drawn to the Council's use of the expression "at the same time." In Jesus, that is to say, there is a constant "simultaneity." He is the only person in heaven or on earth that can at the same time relate to God as man, and to man as God. Once again, the inspiration for Chalcedon on this point was the Epistle to the Hebrews, which speaks of Jesus as the "Go-between," mesites--"mediator" (8:6; 9:15; 12:24; 1 Timothy 2:5).

The mediation of Jesus is not primarily an activity but a condition of being. That is to say, Jesus is not our Mediator because He intercedes for us; He intercedes for us, rather, because He is our Mediator. The very condition of the Incarnation is that of mediation.

Chalcedon did not deny that Jesus is "one being," as the Council of Ephesus had proclaimed. In its own way it reaffirmed that proclamation. But Chalcedon went on to insist that this oneness of Jesus' being makes Him, not only fully divine, but also fully human. The council used the Nicene word, homoousios, to speak of both aspects: "consisting also of a reasonable soul and body; of one being (homoousios) with the Father as regards his divinity, and at the same time of one being (homoousios) with us as regards his humanity."

How should one express this union of divinity and humanity? An earlier bishop, Methodios of Olympus, had spoken of our Lord's "God-manhood" (theandria--Sermon on Simeon and Anna 11), and Gregory of Nyssa had described Him as "God-manly" (theandrikos--Homilies on John 3.80), an adjective that became common after Chalcedon. The expression "God-Man" (in Russian Bogochelovek) has long been normal among Chalcedonian Christians.

These latter are also careful not to define the manner of this union of divinity and humanity in the Incarnation, except to speak of "the characteristics of each nature being preserved and coming together to form one person and subsistence." All the descriptions of this union are apophatic, or negative: "without confusion, without change, without division, without separation."

Third, this annual liturgical commemoration of the Council of Chalcedon each July prepares the Church for the feast of the Transfiguration, which falls about three weeks later on August 6. That event of the Lord's Transfiguration, recorded in 2 Peter and three of the Gospels, was a supreme manifestation of this God-manhood of the Savior, the glory of His divinity shining forth through the very flesh of His humanity. Chalcedon was a conciliar, dogmatic expression of the Lord's Transfiguration.

July 29, 2007 - Ninth Sunday After Pentecost

July 29, 2007
Ninth Sunday After Pentecost

Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

St. Luke, in his portrayal of the Lord's Transfiguration (9:28-36), displays
certain features proper to his own story of Jesus.

These begin right away, when he tells us, "Now it came to pass, about
eight days after these sayings, that He took Peter, John, and James and went up
on the mountain to pray." We recall that Matthew (17:1) and Mark (9:2)
both placed the Transfiguration six days later, not eight. Luke doesn't say
"eight" either; he says "about eight," but why the
change?

It appears that the event of the Lord's Transfiguration was early associated
with the feast of Tabernacles (Sukkoth), an association prompted by
Peter's suggestion, "let us make three tabernacles." Indeed, the
luminous cloud of which the gospels speak in the Transfiguration is to be
identified with the glorious cloud that filled the Tabernacle of the Lord's
presence in Numbers 9-10.

The association of the Transfigured Lord with the Feast of Tabernacles perhaps
suggests why Luke changed the "six days" to "about eight
days." The feast of Tabernacles does, in fact, last a week and another day
(Leviticus 23:34-36).

A second distinctive feature of Luke's account is also found in that same first
verse of the story; namely, the detail that Jesus "went up on the mountain
to pray." Only Luke mentions the prayer of Jesus in this place, and
he goes on to describe the Transfiguration with reference to the prayer of
Jesus: "As He prayed, the appearance of His face was altered."
Whereas Matthew and Mark portray the Transfiguration as a religious experience
of its three apostolic witnesses, Luke begins with the experience of Jesus.

Thirdly, only Luke among the evangelists mentions a reference to the Lord's
suffering and death within the Transfiguration account itself. He writes,
"And behold, two men talked with Him, who were Moses and Elijah, who
appeared in glory and spoke of His exodos that He was going to fulfill (pleroun)
at Jerusalem."

Several features of this reference to the Passion are important to Luke's
theological message. First, he uses the technical theological expression exodos
to speak of Jesus' death. In his choice of this noun Luke conveys the
soteriological significance of the Lord's death.

Second, in his reference to the Lord's exodos, Luke explicitly places it
"at Jerusalem." This too corresponds to a theme in Luke’s Gospel,
where the holy city is the culminating place of his narrative. Jerusalem is the
city to which Jesus has steadfastly set His face to go (9:51,53; 13:22,33).
This theme was introduced early in Luke, when the Anna the prophetess
"spoke of Him to all those who looked for redemption in Jerusalem"
(2:38).

Third, by referring to the Lord's Passion within the Transfiguration story,
Luke sets up a scene to parallel the later account of the Lord's Agony. Indeed,
in the latter scene Luke does not even mention Gethsemani or a garden. He says,
rather, that Jesus went on a mountain to pray (22:39-41).

Fourth, in his picture of Moses and Elijah--the Law and the
Prophets--discussing Jesus' exodos at Jerusalem, Luke touches a major
theme of his theology--the fulfillment (pleroun) of Holy Scripture in
what Jesus did at Jerusalem. We recall the later scene with the two disciples
on the road to Emmaus, of which Luke writes, "Then He said to them, 'O
foolish ones, and slow of heart to believe in all that the prophets have spoken!
Ought not the Christ to have suffered these things and to enter into His
glory?' And beginning at Moses and all the Prophets, He expounded to them in
all the Scriptures the things concerning Himself" (24:25-27). Here in the
Transfiguration, therefore, Luke portrays Moses and Elijah discussing with
Jesus the deep meaning of Holy Scripture, its fulfillment at Jerusalem.

Luke returns to this theme in the Lord's final apparition, where He affirms,
"These are the words which I spoke to you while I was still with you, that
all things must be fulfilled (plerothenai) which were written in the Law
of Moses and the Prophets and the Psalms concerning Me" (24:44). The great
commission begins with this affirmation: "Thus it is written, and
thus it was necessary for the Christ to suffer and to rise from the dead the
third day, and that repentance and remission of sins should be preached in His
name to all nations, beginning at Jerusalem" (24:46). Thus, in Luke’s
account of the Transfiguration, the representatives of the Law and the Prophets
are described as discussing with Jesus His fulfillment of the Law and the
Prophets.

July 8, 2007 - Sixth Sunday After Pentecost

July 8, 2007

Sixth Sunday After Pentecost



Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings



Besides its special emphasis on the prophet Elijah, Mark's account of the Transfiguration shows several other features particular to that Gospel.



By way of introducing Mark's narrative, I suggest that we first look at Moses' ascent of Mount Sinai, as recorded in the Book of Exodus: "Now the glory of the LORD rested on Mount Sinai, and the cloud covered it six days. And on the seventh day He called to Moses out of the midst of the cloud" (24:16). This reference to the six days of waiting (corresponding to the days of creation) provides the best reason why, in Mark's account (copied later by Matthew), the Transfiguration takes place six days after the Lord's prophetic words, "Amen, I say to you that there are some standing here who will not taste death till they see the kingdom of God present with power" (Mark 9:1-2). That is to say, Mark's reference to the six days' interval begins to establish parallel lines between Mount Sinai and the mountain of Transfiguration.



Mark traces a second such line with respect to Moses' three companions who are specifically named as climbing the mountain with him: ""Come up to the LORD, you and Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, and seventy of the elders of Israel" (Exodus 24:1). We observe that two of these companions are brothers, which is exactly the case in the witnesses of the Lord's Transfiguration: "Now after six days Jesus took Peter, James, and John, and led them up on a high mountain apart by themselves; and He was transfigured before them" (Mark 9:2). In this text James and John correspond to Nadab and Abihu.



The other details of the Transfiguration, such as the mountain (9:2), the glorious light (9:3), the cloud, and the divine voice (9:7), correspond to identical particulars in the scene on Mount Sinai (Exodus 24:1-2,15-16). In short, Mark understands the Transfiguration to be strictly theophanic, an appearance of God.



In this respect the true correspondence to Mount Sinai is Jesus Himself, who has now become the place of God's presence and revelation.



As so often in the New Testament, Peter becomes the spokesman for the Twelve: "Then Peter answered and said to Jesus, "Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; and let us make three tabernacles: one for You, one for Moses, and one for Elijah"-because he did not know what he answered, for they were greatly afraid" (Mark 9:5-6). This "did not know" may mean that Peter was saying more than he knew.



Two things, I suggest, pertain to this more than Peter knew.



First, the Transfiguration was for the sake of the three witnesses, not for Jesus. He was transfigured "before them" (9:5); they are overshadowed (9:7); it was good for them to be there (9:7); they are told to hear (9:7); Jesus was with them (verse 8). What Mark describes here is the religious experience of the disciples.



This "subjective" aspect of the vision on the mountain puts readers in mind of the Agony in the Garden (14:33), suggesting that these same three witnesses of the Transfiguration were thereby strengthened to endure the later trial. This correspondence is noted, to the same purpose, in the Church's Troparion for the feast of the Transfiguration.



Second, Peter's reference to the "three tents" puts readers in mind of the feast of Tabernacles, which was also celebrated as a feast of lights. Indeed, it was on Mount Sinai that Moses received instructions to construct the Tabernacle of the Lord's presence (Exodus 26), that same Tabernacle that would be filled with the cloud of the divine glory (Exodus 40:34-38).



Mark ends the story with the uniqueness of Jesus: "Suddenly, when they had looked around, they saw no one anymore, but only Jesus with themselves" (Mark 9:8). The Law (Moses) and the Prophets (Elijah), having their full and intended meaning in the vision of the glorified Christ, disappear from the scene on the mountain. There remains only Jesus, concerning whom the divine voice, coming out of the cloud, announces, "This is My beloved Son. Hear Him!" (9:7). After all the attention given to their vision, the disciples are finally directed to return to their "hearing." Their attentive hearing is directed to the beloved Son, already introduced at the Lord's baptism (1:11; cf. 12:6). With Him they now come down from the mountain (9:9).

June 17, 2007 - Third Sunday After Pentecost

June 17, 2007
Third Sunday After Pentecost

Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

In the New Testament, Jesus' choice of the twelve apostles is described in ways that indicate the strictly theological nature of their ministry. The significance of those chosen men was first ontological, and only then "practical." It was symbolic before it was pastoral. Apostleship was a question of "being" before it was a matter of "doing." The vocation of these twelve men was not a kind of pragmatic provision in order to get a job done. It was not as though Jesus had worked out a personnel description of some sort and then picked the individuals best fitted to the format. Nor did He select His apostles the way an entrepreneur businessman might assemble his team. Everything in the ministry of the apostles was rooted, rather, in their theological relationship to Christ and His Father.

The Gospels are clear on this point. For example, St. Luke wrote, "Now it came to pass in those days that [Jesus] went out to the mountain to pray, and continued all night in prayer to God. And when it was day, He called His disciples to Himself; and from them He chose twelve whom He also named apostles" (6:12-13).

In this account of their calling, the choice of the apostles is portrayed as the fruit of Jesus' nightlong communion with God in prayer. Indeed, our Lord was careful to tell them later that they did not choose Him; He chose them (John 15:16). The Apostles did not apply for the job, so to speak. Their choice was a theological act, not a managerial arrangement. Jesus was not some sort of efficiency expert. The selection and calling of these twelve men came, rather, from His communion with the Father.

This theological aspect of the apostolic office bound the apostles personally to the Lord. Logically prior to their "sending out" (apostello), the apostles were chosen, first, to be "with Him" (Mark 3:14). They were His companions, in the literal sense of sharing the bread (panis) with Him. It was directly from His hands, in fact, that they received the bread that He identified as His body. The rest of the Church was to receive that bread from their hands. They were the appointed guardians of the Mystery.

Perhaps this ontological aspect of apostolicity is even more pronounced in the Gospel of John, where Jesus washes the feet of the apostles and explains the significance of this act (13:1-17). Having chosen these men from within His communion with the Father, He revealed the Father to them, and He did this by being "with" them: "Have I been with you so long, and yet you have not known Me, Philip? He who has seen Me has seen the Father" (14:9). Jesus' love for these men comes from God's love for Him (15:9). Indeed, the Father loves them because they love Jesus (16:27). For this reason He has revealed to them whatever the Father has revealed to Him (15:15).

Before the apostles speak a single word to the world, then, their vocation is already freighted with theological significance. Indeed, this significance is partly found in their very number, "Twelve." It was the number of the Patriarchs, the forefathers of the Chosen People.

We recall that Jesus compared Himself to Jacob (John 1:51), the father of the twelve patriarchs. That number represented the fullness of God's people in a structural way. Those twelve men, called through Jesus' communion with the Father, became the new patriarchs through whom the revelation was transmitted. Their vocation was foundational for the Church. This is why, in John's famous vision of the heavenly Jerusalem, "the wall of the city had twelve foundations, and on them were the names of the twelve apostles of the Lamb " (Revelation 41:14).

That is to say, the apostolic office is structural to the Church by way of theological symbolism. This symbolic structure, moreover, stands at both ends of the Church's history. It pertains not only to her past but also to her future, because the Twelve Apostles will judge the history of the world: "when the Son of Man sits on the throne of His glory, you who have followed Me will also sit on twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel" (Matthew 19:28).

Appearing at the beginning and the end, the twelve apostles stand as the bookends that hold in place the history of the Church. We confess as much, furthermore, in the recitation of that inherited creedal formula that expresses the dogmas of the faith. We confess that the Church is not only one, holy, and catholic, but also that she is apostolic.

June 3, 2007 - All Saints' Sunday

June 3, 2007
All Saints' Sunday

Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

Whereas Muslims do so, I think Christians nowadays do not often speak of Jesus as a prophet. Indeed, except that the remark might be irreverent, one would almost say that Jesus is not honored as a prophet in His own country (Matthew 13:57; Mark 6:4; Luke 4:24; John 4:44).

It is not hard to see why this is the case. After all, "Prophet" did not become a defining title in the classical development of Christology, probably because in the Bible the term is more commonly used of others besides Jesus. Although I suppose no Christian would deny the prophetic ministry of Jesus, the title "prophet" is not usually considered specific enough to refer to Jesus.

Indeed, even when the New Testament calls Jesus a prophet, this title sometimes represents a lower stage, as it were, in the progress of Christological affirmations. This progression is perhaps clearest in the Gospel of John. For instance, when the Samaritan woman at the well calls Jesus a prophet (John 4:19), this is only an initial step toward His being called the Messiah (4:25-26) and the Savior of the world (4:42). Again, when the multiplication of the loaves prompts the confession of Jesus as a prophet (6:14), it is simply a preparation for his being confessed shortly afterwards as "the Christ, the Son of the living God" (6:69). The same is true of the man born blind, who begins by affirming Jesus a prophet (9:17) and ends by believing in Him as "Son of God" (9:35-38). Indeed, in the Gospel of John people are divided between those that give Jesus the title of prophet and those that confess Him as Messiah (7:40-41), and John is in no doubt which title represents the superior profession of faith.

The mention of Jesus as prophet in the New Testament is, however, more subtle than it may at first appear. Close attention to that last Johannine reference, for instance, shows that Jesus is not called "a" prophet, but "the" prophet, and recourse to the definite article is found elsewhere in the New Testament with the same specific reference. Thus, when Jesus enters Jerusalem on Palm Sunday the crowd exclaims, ""This is Jesus, the prophet from Nazareth of Galilee" (Matthew 21:11).

That is to say, Jesus was not only misunderstood to be one of the ancient prophets raised to life again (Matthew 16:14; Mark 8:28; Luke 9:8,19), but he was also taken to be the prophet in a more specific sense. As a matter of fact, the Jews of that period were expecting not only the coming of the Messiah foretold by Isaiah, but also for the appearance of the prophet predicted by Moses: "The Lord your God will raise up for you a Prophet like me from your midst, from your brethren. Him you shall hear" (Deuteronomy 18:15). That expectation was demonstrated by the fact that John the Baptist was queried on the matter (John 1:21).

The earliest Christians were clear in their identification of Jesus with that prophet foretold in Deuteronomy. Thus, the Apostle Peter, exhorting the Sanhedrin to repentance in Jesus' name, went on to quote the same passage in Deuteronomy as a proof text: "For Moses truly said to the fathers, 'The Lord your God will raise up for you a Prophet like me from your brethren. Him you shall hear in all things, whatever He says to you'" (Acts 3:22). Stephen later cites these same words of Moses in reference to Jesus (7:37).

The Book of Revelation, moreover, in addition to the rich and varied titles by which it refers to Jesus, also portrays Him as dictating prophecies to the seven churches of Asia (1:18-3:22).

I suppose that the Muslim custom of calling Jesus a prophet suggests why Christians eventually stopped doing so. For Christians that title was simply not enough. "Prophet" was not sufficient to express what Christians most believed about Jesus. Indeed, already in the New Testament, the author of Hebrews contrasted the prophets with the Son (1:1-2).

It is no wonder, then, that the name “prophet” came to be somewhat neglected among the standard Christological titles common in the Church, especially in those liturgical texts that determine how ordinary Christians think about our Lord. The title “prophet” did not entirely disappear as a Christological title, nonetheless, particularly in reference to Moses’ prediction in Deuteronomy (cf. the Clementine Homilies 3.15,53; John Chrysostom, On Matthew 17.4; On John 2.3; Epiphanius of Salamis, Panarion 66.72; Isidore of Pelusium, Letters 3.94; Cyril of Alexandria, On John 1.10).

Jesus, then, is the fulfillment not only Isaiah’s prediction of the definitive king, but also of Moses’ promise of the definitive prophet. He remains the true Prophet of the Church, God's authentic Spokesman, who deeply addresses the future and the final destiny of the human race.

May 13, 2007 - Sunday of the Blind Man

May 13, 2007
Sunday of the Blind Man
Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

It was somewhat late in Christian history, I believe, when certain believers were made nervous by Paul's exhortation to the Philippians, "work out your own salvation with fear and trembling" (2:12). I suppose this anxiety was occasioned by the proximity of the noun "salvation" to the verb "work," a juxtaposition that might lead to heaven knows what sorts of heresies. Indeed, one suspects that the decision to translate katergazesthe as "work out," instead of the more usual meanings of the verb (such as "achieve," "accomplish," "bring about," or "be engaged in") was prompted in some measure by the same apprehension.

Anyway, commentators were quick to mention that the expression "work out" means something different from "work for." This distinction, however, though it is certainly valid (in the sense that salvation can never be earned), is also something of a distraction from what the apostle has in mind to say. Paul does not mean, "Work out the consequences of being saved." That is to say, there is nothing in the passage to suggest that this working out is the fruit of a salvation already accomplished. On the contrary, in telling the Philippians to "work out" their salvation, Paul is thinking of salvation as something ongoing, not yet achieved, still to be accomplished. Salvation remains to be . . . well, "worked out." The tense implied in the text is the future.

The context, manner, and spiritual atmosphere of this working out, says Paul, is "fear and trembling," and this expression too needs examination. Why fear and trembling?

There are those that believe that the fear and trembling indicate that salvation is somehow still in doubt--that we must work at like the deuce, lest we ultimately lose it. But this interpretation also seems alien to the context. The reason that the apostle gives for our fear and trembling here is not the danger of losing our salvation (though there are other places where the Bible addresses this question too).

The reason for fear and trembling given here in Philippians is, rather, the consideration that "it is God who works in you both to will and to act for His good pleasure" (2:13). The motive for our fear in this passage is not a sense that our salvation is in doubt. On the contrary, it is the awareness that the real "work" in the process of salvation is done by God, who is active in our lives and hearts. This sense of God's holy and transforming activity is the source of our trembling. Whatever work we do, we do because He is at work in us. We do not tremble because of some fear that we may fail. We tremble, rather, because we know that the least effort we can exert respecting salvation comes from the sanctifying influence of divine grace.

This is a special kind of fear. In Holy Scripture, after all, the "fear of God" does not always mean the same thing. For instance, there is a certain kind of fear that is cast out by perfect love (1 John 4:18), whereas there is another fear of the Lord that is said to last forever and ever (Psalms 19:9).

In the present context, I suggest, the fear of the Lord is not the fear of losing Him but the supreme discomfort of His staying with us. It is not a panic caused by the thought of His absence, but the terror engendered by knowledge of His presence. What fascinates us about God, that is to say, is the very thing that makes us tremble before Him.

In this respect, I think, what Rilke wrote of the sense of beauty is most true of the holy Creator of beauty: Denn das Schöne ist nichts/ als des Schrecklichen Anfang, den wir noch grade ertragen/ und wir bewundern es so, weil es gelassen verschmäht/ uns zu zerstören--"For the Beautiful is nothing but the beginning of the Terrifying, which we are yet just able to endure, and we are so fascinated because it calmly disdains to destroy us."

Such was the fear of Moses, I submit, as barefoot he stood before the burning bush, receiving the promise of the holy God's continued presence (Exodus 3:12; 4:12). His was a salvation to be worked out in fear and trembling, for it was God who worked in him both to will and to act (3:8,10,).

Such too was the dread in the heart of Jeremiah, stuttering in fear before the Holy One who knew and formed him in the womb (Jeremiah 1:5-6). The Lord promised His continued presence with this prophet as well (1:8), ever working in him both to will and to act (1:17-19).

It was not the Lord's absence but His holy presence that caused the awestruck Peter to plead, "Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord!" And the Lord, ignoring this request, indicated how He would be with this apostle too, working in him both to will and to act (Luke 5:8-11).

May 20, 2007 - The Sunday after the Ascension

May 20, 2007
The Sunday after the Ascension

Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

Among the spiritual blessings conferred on the Apostle Paul in his experience of conversion, it is arguable that none was more significant than a strong and indelible sense of the union of Christ with His Church.

This union was expressed in the first words that Jesus spoke to him, the question that asked, "Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting Me?" To this question the persecutor answered with another, "Who are you, sir?" To this the Lord responded by repeating the same accusation: "I am Jesus of Nazareth whom you are persecuting?" (Acts 22:8)

Even in the blindness that accompanied this stunning revelation, Saul immediately perceived at least three truths. First, this Jesus of Nazareth, whom he had thought to be dead, was very much alive. Second, this same Jesus took very personally the "threats and murder" that Saul was breathing against His followers (Acts 9:1). Indeed, Jesus regarded that activity as directed against Himself. "Why are you persecuting Me?" he asked. Third, this revelation was a warning of divine mercy to Saul himself, a grace-filled call and opportunity to repent.

Such was Saul's introduction to the mystery of the Church. Jesus of Nazareth showed him the infinite mercy of revealing to him, at his very conversion, the truth that would remain central to his mind for the rest of his life: "whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for Me" (Matthew 25:40 NIV). Paul perceived immediately an intimate identity between Christ and His disciples. Beware, he learned, touch the Church, and you touch Jesus of Nazareth.

Paul's next question was a very practical one: "What do you want me to do?" By way of response to this inquiry our Lord gave him not a single line of instruction beyond telling him to go and put himself under the authority of the Church: "Arise and go into the city, and you will be told what you must do" (Acts 9:6).

This answer of the Lord to Saul was significant in two ways. First, it strengthened the substance of the original revelation itself, affirming once again the union between Church and Christ. It asserted that the Church had the authority to speak for Christ. This answer repeated, in specific reference to this Saul of Tarsus, what Jesus had earlier declared to the Church: "He who hears you hears Me" (Luke 10:16). This was the first lesson the soon-to-be apostle was to learn at depth--that he enjoyed no special, one-on-one access to Christ that did not involve the Church. Christ would give Saul no instruction beyond, "Do exactly what the Church tells you to do."

Second, in addition to conveying a truth important to all Christians, this answer of the Lord to Saul addressed the immediate context of his trip to Damascus. He was going there, after all, "so that if he found any who were of the Way, whether men or women, he might bring them bound to Jerusalem" (Acts 9:2). Now this same man must continue his journey into the city, "trembling and astonished" (9:6), blind and fasting (9:8-9), to submit the welfare of his soul to the very people he had come to arrest.

Such was the new apostle's introduction to the Christian life. He did not find salvation and then look around for likeminded folks with whom to throw in his lot. The Church was not optional. It was of the very substance of the revelation that Saul received. He did not start with a personal theology about salvation and proceed to search for some group that agreed with that theology. No, the revelation of the risen Christ was also a revelation of the Church. In Paul's experience, there was no separation between these two realities.

The rest of Paul's ecclesiology over the years was a development of this perception. First, it was at Damascus that the Church told him exactly how to get rid of his sins: "Arise and be baptized, and wash away your sins, calling on the name of the Lord" (22:16). For Paul, forgiveness of sins was not something distinguishable from being baptized into the Church. That is to say, Paul learned that "by one Spirit we were all baptized into one body" (1 Corinthians 12:13). Through this sacramental experience he came to know that there is "one body and one Spirit, . . . one Lord, one faith, one baptism" (Ephesians 4:4-5). Then, sharing in the Lord's Supper, Paul learned the mystic source of the Church's union with Christ, discerning that "we many are one bread, one body, for we all partake of that one bread" (1 Corinthians 10:17). The Church was Christ’s own body because she partook of that body through the celebration of the Eucharistic Mystery.

In short, Paul's experience of grace in his conversion included the meaning of the Church, the union of those joined to Christ and to one another in the living, specific, and defined institution with which Christ so completely identified Himself.

May 6, 2007 - Sunday of the Samaritan Woman

May 6, 2007
Sunday of the Samaritan Woman

Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

Because the Holy Catholic Church is adorned in a robe of many colors (Psalms 44:190 LXX), it is appropriate that her various aspects are exemplified in the rich and diverse gifts of the saints, much as the whiteness of the sun's light is refracted in the range of the rainbows colors. Hence, it is no new idea that the sundry aspects of God's one people were represented among the close friends of Christ our Lord.

For instance, if we consider the Church as an institution, a building (1 Corinthians 3:9), it seems entirely proper to say she is represented by St. Peter, whose very name signifies the "rock" on which the Church was founded (Matthew 16:18). For this reason we regularly find this saint expressing in the Gospels the Church's foundational creed with respect to the identity of Jesus (16:16; John 6:69). It is not as though the other saints fail to exemplify the faith of the Church, of course; all of us must hold the identical faith in Jesus. Nonetheless, it is very clear in the Gospels that Peter seems habitually to act as the Church's spokesman in the enunciation of this foundational faith. When Peter speaks with respect to Christ, He speaks for the confessing Church as a whole. That is to say, Peter represents the institutional faith of the Church. When we think of the foundational stability of the Church, we think of Peter.

There are other essential aspects of the Church, however, besides that of an institution, and among these we should consider the Church as a missionary venture. When we think of the Church in terms of missionary endeavor, it is natural that the character of St. Paul comes to mind. This does not mean, obviously, that Paul has nothing to do with the institutional aspect of the Church. Inasmuch as Paul founded local churches all over the Mediterranean basin and established their ministries, this would be a rash conclusion. Neither do we mean that none of the other saints exemplify this same missionary aspect of the Church. It is simply a fact that Holy Scripture says so much more of this activity in Paul's life, so when we think of the Church in terms of mission, we think of Paul.

Another aspect of the Church, surely, is that of a school of theology, inner refuge where divine truth is nourished and studied. This is what we may call the Johannine dimension of the Church, inasmuch as Christians have traditionally thought of John's Gospel as representing the true high point in theology. Indeed, John is the earliest Christian to be called a "theologian." Needless to say, this does not mean that Peter, Paul, and the other saints knew nothing of theology and left that subject entirely to John. It was John, nonetheless, who began his Gospel by ascending directly into the inner life of God and writing about the eternal generation of the Word. This is the reason John is the evangelist commonly identified with the eagle among Revelation's four living creatures. When we think of the great theological ministry of the Church, we think of John.

The Church is also a community of witness, and this aspect of ecclesiology we commonly associate with St. Stephen, the Church's first martys, or witness. Once again, this emphasis takes nothing away from the martyrdoms of Peter, Paul, and many others, nor does it mean that this is the only aspect we recall about Stephen. We mean only that Stephen was the first to confront the enmity of the world at the cost of his own life. When we think of the Church in terms of witnessing unto bloodshed, then, we think of Stephen.

The Church is also a home of kindness and devoted service, and in this respect she is represented in the Myrrhbearing Women, those unselfish handmaidens who came to anoint the body of the Lord and became the first to proclaim His resurrection. When we think of the Church in terms of loving service, it is natural that we remember the Myrrhbearers.

The Church is likewise a house of repentance, an aspect of ecclesiology readily recognized in St. Mary Magdalene, out of whom Jesus had cast seven devils (Luke 8:2). When we think of the Church as the place of repentance, it is not surprising that we think of Mary Magdalene.

The Church is, moreover, a house of contemplation, and perhaps we may call this the Church’s preeminently Marian aspect. This does not mean that other Christians are deprived of the gift of divine contemplation, of course. It simply indicates that Mary of Nazareth became so full of God's eternal Word that He assumed flesh in her body. Her “yes” provided God’s path into human existence. Consequently, when we think of the Church in terms of contemplation, we think of that Lady who "kept all these things in her heart" (Luke 2:51).

April 29, 2007 : Sunday of the Paralytic

April 29, 2007
Sunday of the Paralytic

Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

Long before He arrived in this world in human flesh, God's eternal Word came here through a human voice That voice, conversing with Adam in the garden, Abraham in the desert, Moses on the mountain, and Isaiah in the temple, prepared the human race for God's final and definitive enfleshing in history, when "the angel of the Lord declared unto Mary, and she conceived of the Holy Spirit." His voice accustomed us to His presence. It was as though He had first taken our vocal chords before assuming our full human nature.

This feature of His birth in the flesh, moreover, also held true of the Lord's death in the flesh. Much as He sent this world prior notice of His coming, so He forewarned the netherworld too of His coming. That is to say, just as God's Word first came on earth in a human voice before appearing in human flesh, so before entering the realm of death in His flesh, He entered it first through His voice. He thus put hell on notice of His intent to storm it.

Hence, the Gospels record three occasions in which our Lord's voice preceded Him through the gates of death, in order to summon the return of those who had died. Moreover, in these three instances when Jesus raised the dead by His voice, it is possible to discern a certain calibration in His challenge to the netherworld, as it were, a growing intensity in the threat that the Author of life hurled into the realm of death.

First, there was the daughter of Jairus, who had died only immediately before. She had barely passed through the gates of death, so the Lord used only a soft and gentle call to summon her back, Talitha, kum—"Darling, arise" (Mark 5:41). One has almost the impression here that death may have failed to observe this intrusion, this subdued questioning of its power. After all, the little girl had only slightly crossed its border. Her body had not been moved from the place where she had breathed her last sigh. Hence, hardly more than the Lord's whisper was required to bring her back. Indeed, was the netherworld even aware that it had gained and lost possession of her soul?

Second, in the story of the son of the widow of Nain we see a greater lapse of time and space between death and the Lord's voice challenging death. The young man's body had already grown cold. As much as a day or so had passed, and he was even now being carried to the grave for burial. This time there was no mistaking the claims of death over the widow's son. This same voice of the Lord, nonetheless, augmented now with the vigor of command, penetrated the gates of death, "Young man, I say to you, arise" (Luke 7:14). The demons should have taken warning this time, for the threat against them was open and defiant. A Champion stood at the very gates, and the gates were beginning to tremble.

The third instance, however, went even further. Lazarus had been dead four days, more than enough time for someone to detect the stench of corruption. However hell reacted in the first two instances, this one should have left the demons in no doubt whatever. Less than a week before He entered it in triumph, the Lord's voice hurled His final challenge to the realm of death. There was no gentle summons this time, no quiet command for the dead to arise. On the contrary, says the Sacred Text, "He cried with a loud voice, 'Lazarus, come forth!'" (John 11:43) This roar of the Lion of Judah, thundering through the gates of death and vibrating its very depths, was the herald of the Lord's overwhelming arrival in hell one week later. He would then enter where His voice had prepared the way.

Such is the theme that the Church celebrates every year on Lazarus Saturday, the day before Palm Sunday, the theme found repeatedly in the texts of worship assigned for that day. Thus we sing in the Canon of the feast, "Calling Lazarus by name, Thou hast broken in pieces the bars of hell and shaken the power of the enemy; and before Thy crucifixion Thou hast made him tremble because of Thee, O only Savior." And again, "The palaces of hell were shaken, when in its depths Lazarus began once more to breathe, restored to life by the sound of Thy voice." And again, "'Woe is me! Now am I destroyed utterly!' hell cried out."

It is the remembrance of this thunderous, irresistible voice that fills the Christian heart with hope: "Awake, you who sleep, Arise from the dead, And Christ will give you light" (Ephesians 5:14).

April 22, 2007 : Sunday of the Myrrh-Bearers

April 22, 2007
Sunday of the Myrrh-Bearers

Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

Of the three years (roughly 52-55) that St. Paul spent in Ephesus (Acts 20:31), we can account for only 27 months (19:8-10). This calculation leaves nine months unexplained. Some historians have suggested that Paul was in prison at Ephesus during that remaining time, an experience perhaps indicated by his having "fought with beasts in Asia" (1 Corinthians 15:32). I have always thought this an attractive and helpful suggestion.

Many of those that hold this view also believe that Paul wrote the Epistle to the Philippians during that imprisonment. This has long been my own position.

While imprisoned in Ephesus during those nine or so months, Paul learned something important about his ministry. Whereas imprisonment would seem to be a considerable hindrance to the proclamation of the Gospel, the Apostle discovered the very opposite to be the case. He found that his time in confinement led, rather, to the advantage of the Gospel. During this imprisonment Paul wrote, "But I want you to know, brethren, that the things which happened to me have actually turned out for the furtherance of the gospel, so that it has become evident to the whole palace guard, and to all the rest, that my chains are in Christ; and most of the brethren in the Lord, having become confident by my chains, are much more bold to speak the word without fear" (Philippians 1:12-14).

The word translated as "palace guard" in the NKJV ("headquarters" in the NEB, "barracks" in The Living Bible) is praitorion, the Greek equivalent of the Latin pretorium. Roman governors were normally guarded by such a group, as we see at Jerusalem (Mark 15:16) and at Caesarea (Acts 23:35). Paul was under the custody of such a guard at Ephesus, where the governor of Asia resided.

In prison, then, the disadvantage of Paul became the advantage of the Gospel. Indeed, how else would these official Roman guards ever have heard the Gospel unless Paul had been their prisoner? This is what the Apostle learned in prison, and it was but another example of strength being made perfect in infirmity (2 Corinthians 12:9).

There is a special irony in Paul's writing these things to the church at Philippi, and the irony consists in this: Among the Philippian Christians sitting in church that day, listening to this epistle being read in public for the first time, was a family that understood exactly, and by experience, what Paul was saying—the family of the Philippian jailer.

When this epistle was read at Philippi, this Christian family could not but remember a certain night only a few years earlier. They had all been sleeping soundly in their beds when they were awakened by a sudden and considerable hubbub in the middle of the night. First, "there was a great earthquake" (Acts 16:26). This surely would have been disturbing enough, but shortly afterwards there was even more commotion.

The husband and father of the household, who was the city jailer, unexpectedly arrived back home, bringing two men with him. These, it turned out, were prisoners, incarcerated the previous day because of some obscure public disturbance (16:16-24).

Now, however, the father of this family suddenly appeared on the scene, and he had these men with him. Something rather exciting seemed to be happening. The jailer father, who was manifestly quite agitated, came in carrying a light (16:29). Next he washed the wounds of the two men (16:33), who had yesterday been very badly beaten with rods (16:22).

Then the whole family sat down and listened to the two prisoners, whose names were Paul and Silas. Whatever had happened back at the jail, the family could see that their father had been much impressed by it. They sat and listened, then, to what the two men had to say (16:32). At the end of it, the head of the household pronounced faith in someone called "the Lord Jesus Christ" (16:31), and then the whole family submitted to something called baptism (16:33). Afterwards they sat down to eat.

In the years that followed, the family's identity and history were determined by the events of that night. They gradually learned the significance of that teaching, that baptism, and the family's new relationship with "the Lord Jesus Christ."

Now this Paul had written a letter to the congregation at Philippi, of which they were among the original members, ever since that night when the writer of it had been their father's prisoner.

April 8, 2007 - Pascha

April 8, 2007
Pascha

Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

According to Matthew 27:43, one of the blasphemers at the foot of Jesus' cross cried out, "He trusted in God; let Him deliver Him now if He will have Him; for He said, 'I am the Son of God.'"

There is irony in the fact that this jeer, though sacrilegious, had about it something of the quality of a prayer. In fact, the blasphemer himself was quoting a prayer, specifically Psalm 22:9, "He trusted in the Lord, let Him rescue Him; Let Him deliver Him, since He delights in Him!"

Although it is evident that the blasphemer did not intend this taunt as a prayer, it also seems obvious that God received it as a prayer, because He answered it as a prayer. That is to say, God caused to come to pass what the blasphemer mockingly wished for. God did deliver Jesus. He vindicated Him as His very Son, because He did, in fact, "delight in Him."

There are several things to be said about the mystery of the Resurrection in this respect.

The Resurrection of the Son was God's vindication of Jesus' claims, first of all. It was God's affirmation that Jesus was truly the holy and innocent One, who had been condemned to death unjustly. In this act of raising Jesus from the dead, therefore, God testified that He would not let His holy One see corruption. This is certainly how St. Peter explained the matter on Pentecost Sunday, when he quoted Psalm 16: "Moreover my flesh also will rest in hope. For You will not leave my soul in Hades, Nor will You allow Your Holy One to see corruption" (Acts 2:27).

The Resurrection, then, was God's justification of Jesus, the divine witness whereby He testified to Jesus' identity and His righteousness.

Second, in raising Jesus from the dead, God manifested His own righteousness. By vindicating this righteous Man unjustly put to death, God showed Himself on the side of righteousness. God vindicated thereby His own zeal for righteousness, not permitting this Holy One to see corruption. The very vindication that was sought by Job was granted in Jesus, the definitive revelation that God is righteous. In raising Jesus from the dead, God radically demonstrated His own righteousness.

The Apostle Paul affirmed this truth when he wrote of Jesus, "whom God set forth to be a means of expiation by His blood, through faith, to demonstrate His righteousness, because of His forbearance, in passing over of sins previously committed, to provide a demonstration of His righteousness at the present time, that He might be just and the justifier of the one who has faith in Jesus" (Romans 3:25-26 emphasis added).

The Resurrection of Jesus presents us, then, with the great defining truth of history--namely, that God is on the side of righteousness. God provides the demonstration (endeixsis) of this in raising up Jesus from the dead.

Much of history, after all, seems to declare exactly the opposite. A good deal of history has led men to believe that God is not righteous. Indeed, some men, rather than reach such a conclusion, have preferred simply to conclude that there is no God.

The Resurrection of Jesus is the answer to all those objections. It is presented in the Gospel as the defining revelation of the radical righteousness of God and His righteous resolve with respect to the destiny of man.

Third, this vindication of God's righteousness refers not only to God's purpose with respect to history in general, but more specifically to the completion of biblical history. The resurrection of Christ is the fulfillment of the promises and prophecies that bind the New Testament to the Old.

Fourth, God's righteousness is salvific righteousness. Redemption does not mean, as some have thought, that Christ delivers us from the righteousness of God. On the contrary, it is in Christ that we are delivered by the righteousness of God. He manifests His righteousness by making us righteous in Christ. It is God's righteousness that effects salvation on the earth, as He says in Isaiah, "My righteousness is near, My salvation has gone forth" (51:5).

And it is by reason of the Resurrection of Christ that we, through faith, "become the righteousness of God" (2 Corinthians 5:21). Thus St. Paul affirms that Jesus was raised from the dead for our justification (Romans 4:25).

April 1, 2007 - Palm Sunday

April 1, 2007
Palm Sunday

Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

In his description of the death of Jesus, Saint John is the only Gospel-writer to include the detail that "one of the soldiers pierced His side with a spear, and immediately blood and water came out" (19:34).

Although the evangelist does not name this soldier, Christian legend calls him "St. Longinus," a name that one suspects is corrupted from logke (pronounced "lonki"), the Greek word for "spear." A small feature of art history lends weight to this suspicion. A Syriac manuscript preserved at the Laurentine Library at Florence contains an illumination, by an artist named Rabulas, which depicts the death of Jesus on the cross. It includes the figure of the soldier in question, over whose head, in Greek letters, is inscribed the name "Loginos." This appears to be the immediate source for the Latin name "Longinus."

This manuscript illumination, which is safely dated to the year 586, is contemporary with our first records of the presence and veneration of the spear itself at Jerusalem. The later fortunes of that spear are also somewhat documented. The point of the spear, we know, found its way to Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. After the crusaders' sack of that city in 1204, it was taken to France, where it was enshrined, along with what was believed to be the Lord's crown of thorns, in the Sainte Chapelle in Paris. It disappeared in the chaos that followed the French Revolution.

The larger portion of the spear, which seems to have been remained at Jerusalem long after being deprived of its point, eventually found its way to Constantinople, apparently after the Fourth Crusade. What the Crusaders had started, however, the Turks finished. The shaft part of the spear fell into the hands of the conquering Turks in 1453. These, in turn, as part of a later arrangement with the pope (who happened to have in his control a person that the Turks very much wanted released) sent that longer part of the spear to Rome in 1492. It is preserved to this day in St. Peter's Basilica, behind an enormous statue of St. Longinus, sculpted by Gian Lorenzo Bernini.

Various kings over the centuries, Athelstan and Charlemagne among them, have claimed to have at least a part of that venerable spear, but these claims seem less reliable.

Given such exotic legends about his spear, it is not surprising that Longinus himself became the subject of legend. For example, according to The Golden Legend of James of Voragine in the 13th century, the blood and water from the side of Jesus cured Longinus of poor eyesight. That same work goes on at some length to describe the martyrdom of Longinus in Cappadocia, and to this day the church of St. Augustine in Rome claims to hold his relics.

What these latter stories have in common, of course, is their assumption that Longinus was converted to the Christian faith in the context of what he did to the body of Jesus on the cross. This assumption, which is scarcely unreasonable, was surely related to the fact that the deed of Longinus was done as the fulfillment of biblical prophecy. It was in this detail that St. John saw enacted the words of ancient Zechariah, "They shall look on Him whom they pierced." Thus, in opening the side of the crucified Jesus--in cleaving for all of us the Rock of ages--Longinus opened likewise the deep fountain of Holy Scripture.

Perhaps we may say, as well, that he opened the wellsprings of divine grace, inasmuch as the blood and the water, in which Longinus was the very first person to be bathed, have long been understood in the Christian Church to symbolize the sacraments of Baptism and the Holy Eucharist. It was this double flood of redemption that the Roman soldier brought forth to pour upon the earth. It was his spear that found its way into that source of infinite love which is the heart of Christ.

It is through Baptism and the Holy Eucharist, after all, that believers are united to the mystery of the Cross. They are buried with Him in Baptism (Romans 6:4; Colossians 2:12), and as often as they eat this bread and drink this cup, they proclaim the Lord's death till He comes (1 Corinthians 11:26). These two ordinances of the Church, summoned forth by the mystic spear of Longinus, make effective to believers the redemptive power of the Cross.

Thus, through the mystery of divine providence, the coup de grace given by a Roman executioner to a condemned criminal is transformed, by way of symbol, into a sort of sacerdotal act; it takes on the hieratic significance of a liturgical rite. It is certain that the Church sees it this way, something that is obvious in the prescribed rite preparatory to the celebration of the Holy Eucharist. As the priest cuts into the bread that is to become the Body of the Lord, the Church's rubric requires him to recite the appropriate verse of John: "one of the soldiers pierced His side with a spear, and immediately blood and water came out." We may note, in addition, that an image the spear of Longinus is customarily stamped on the loaf designated for the Holy Eucharist.

In short, Longinus, in opening the side of Christ, provided a path of faith, furnished a place for the hand of Thomas--along with the rest of us. It was of this wound inflicted by Longinus that Jesus says, "reach your hand, and put it into My side. Do not be unbelieving, but believing."

March 25, 2007 - The Feast of the Annunciation

March 25, 2007
The Feast of the Annunciation
Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

Matthew, Mark, and Luke all record that a Roman "centurion" stood near the cross and witnessed the death of Jesus. Mark is the only one to use here the military expression kentyrion (15:39,44,45), which is in fact a word transliterated from the Latin centurio (as earlier in Polybius 6.24.5). Indeed, this Latin word does not appear in the New Testament except in Mark, whose Gospel, according to the earliest testimonies, was written at Rome and for the Romans. To describe this same military officer, Matthew use the corresponding Greek word hekatontarchos, literally a "commander of a hundred" (27:54), and Luke the variant hekatontarches (23:47).

This centurion is quoted in response to the death of Jesus in all three of these gospels, though the quotations are not identical in each. A close examination of the biblical text will show, in fact, that these variants themselves are significant, each of them conveying a meaning proper to the gospel in which it appears. I write to undertake that examination.

According to Mark the centurion near the cross, when he witnesses the death of Jesus, cries out, ""Truly this Man was the Son of God!" We note that this exclamation, which in form differs not at all from a Christian profession of faith, does not arise in response to any of the physical phenomena that accompany the death of Jesus. Although Mark at this point does refer to the rending of the temple veil (15:38), he records no extraordinary physical manifestation at the site of the cross, except for the three hours of darkness (15:33).

The exclamation of the centurion seems to come, rather, in response to Jesus' death, or the cry of dereliction that preceded His death. The centurion's identification of Jesus as "Son of God" near the end of this Gospel thus matches the words with which Mark begins, "The beginning of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God." It corresponds also to God the Father's revelatory word at Jesus' baptism ("You are My beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased"—1:11) and the Transfiguration ("This is My beloved Son"—9:7).

In sum, the centurion's exclamation beside the cross expresses the deepest concern of Mark's Gospel, the true identity of Jesus and His relation to God. In context, this divine identity is revealed precisely in Jesus' sufferings and death. It is at the cross that the centurion, who thus becomes a symbol of Christian faith, addresses the Father's affirmation about His Son.

Matthew's understanding of the centurion's cry follows the path of Mark but goes even further. This centurion, in confessing Jesus as God's Son, stands in contrast to Satan as Matthew describes him in account of Jesus' temptations. The first of those temptations, which followed immediately on the Father's declaration of Jesus as His Son (3:17) began by a challenge to that declaration: "If You are the Son of God, command that these stones become bread" (4:3 emphasis added). In opposition to that challenge, our centurion confesses at the cross, "Truly this was the Son of God" (27:54).

Matthew's centurion illustrates, in addition, the principle that Jesus enunciated earlier with respect to the recognition of His own identity, namely, that "no one knows the Son except the Father. Nor does anyone know the Father except the Son, and the one to whom the Son wills to reveal Him" (11:27). As the recipient of this divine revelation, Matthew's centurion is a spokesman for the Church, sharing in Simon Peter's foundational confession: "You are the Christ, the Son of the living God" (16:16).

Finally, in Luke's account, where the centurion more modestly confesses, "Certainly this was a righteous Man" (23:47), he serves as the spokesman less for the Church than for the Roman Empire. The centurion delivers the final verdict, as it were, in Jesus' trial. Although that earlier Roman official, Pontius Pilate, repeatedly admitted that he found no fault in Jesus (23:4,14,23), he condemned Him nonetheless. Rome's final word on Jesus in Luke, however, comes from the Roman that watched Him die. Even as he announced Jesus' innocence, says Luke, "he glorified God" (23:47). This glorification of God at the end of Jesus' life matches that at its beginning, when "the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen" (2:20).

March 18, 2007 - Fourth Sunday of Lent

March 18, 2007
Fourth Sunday of Lent
Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

The teaching of Jesus was inseparable from His person. In the Gospel we do not find our Lord appealing to universally available religious truths, truths that could stand on their own, truths accessible to man's mind apart from His teaching of them, truths that could outlive the person who spoke them. It is essential to grasp this fact, because it indicates an essential difference between Jesus and other "religious founders."

To illustrate this difference we may take the example of Siddartha Gautama some six centuries earlier. When Gautama gathered his disciples to listen to his Dear Park Sermon, he certainly appealed to his own experience of a "revelation." He referred to his enlightenment under the Bodhi tree and expounded to his followers the meaning of that experience. He defined Dependent Causation and explained how to be delivered from it.

Some historians of comparative religion are of the opinion that this is essentially what Jesus did. Although they recognize a difference in the objective content of the two efforts, they imagine that the Deer Park Sermon and the Sermon on the Mount have this in common--that both preachers were simply expounding their religious theories. According to this view, the difference between a Christian and a Buddhist would result solely from the decision about which religious teacher was believed to have "gotten it right."

The problem here is that neither Gautama nor Jesus would agree with this assessment of the matter.

With respect to Gautama, it is important to observe that he never thought of himself as essential to his own message. Indeed, he made a point of saying that his religious experience was available to anyone who followed in his footsteps. He asked no one to take his teaching on faith. He never claimed to have discovered truths otherwise unavailable for discovery. He asked no one to believe in him as the exclusive channel of his teaching.

On the contrary, Gautama was persuaded that the Four Noble Truths would be just as true if he had never discovered them. What he had to say about the Chain of Causation would be just as valid, he believed, if he had never mentioned it. Gautama claimed to teach truths independent of himself and transcendent to his teaching of them. In short, Gautama never claimed to be the way, the truth, and the life.

When we look at Jesus, we are faced with something radically different. All that heard Him recognized that He taught as "One having authority." Jesus expounded no truths transcendent to Himself. What He taught was otherwise unknowable and inaccessible.

Indeed, how would we know that we have a heavenly Father who loves and cares for us, except on the testimony of Jesus? Is that an obvious or otherwise available truth? Again, if Jesus had not mentioned the fact, how would we know that the very hairs of our head are all numbered? Is it really self-evident, after all, that God has even the slightest regard for every sparrow that falls? Or that a loving Father clothes in beauty the flowers of the field? We know these things for one reason only--that Jesus told us so.

Thus, the religious message of Jesus is inseparable from the authority of His own person, His own "I." This "I" is central to His message and permeates the whole of it. The essential feature to note about Jesus' teaching is that it is founded on the proclamation, "But I say to you." This "I" is the foundational component of the message, because Our Lord's doctrine stands or falls with Himself. Jesus not only taught us that we have a Father in heaven, but He also claimed to be, in His own person, the sole access to that Father.

This inseparability of Jesus and His teaching was, I submit, a major part of the crisis of Good Friday and Holy Saturday. While His dead body lay in the tomb, none of what He said could stand on its own. The authority that Jesus had claimed, to all human appearance, died with Him. If death were the last word about Jesus' life, the Sermon on the Mount would be nothing but religious theory or plain old make-believe.

This was part of the crisis of the Cross. The teaching of Jesus, as well as the faith of those who believed that teaching, seemed radically discredited by the event of Calvary. The Apostle Paul perceived this clearly when he wrote that if Christ was not raised, we of all men are the most to be pitied.

March 11, 2007 - Third Sunday of Lent

March 11, 2007
Third Sunday of Lent
Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

During the three years (apparently 52-55) of his extended ministry in Ephesus (Acts 20:31), we know that the Apostle Paul spent a lot of time conducting daily apologetical and catechetical classes in a rented hall. These instructions, which Paul started after he had been in the city three months (19:8), lasted another two years (19:9-10). Thus, we can account for only 27 months of the three years Paul resided at Ephesus.

Apparently some of those other months were spent in jail. Paul thus wrote of having fought "wild beasts at Ephesus," an expression that he understood as a metaphor (1 Corinthians 15:32; cf. 2 Corinthians 1:8-9 and the public turmoil described in Acts 19:21-41). I believe it was from jail in Ephesus that Paul wrote the Epistle to the Philippians (cf. Philippians 1:14-16), one of four letters he sent during those three years (the others being Galatians, 1 Corinthians, and, it appears to me, 1 Timothy).

Daily instruction and the composition of epistles, however, were hardly the sum of Paul's labors during that prolonged stay at Ephesus. He also supervised the missionary efforts of his companions, whom he dispatched to evangelize the neighboring cities of Asia Minor and Phrygia. These outlying missions may have included Smyrna, Pergamos, Thyatira, Sardis, and Philadelphia, but they certainly did include Laodicea, Hierapolis, and Colossae.

These three towns in the Meander valley were evangelized by a missionary named Epaphras, a native of Colossae, whom Paul held in high regard. Writing to the Colossians some years later, the Apostle described Epaphras as "a bondservant of Christ" (Colossians 4:12), "our dear fellow servant, who is a faithful minister of Christ on your behalf" (1:7). In the same epistle, Paul said of Epaphras, "I bear him witness that he has a great zeal for you, and those who are in Laodicea, and those in Hierapolis" (4:13). It is evident that the evangelism of these three cities was the mission assigned to Epaphras.

Among those whom Epaphras converted at Colossae were Philemon, his wife Apphia, and their son Archippus (Philemon 1-2). For these and the other Colossian believers, wrote St. Paul, Epaphras was "always laboring fervently . . . in prayers, that you may stand perfect and complete in all the will of God" (4:12).

Epaphras, like Titus and other early missionaries, is not mentioned by name in the Acts of the Apostles, nor would we know of him except for Paul's own testimony. Indeed, from two of the three epistles that Paul sent during his two years of imprisonment at Caesarea (Acts 24:27), we learn that Epaphras was in prison with him during that time (roughly 59-61). The Apostle wrote, "Epaphras, my fellow prisoner in Christ Jesus, greets you" (Philemon 23; cf. Colossians 4:12).

Thus, Epaphras was on hand at Caesarea when Paul received another Colossian visitor, the runaway slave Onesimus, whom the Apostle then converted, baptized, and sent back to his master (Philemon 10,12). When this slave returned to Colossae, he was accompanied by yet another Asian missionary, Tychicus, who had been Paul's companion ever since he began the long journey that eventually brought him to prison in Caesarea (Acts 20:4).

Tychicus, when he went to Colossae with news of Paul and Epaphras, bore the appropriate greetings. The Apostle wrote, "Tychicus, a beloved brother, faithful minister, and fellow servant in the Lord, will tell you all the news about me. I am sending him to you for this very purpose, that he may know your circumstances and comfort your hearts" (Colossians 4:7-8). Tychicus and Onesimus, now called "a faithful and beloved brother," would make known to the Colossians "all things which are happening here" (4:9).

Tychicus would also carry with him three epistles from Paul: to the Colossians, to Philemon, and to the Laodiceans (this last surely to be identified with what we call the Epistle to the Ephesians—cf. Colossians 4:16).

Paul himself had apparently never visited Colossae ("I want you to know what a great conflict I have for you and those in Laodicea, and for as many as have not seen my face in the flesh"—Colossians 2:1), but the Colossians still formed a properly Pauline church because of the dedicated zeal and missionary efforts of Epaphras, who represented the apostolic ministry of Paul in the cities of the Meander valley.

March 4, 2007 - Second Sunday of Lent

March 4, 2007
Second Sunday of Lent
Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

The doctrine of divine providence is asserted in the biblical thesis that "all things work together for good to those who love God" (Romans 8:28). This "working together" of historical events under divine governance for particular and inter-related purposes is a mystery, of course, but a mystery in two senses.

First, divine providence is a mystery in the sense that it is humanly inscrutable, exceeding even the furthest reaches of our thought, and is known only by faith. That is to say, it pertains to divine revelation. It is not the general, natural pronoia of the Stoics, but a special and personal providence revealed by God's particular and mysterious interventions in the actual structure of history. Hence, Holy Scripture never attempts to explain it.

Second, divine providence is also a mystery in the sense that human beings are initiated into it. It is rendered accessible, that is, to human revelatory experience of it, the discernment of which is a gift of the Holy Spirit. It is particular and personal, sensed by the heart through the intelligible structure of events, coherent in their relationship. For this reason Holy Scripture not only affirms divine providence, but also portrays the mystery of it through narratives about events.

The story of Joseph is perhaps the most elaborate example of such a narrative. We do not discern how, in the Joseph story, "all things work together for good to those who love God," but the narrative enables us to perceive it intuitively, buried deep in the events of Joseph's life and conferring coherence on that life. At the end of the story we are able to say, with Joseph, "So it was not you who sent me here, but God."

In some cases, we can sense God's providential purpose in a biblical story by the insinuated dynamics of the story itself, without our attention being drawn to it by any explicit statement. The Book of Ruth comes to mind.

Sometimes the Bible conveys the providential nature of a story by the direct insertion of it through the voice of the narrator. Through such an insertion, the story takes on an entirely different flavor, being transfigured, so to speak, from secular to sacred. For instance, the tale of David's escape from Saul at Hachilah (1 Samuel 26) is transformed into an account of divine providence by the plain statement that "they were all asleep, because a deep sleep from the Lord had fallen on them." Similarly the biblical narrator says, in the context of Absalom's revolt, that "the Lord had proposed to defeat the good advice of Ahitophel to the intent that the Lord might bring disaster on Absalom" (2 Samuel 17:14).

Another method of conveying God's providential purpose in a biblical story is to place the affirmation of it in the mouth of one of the characters. A fetching example of this literary device is found in Genesis 24, which describes the journey of Abraham's servant to Mesopotamia in order to find a suitable bride for Isaac. In this account of God's historical intervention in response to prayer, let us note two features.

First, the story is told twice, initially by the narrator (24:1-26) and then a second time by someone within in the narrative. This doubling obliges the reader to re-think its implications and serves the purpose of placing the theme of providence more completely within the story’s fabric. In the first telling, the reader is struck by how quickly the servant's prayer is heard - "And it happened, before he had finished speaking" (24:15). The promptness of God's response is emphasized in the second telling - "before I had finished speaking in my heart" (24:45). God is encountered in the servant's experience of the event.

Second, the doubling of the narrative is not artificial. It is essential, rather, to the motive of Rebekah and her family in their decision that she should accompany the servant back to Abraham's home and become the wife of Isaac. The characters themselves are made aware that God has spoken through the narrated events. They perceive God's providence: "The thing (dabar) comes from the Lord; we cannot speak (dabber) to you good or bad. Here is Rebekah before you; take her and go, and let her be your master's son's wife, as the Lord has spoken (dibber)" (24:50-51). The event itself, the "thing," was a "word" from God, a dabar. That is to say, given the servant's testimony, it was clear that all things had worked together "for good to those who love God."

February 25, 2007 - Sunday of Orthodoxy

February 25, 2007
Sunday of Orthodoxy
Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

The Presbyterian theologian Alan Lewis liked to describe Holy Saturday as a "boundary." His use of this literary metaphor (invented by Karl Jaspers and made popular by Paul Tillich) meant that Holy Saturday served as a sort of dividing line between the Lord's suffering and death on Good Friday and His triumphant Resurrection on Easter Sunday, thereby shaping the entire sacred "Three Days," or Triduum. One function of a boundary, obviously, is to define something, in the etymological sense of conferring a finis, a "limit" that gives it form.

A real boundary, moreover, confers shape on two things, namely, those realities on either side of it. Like the god Janus, a boundary must cast its regard in both directions. A border unites two entities even in the act of segregating them. Ironically, they are disjoined by what joins them. They are put apart by what they share. What distinguishes them is what they have in common. I suggest that Alan Lewis was right in this respect. The image of the boundary really is a useful way of looking at Holy Saturday, and I believe that the theological insight of Holy Church respects the unique place of this day in her traditional liturgical customs.

Going beyond Lewis, however, let me further suggest that in Holy Saturday—the middle of the sacred Triduum-—we recognize in Good Friday and Easter Sunday, somewhat as in the Lord's two natures, twin realities placed "without confusion, without change, without division, without separation." Holy Saturday ‘hypostatically’ holds together, as it were, the two extremes of the Triduum.

To grasp what I mean here, it may be useful to recall that when the events of those days originally took place, the Apostles and Myrrh-bearers did not know that Holy Saturday was the central day in the sacred Triduum. They had no concept of the matter. For them it was simply the day after the tragic climax. They did not realize what was to come on the next day, as we see in their incredulous response when it did come. For Peter and Mary Magdalene, therefore, Holy Saturday was not a recognized interval (or "valley in between"). It was not the prelude of a victory, but only the aftermath of a catastrophe.

Holy Saturday thus conveys the sense that Good Friday was not "confused or changed" by Easter Sunday. The other two days of the Triduum were not mingled, so to speak, so that each lost its own identity. The gall of the earlier day was neither less bitter nor its stripes less severe. The great calamity of the Cross was not mitigated in the tiniest degree. This is Good Friday's union with Holy Saturday.

At the same time, nonetheless, regarded from the perspective of the triumphant Third Day, Holy Saturday is Good Friday’s link to the Resurrection, and this link was "without division, without separation." That is to say, only in Easter is revealed the full significance of the Cross. When Christ rises from the dead, bestowing life on those in the tombs, the Church knows that He tramples down death by death.

In addition, Holy Saturday is also the most mysterious day of the Triduum, in the sense that Sacred Scripture says less about it. Whereas we know in some detail what the first Christians witnessed on Good Friday and what they subsequently learned on Easter Sunday, we are told about Holy Saturday almost nothing except that "they rested on the Sabbath according to the commandment" (Luke 23:56).

And just where was our Lord during the Church’s time of rest? A rather full answer to this question is given in the liturgical prayer, I suppose, which describes Him as "in the tomb with the body, in Hades with the soul, in Paradise with the thief, and on the throne with the Father and the Holy Spirit." Now this was surely more than the original Christians knew. They had seen, of course, that His body was in the tomb, and they knew that His soul was in Hades, but they were not yet familiar with the whole story even about this second point.

Certain disturbing developments, you see, had already begun in Hades, and the place would never again be what once it was. It was already the site of an invasion. Death was even now in the process of being trampled down by a death. A Champion had appeared on the scene and was making a royal havoc of the neighborhood. The ancient gates, those everlasting doors, had been lifted from their hinges, the iron bars were rent asunder, and the King of glory had entered in. The reign of death was over.

What came to pass in Hades that day was later described by Dante, who claimed to have received the information from Virgil. More likely, we suspect, Dante learned about it in the Exultet sung by the deacon on the evening of Holy Saturday: Haec nox est, in qua destructis vinculis mortis Christus ab inferis victor ascendit—"This is the night in which Christ comes up victorious from Hell, having destroyed the chains of death."

February 18, 2007 - Cheesefare Sunday

February 18 2007
Cheesefare Sunday
Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

Those few years called "the public life" of Christ our Lord began with the ministry of John the Baptist, during the course of which Jesus too was baptized. This is the reason why the narrative of the primitive apostolic preaching tended to begin with John's ministry (Acts 1:21-22; 10:34-37; 13:23-25). The earliest of the Gospels, Mark's, also begins there.

John's baptism of Jesus has been the subject of some strange interpretations in modern times. Whereas the Church Fathers and the ancient Christian liturgical texts treat that event as the instance in which "the worship of the Trinity was made manifest" (Troparion of Theophany), some recent interpreters see in it the occasion on which Jesus of Nazareth became conscious of His special vocation. Others go further, regarding the Lord's baptism as the instance in which he became aware of His identity as God's Son.

The latter view I think to be absurd. While the doctrine of the Incarnation certainly implies that God's Son, as man, "increased in wisdom" (Luke 2:52), there is nothing in the biblical text to suggest that His increase was so egregiously delayed that Jesus was unaware of His true identity until He was "about thirty years of age" (3:23). Human growth in self-identity is rarely so sluggish. The mystery of the Incarnation means that God's Son became a human being, not an moron.

What about the other view, however, the opinion of those who regard His baptism as the event in which Jesus became conscious of His special vocation? This notion likewise strikes me as difficult to sustain. It appears, rather, that the Gospel writers themselves regarded the event of the Lord’s baptism very much as it was regarded by the Church Fathers and the traditional liturgical texts, namely, as a revelation, not to Jesus, but to those who were present . . . and to the Church.

This interpretation is perhaps clearest in Matthew, where the Father's voice speaks of Jesus in the third person, "This is My beloved Son." In Luke the Holy Spirit's descent on Jesus was visible-He came down "in bodily form (somatiko eidei) like a dove." Finally, in the Fourth Gospel John the Baptist confesses, "I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and He remained upon Him. I did not know Him, but He who sent me to baptize with water said to me, 'Upon whom you see the Spirit descending, and remaining on Him, this is He who baptizes with the Holy Spirit.'" In short, the true revelation at the Lord's baptism was addressed to others, not to the Lord.

Is there no sense, then, in which His reception of John's baptism meant nothing new to Jesus? Yes, I think there is, but I believe it has to do chiefly with a determined resolve on the part of Jesus Himself. This idea, though it suggests an initial problem, points to a solution that touches on the very mystery of Redemption.

The supposed problem is this: Jesus came voluntarily to be baptized by John, even though John's was a baptism of repentance (Acts 19:4). Why would Jesus do this? After all, the entire witness of the New Testament declares that He was the "lamb without blemish and without spot" (1 Peter 1:19), "holy, harmless, undefiled, separate from sinners" (Hebrews 7:26), "the Holy One and the Just" (Acts 3:14), who "knew no sin" (2 Corinthians 5:21). Moreover, Jesus was conscious of being sinless, for He challenged His enemies, "Which of you convicts Me of sin?" (John 8:46) Why, then, did the unoffending Jesus seek a baptism of repentance?

The answer to this question has to do with the very motive of the Incarnation. God's Son, in the assumption of our humanity, took upon Himself a radical solidarity with fallen mankind. Even before His saving Passion, in which "He poured out His soul unto death," we already find Him "numbered with the transgressors" (Isaiah 53:12). The voice from heaven signified God's acceptance of that redemptive resolve.

And this, I believe, is why Jesus approached John, seeking his baptism in order "to fulfill all righteousness" (Matthew 3:15). It was not as a private citizen, so to speak, that Jesus came to the waters of the Jordan, but in order to present Himself to the Father as the representative of the human race in this great symbolic act of repentance. Jesus thereby expressed His resolve "to be made like His brethren" (Hebrews 2:17).

Jesus declared in the baptism of repentance His determination that no distance should separate Him from us.

February 11, 2007 - Meatfare Sunday

February 11 2007
Meatfare Sunday
Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

If one looks for the "assured results" of modern biblical studies (and I think they are few), one of them seems to be a greater awareness that the theologians in Holy Scripture began with the revelatory events of history, not the contemplation of nature. That is to say, the human authors of Holy Scripture approached Creation itself through the path of Salvation History. They arrived at the knowledge of the Creator through their knowledge of the Lord of History. In the words of a modern scholar of the Bible, Israel went "from the God who saves to the God who creates" (du Dieu qui sauve au Dieu qui crée—Trophime Mouiren).

This historical progress of biblical revelation does not mean, surely, that God cannot be known through the study of created things. Indeed, Holy Scripture asserts exactly the opposite, declaring that God's "invisible attributes are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even His eternal power and Godhead"(Romans 1:20; cf. Wisdom 13:1-7). Moreover, this "natural" revelation of God in His created works is very much a presumption of biblical apologetics (cf. Isaiah 42:5; Acts 17:22-24).

The essentially historical nature of divine revelation means, rather, that the biblical writers, even when they considered God as Creator, always identified that Creator as the Lord whom they first knew through His free and marvelous deeds of deliverance and covenant. It was the God of the holy Ark who created all things, declared Hezekiah (Isaiah 37:16; 2 Kings 19:15). It was the "Redeemer" that gave form to the child in the womb (Isaiah 44:24).

The Bible's understanding of history is the key, therefore, to its understanding of Creation. Just as the Lord's activity in history is free, redemptive, and covenantal, so is His act of creating. For this reason, biblical reflection on God's created world regards Creation itself as the medium of salvation and covenant. The Bible, consequently, resists all effort to let Creation "stand on its own." It never looks at the created world through the lens of a philosophical abstraction that de-historicizes the particular into the general. Revelation never declines into mere philosophy. Creation is as much a unique, singular event as the parting of the Red Sea or the call of Jeremiah. Moses refuses to succumb to Aristotelianism. The Bible's view of Creation is as innocent of causal determinism as its view of history.

Perhaps we may let Ben Sirach illustrate the point. "The sun looks down on everything with its light," he wrote, "and the work of the Lord is full of his glory. The Lord has not enabled his holy ones to recount all his marvelous works, which the Lord the Almighty has established that the universe may stand firm in his glory" (Ecclesiasticus 42:16-17). God's glory, that is to say, is not revealed through man's abstract theories about Creation, but through the individual, concrete, created things themselves. Their very incomprehensibility, moreover, is revelatory. Indeed, says Sirach, even the saints are unable to recount all God's marvelous works.

Among those who have commented on this biblical passage over the centuries, I wonder if any demonstrated more insight than Thomas Aquinas, who invoked the text to illustrate the difference between biblical faith and philosophical discipline. Both faith and philosophy cast their regard on the created world, St. Thomas admits, but they do so very differently. The philosopher looks at a created thing according to its generic and formal qualities (secundum quod huiusmodi), whereas the fides Christiana looks at it, not in this abstract way, but rather "inasmuch as it represents the divine depth (divinam altitudinem) and is in some way ordered toward God Himself (in ipsum Deum quoquo modo ordinatur)."

Like the historical progression of the Bible, which goes from history to the created world, the "believer" (fidelis) starts with God revealed in history, not with the study of the created world. This distinction is what separates believer from the philosopher. The latter seeks the intrinsic causes of things (ex propriis rerum causis) in order to understand them, because understanding is the knowledge of things in their causes. The believer, on the contrary, starts with and proceeds from the First Cause in order to perceive created things as "divinely given, or as pertaining to the divine glory." The philosopher commences with the world that surrounds him, and he endeavors to grasp these things in their proper natures. The believer, however, begins with the historically revealed Lord, whose creative act, manifesting His glory, holds these things in existence (Summa Contra Gentiles 2.4).

I believe St. Thomas shows great insight here. If reflection on Creation is to be properly theological, it must begin with the God who reveals Himself in history through His deeds of deliverance and covenant. Deliverance and covenant must also confer shape on the lens for the Christian study of the created world. Otherwise de Deo creante will diminish into mere cosmology, . . . or worse. It may degenerate into the alleged objectivity and autonomy arbitrarily and imperiously demanded by the contemporary sciences. In contrast to all this, God's free and redemptive intervention in history opens the door to the orthodox understanding of His Creation.

February 4, 2007 - Second Sunday of the Triodion

February 4 2007
Second Sunday of the Triodion
Father Pat's Pastoral Ponderings

The Lord’s account of the two men who "went up to the temple to pray" (Luke 18:9-14) may be said to illustrate three characteristics of Christian Prayer. It shows such prayer to be