Gospel of Luke
For the last two weeks of advent, we have been hearing a
lot about John the Baptist and his role in announcing the coming of
Christ. The question I asked myself as I
was preparing this homily is: “How can these gospel
accounts about John the Baptist help us in our own understanding of advent?” Perhaps I can begin with a story that I read
a couple of months ago that continues to be a source of reflection for me this
Advent.
There once was a young man who wanted to become a monk in
a near-by monastery. But he had a
problem. This particular monastery
followed a strict spiritual discipline and rigid ascetical practices. And this young man was considered by many in
his community to be a little slow, undisciplined, and at times, a little
clumsy. But he decided to try anyway; so he placed himself under the direction
of the Novice Master at the monastery to begin the required formation. After two months, the Novice Master was
called in by the Abbott of the Monastery to see how the new young recruit was
doing. The Novice Master told the Abbott
that he was not doing well. He was having great difficulty in learning
the rule, and was undisciplined in following the required practices. In fact, he told the Abbott, for the previous
two months, he had assigned him the daily task of cleaning the dirt from the
sandals of the monks as they entered the prayer room, and sweeping the dust
from the floor. As a result, he
recommended that the young man be dismissed.
The Abbott, being
a compassionate man, asked to speak to the new recruit. When he arrived, the two spoke, shared a few
stories. Finally the young man expressed
the difficulty and struggle he was having in formation, but still affirmed his
desire to become a monk. The Abbott gave him some direction. “From now on, when you clean the dirt from
the sandals, and when you sweep the dust from the floor, I want you to say to
yourself: I am removing the obscuration
so as to be the beloved of Christ.”
And what do you mean by obscuration, the young man asked
the Abbott? An obscuration is anything
that prevents you from seeing things are they really are, replied the Abbot.
So the young man agreed to try this new discipline. At first, every now and again, he would forget
what he was supposed to say. And he
would meet with the Abbott for a refresher, but soon he was pretty good at
following this basic instruction, and he carried it our faithfully every day as
he did his task.
Six months later, the Abbott called the young recruit in for
another meeting. He asked him: “Have you
been cleaning the dirt from the sandals?”
Yes, was his quick response? “Have
you been sweeping the dust from the floor?”
Again, yes was his quick response.
“Have you been removing the obscuration so as to be the beloved of
Christ?”
There was a long silence as he pondered this question. Then
suddenly, like a light bulb coming on, a bright smile broke on the young man’s
face as his mind was awakened as to what the Abbott was trying to teach
him. He suddenly realized that the sandals, even with the dirt, were still sandals: That the floor, even with the dust, was still
the floor. And that he, even with all his
limitations, those things he saw as impairing him, his weaknesses, his faults,
his warts; he was still the beloved of God, and loved by Christ.
Soon there-after, the young man was initiated into the
community as a monk. As time would later
show, he became the best and most loved of all the monks. At time, he would chuckle to himself when
others teased him about his slowness, or when he was a bit clumsy. But with the
birth of his special insight, this awakening in his heart, he was able to see, in a new way, all those people who entered
the doors the monastery for the first time.
No matter what their position, no matter what situation in life, no
matter what their difficulty or struggle, he saw them as the beloved of God, as
loved by Christ, and he welcomed them, every one of them, as Christ
himself.
Perhaps the greatest obscuration that people face today
when it comes to advent, and when it comes faith practice, is that we often
fail to see things are they really are.
We fail to see that no matter what our impediments and warts, no matter
what our limitations, no matter what our station in life, no matter what we
have done, we are the beloved of God. We
are loved by Christ. If we can free
ourselves from this obscuration, then like the monk in the story, we will
discover who we are before God; we will discover God’s perfect plan for our
lives, and the gift that is ours to share.
John the Baptist was able to see things as they really were. “I am not the light”, he said. "I am not the messiah. I am here as a witness,
to testify to the light”. What is this
witness to the light? I like what
Archbishop Mancini had to say about this when he presented the building blocks
for the new evangelization. He compared
the witness to Christ to a witness in a court case. He said that a witness is not the judge. A witness is not the arresting officer. A witness is one who gives testimony as to
what he or she has seen, what he or she has heard, and what he or she has
experienced.
During the early
years of my Christian journey, in my mid-twenties, I went through a time of what
I call a critical introspection. I thought that to be a better person, I would
have to root out all the things I didn’t like about myself: my shyness and
introversion, my aloofness, my dark thoughts, my selfish tendencies. All of this introspection did very little
good. In fact, it made me feel worse
about myself, until that moment when my mind and heart was awakened to that
deep realization that I was God’s beloved, that I was loved by Christ. It was not just an intellectual thing, but a
heart-felt experience; a experience that changed the course of my life.
Advent, this beautiful season of our church year, is here
as a reminder that first and foremost, we are being called to give birth to Christ
in our hearts. When we give birth to
Christ in our hearts, then all our feeble attempts at trying to find
fulfillment through our own efforts begin to die away, and through Grace, we
become the person that God intends us to be. We are not the light, but we become witnesses
to the light found in Christ.
Grace means one thing – to be thankful, to be filled with
gratitude, to overflow with the light that is given to us as gift. The other
readings for today speak of this so beautifully. The reading from Isaiah is not just meant for
Isaiah, or for Christ. It is meant for
us: “The
spirit of the Lord is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me. He has sent me to bring the good news to the poor,
to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release
to the prisoners.”
The beautiful “magnificat” found in our responsorial
psalm is not just a prayer for Mary, but is our prayer as well: “My
soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savoir, for He has
looked with favour on the lowliness of His servant.”
And St. Paul’s prayer in his letter to the Thessalonians
is not just for Paul. It is again our
own advent prayer of thanksgiving: “Brothers and sisters, rejoice always, pray
without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God
in Christ Jesus for you.”
Advent is not about turning ourselves into super people.
It is not about perfectly having all our plans in place in order to meet the illusionary expectations of what we feel Christmas is all about. This is only an obscuration. Like the young monk is the story, Advent is
about giving birth to Christ in our hearts, recognizing that we are the beloved
of God, and becoming grateful witnesses to Christ’s indwelling Spirit.
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