13 Aug 2017
19th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A
Most of us know the prayer: “Lord, make me an instrument of
your peace. Where there is hatred, let me bring love. Where there is offense,
let me bring pardon. Where there is discord, let me bring union. Where there is
error, let me bring truth. Where there is doubt, let me bring faith. Where
there is despair, let me bring hope. Where there is darkness, let me bring your
light. Where there is sadness, let me bring joy.”
And in between each of these pairs of opposites is the word
“me.” In between hatred and love is
“me.” In between discord and unity is
“me.” In between darkness and light is
“me.” But that’s the position a prophet
stands in. A prophet puts him- or
herself in the middle of the tension, to be an instrument of the good.
When I was sent to St. Clare it wasn’t only to be a priest
and a governor. I was also sent to
fulfill a prophetic role: to stand in the middle of the tension, and to be an
instrument of the good. Not somebody
else, but me.
Think of your families and your friends. You find yourself in a situation where the
grandkids don’t go to church anymore, and the kids don’t seem to care. Or you find yourself standing between one
friend who’s practically an atheist, and other who’s a firm believer. Or maybe you’re a young adult and you’re
surrounded at home, or at school—or even at church—by a lukewarm approach to
faith.
A prophet is someone who stands in the middle of the tension
and tries to be an instrument of the good.
And it’s something that takes practice to get good at. After all, putting ourselves out there in the
middle of the tension isn’t our first instinct.
We hear today how Peter started to walk on water (which is
kind of a dangerous idea). But he was
also practicing to be a prophet in Christ’s Church. Peter says, “Lord, if it is you, command me
to come to you on the water.” And
there’s that little word again—“me.” “Lord,
if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” It’s strange; I mean, if Peter was trying to
get proof that it really was Jesus standing there, you’d think he’d say
something like, “Lord, if it’s you, then make the storm stop, or come over here
yourself so we can see you better.”
But he doesn’t do that.
Instead, Peter says, “Lord, if it is you, command ‘me’ to come to
you.” Peter put himself out there. He was practicing what it means to be a
prophet; he was practicing how to put himself in the middle of the storm, and
to be an instrument of God’s peace in the storm.
In the Church today we hear a lot of talk about
evangelization, especially the New Evangelization: the idea that the world—and
the Church herself—needs to be revitalized and redirected by the Holy
Spirit. The New Evangelization isn’t
only about spreading the gospel; it’s about being a prophet in a time in
history when faith, God, Church, religion aren’t taken all that seriously. The “storm” the Church faces today, it seems,
is so often a storm of indifference and apathy.
A couple weeks ago I was teaching a class in the summer
Religious Ed program. And there were
some kids who really didn’t seem like they wanted to be there. So I just said to them, “You know, you don’t
have to be here if you don’t want to be.
You’re free to go. This isn’t a
prison.” And, of course, they didn’t
leave.
But that was an instance where the “storm” we sometimes face
as a Church is a situation of indifference and apathy. And the truth had to be interjected there, in
a prophetic and gentle sort of way; the truth that being a disciple of Christ
is a voluntary thing. In fact, that’s
the heart of the Church: that spirit of a voluntarily giving “me” to God and
his body of believers.
But, as I said, being a prophet takes practice, and it means
putting your neck out there when you’d rather not. It means being like the Prophet Daniel, and
letting yourself be put into the “lion’s den.”
A few years ago, when I was in seminary, I had to do a summer
internship at a hospital as a chaplain.
And that was one of the most difficult experiences for me in my
training. What I found difficult was
just going through the door—not the door of the hospital, but the door of a
patient’s room. It was absolutely
nerve-racking for me to do that. In
fact, the first time I couldn’t even do it.
I’d get up the courage to go in, but then I couldn’t do
it. And then I’d wander around some
more, thinking, “I gotta go in there.”
So I’d head back to the patient’s room, and as I approached the door—I
kept on walking. I just couldn’t go in
the room. I could not put my neck out
there yet. Luckily, I saw some nurses go
into the room, and I knew they’d be there a while. So I just left.
I was on my way to the car, saying to myself, “I’m not cut
out to do this. I’m not made to be a
‘priest, prophet, and king’ like Jesus.
I’m outta here.” I was like
Peter, who started to sink and let the storm of fear overtake him. But over the next twenty minutes or so, Jesus
calmed me down and he shifted the focus away from me, and toward that person
who was lying in the hospital bed. God
had put me there in that situation to see that person. And that’s what I had to do.
So I went back. I had
a rosary in my pocket; I said a quick prayer: “Lord, make me an instrument of
your peace;” I took a deep breath, and went through the door. And since then, I’ve made hundreds of visits
to the hospital, to nursing homes, and to people’s homes. I’ve been put in the middle of many difficult
situations I’d never dreamed I’d be asked to deal with. But that was all part of my training and
practice at becoming not only a priest and governor in the parish, but also a
prophetic voice. It takes practice. It takes practice to be like Peter and say, “Lord,
command ‘me’” to do this or that.
People come to me in the confessional. And I hear things like: “Father, there’s this
situation in my family regarding faith, and I’m not sure what to do; I’m not
sure how to approach it.” Or I hear: “Father,
my co-workers say uncharitable things or they’re gossiping, and I know I should
say something, but I just can’t.” Or
sometimes I hear: “Father, I’m afraid to show my faith in public: when I go out
to eat, I just can’t bring myself to say a meal prayer or make the Sign of the
Cross; I feel embarrassed.”
Well, those are all situations where the more you put your
neck out there, the easier it becomes—and the more natural it becomes. You know, it so often seems that people who
have rejected faith and God are quite vocal about it. They’re not afraid to shoot down our
beliefs. Catholicism is very much under
siege today, as it has been for several decades (and, really, for
centuries). But the ones who keep it
going are those who embrace their calling to be a prophet. And, really, it’s a calling we each have by
virtue of having been baptized.
Being a prophet doesn’t necessarily mean shouting from the
hilltops and across the fields; it doesn’t necessarily mean standing on a
street corner, handing out pamphlets and literature about the Catholic
faith. Being a prophet means learning,
first and foremost, how to be someone who takes his or her faith seriously;
learning to be someone who lives life with the inner conviction that there is a
God, that Jesus is the Lord, that there’s more to life than meets the eye, and
that it’s a good and praiseworthy thing to get on our knees and take our
direction from God, who is both Lord and Companion.
Being a prophet isn’t about being boastful or
confrontational; it’s about learning to be humble before God, and then simply
doing what he asks of us. Sometimes
that’s easy; sometimes it isn’t, and ends up taking a lot of practice.
When Peter was getting ready to walk on the water, he knew he
had to have faith that Jesus would see him through it. Peter knew he couldn’t rely on himself; there
was no way he could walk on water without the Lord’s help. And so when Peter said, “Lord, command me to
come to you on the water,” he was also saying, “Lord, test my faith in you;
Lord, test my humility.”
And for a few steps, it worked! Peter had faith, and he was doing the
impossible! But then, just for a moment,
doubt entered his heart and he began to sink.
No worries, though! Jesus caught
him, and it was a good practice. Now, if
we find we’re afraid to do what’s right, well, admit that to God. Just be humble and honest and say, “Lord,
there’s no way I can do this—not by myself.
I don’t have it in me. Lord,
you’re gonna have to do all the work, because I just can’t.”
And prayer like that is music to God’s ears. He loves the prayer of a humble person, the
prayer of a person who’s trying to put his or her faith into practice. Being a prophet in the world today isn’t
about being boastful, or harsh, or confrontational; it’s about learning to be
humble before God, and then just doing what he asks of us—in the situations we
find ourselves.
And we don’t have to do it all ourselves; in fact, we
shouldn’t. For example, if there’s a family
situation going on and you’re not sure what to do, well ask someone else. Asking for help to do the right thing is a
great sign of humility. Prophets always
speak from a position of humility. Or,
if the situation calls for it, involve others in doing what’s right.
About a month or so ago, I was driving by a house and I heard
a man yelling. And as I checked it out,
I saw that he was yelling at his kids, who were probably grade school age. He was yelling at them, screaming at them,
and I was concerned for the kids. So I
got out my cell phone and contacted Child Protective Services for the county,
and they took care of it. Being a
prophet means looking out for your neighbor, and sometimes asking for help when
the Kingdom of God needs to be brought into a situation.
“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is
hatred, let me bring love. Where there
is despair, let me bring hope. Where there is darkness, let me bring your
light. Where there is sadness, let me bring joy.” A prophet puts him- or herself in the middle
of the tension, to be an instrument of the good.
And the world today needs prophets; it needs humble men and
women of living faith who can say, “Lord, you put me here. Help me to do what you need me to do. Make me an instrument of your peace.”
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