10 June 2018
10th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year B
In the 1st Century B.C., the city of Rome was
called for the first time the “Eternal City.”
The poet Albius Tibullus gave it that name—and for good reason. The Romans were strong warriors who defeated
any enemy that came their way. And the
Roman Empire extended throughout the known world. After Rome was given that name, the “Eternal
City,” people really began to believe that if the city fell, the rest of the
world would, too.
Of course, as we know, it wasn’t eternal. The Roman civilization gradually deteriorated
from the inside out, and in the year 410, the Eternal City was sack by the
Visigoths. And that’s a story which is
repeated throughout history.
Civilizations rise and fall, and new ones take their place. The same can be said of the Church, which is
a society with its own brand of civilization.
Just go to the internet and look up “church ruins,” and
you’ll find all sorts of pictures and stories of areas in the world where the
Church was, and is no longer; or areas where the Church has changed so much
that one type of Christian society has been replaced by another over time. Civilizations rise and fall and change. It’s just a fact of life.
But Christianity is different. I mean, it changes through time, like
anything else. But it’s supposed to
actually be “eternal,” like Heaven, like God.
We might even think the same thing about, say, the United States. We can’t conceive of there not being a United
States. And yet, neither of
these—Christianity or the country—is a “for sure” thing. That’s what history teaches us: we can’t take
anything for granted—not even such enduring things as the Church and the
country.
And I mention this because for the past several months Bishop
Ricken has been asking the priests, and pastoral and parish leaders, to
consider the question (and I’m paraphrasing here): If your parish were no
longer there...would anyone notice?
Would the wider population be affected at all if your parish were no
longer there?
And it’s an excellent question because it lays it right out
there that not even the Church (on earth) is eternal. It, like any other society, rises and falls. And so, if the Church were to simply disintegrate
in our little corner of the world, would anyone notice? Is the civilization we call “Catholic living”
really that important to the wider population?
Well, from all the data, it would seem the answer is generally “no.”
Now, that’s not necessarily a reason to get depressed. But it is a reason to seriously reconsider
what we’re doing, and what we’re not doing.
Our strength isn’t in thinking that the Church will just always be
there. Instead, our strength is in
acknowledging our frailty.
That’s why we go to Confession, isn’t it? We go in the little room, and we admit our
weakness to God. And he says, “Don’t
worry about it—I forgive you. And here’s
some of my grace to help you.”
Right? Our strength is in
admitting our weakness, our frailty. God
goes on forever, the Church in Heaven goes on forever. But the neighborhood Church? Who says that goes on forever? That’s not a sure thing. And our strength lies in acknowledging that.
And that’s why Bishop has put that question out there to the
priests and parish leaders: IF your parish were no longer there, would anyone
notice? What would be the loss to the
surrounding population? And if the
answer is, “Well, there wouldn’t be any loss,” then it’s a good sign we need to
change what we’re doing.
In Saint Paul’s letter today to the Corinthians (2 Cor 4:15),
he really highlights what our relationship is to the surrounding population,
whether they’re other Christian denominations, non-believers, migrant workers, or
what have you. He writes, “Everything
indeed is for you, so that the grace bestowed in abundance on more and more
people may cause the thanksgiving to overflow for the glory of God.”
And that’s a pretty dense sentence, so let me break it
apart. Saint Paul says, “Everything
indeed is for you,” meaning all the grace and goodness God has given me, the
individual, is for “my good,” but it’s given to be shared, to be spread. For instance, God forgives me—freely. So I, in turn, forgive my neighbor. That’s a way the grace of God (and the
relevance of the faith) is spread. Or
maybe God has given me a positive outlook on life. So I, in turn, share that optimism with those
who need it. (Whether or not they accept
is their business, but we share it anyway).
That’s a way grace is spread out.
Or if I go to a football game, or a soccer game, or a track
meet, I’m going to share my enthusiasm for life—while wearing my St. Clare
t-shirt (of course, we need to get St. Clare t-shirts to make that
happen). But that’s a way others can
connect the Church and faith with life outside these walls—that God can be present
and enjoying a game between his sons and daughters. “Everything indeed is for you,” says St.
Paul, meaning all the grace and goodness God has given me, the individual, is
for “my good,” but for everybody else’s, too.
St. Paul goes on: “...so that the grace bestowed in
abundance....” Now, that’s not God’s
grace bestowed on us—that’s God’s grace bestowed out on the world by us: an “abundance” of grace, an
“abundance” of goodwill and peace, an “abundance” of neighborly encouragement,
an “abundance” of looking out for the lost and the forgotten—even those right
in front of us.
“...So that the grace bestowed in abundance on more and more
people (out there)...may cause the thanksgiving to overflow....” Going out and sharing God’s grace with people
in the area isn’t about meeting a consumer need; it’s about meeting a human
need—the need to know that “I am
worth something to somebody,” and the need to give back—even if that giving is
a simple “thank you.”
But this thanksgiving is directed not to “me” or even “us” as
a Church but, as St. Paul says, “for the glory of God.” It’s been pointed out by many leaders in the
global Church that the Church is not a social services organization. We don’t exist to provide a service. We exist to reconnect God with his lost
sheep. We exist to undo the events of
the Garden of Eden, and to remind people where the purpose and meaning of their
lives come from, and where basic human hope and love come from. Really, we exist to help people be the sons
and daughters of God that they are.
We have a wonderful message to share with others outside
these walls. But we can’t think that
“somebody else will just take care of it,” or that “the Church will always be
around to do that.” We can’t take
that for granted.
If our parish (or any
parish) were no longer to exist, would the wider population notice? Would it
make a difference at all in others’ lives? Hopefully, the answer would be
“yes”—hopefully they'd miss our presence. But it’s not a sure thing. But we
increase our chances of making a difference--and being relevant--every time we
step out and the share the grace God has blessed us with.
That’s where our hope
lies: the grace of God and responding to the simple call to share that
abundance of grace with those around us.
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