They Worshiped But They Doubted

I’ve always appreciated Matthew’s resurrection narratives (see Matt 28), which include two powerful accounts of disciples worshiping the Risen Christ. In one such account, they literally embrace his feet in a deeply symbolic act of homage (28:9). In another story (which we heard in last Sunday’s Gospel) Matthew includes this wonderfully realistic statement: “When they saw him, they worshiped, but they doubted” (28:17).

This may strike us as odd. Worship and doubt are essentially opposites. Worship means you’re “all in.” You’ve decided. You believe. You’re in awe, fascinated, engaged. Worship is a total giving over of yourself. But doubt means you aren’t sure. You’re wavering. You hesitate. You’re afraid of something, or afraid of yourself. Doubt means you’re holding back.

 “They worshiped, but they doubted.”

This is what we do. It's a familiar human rhythm. We worship, but we doubt. We’re all in, and then we’re not. We believe, and then we waver. We’re in awe, then we’re afraid it isn’t real. We’re fascinated, then we wonder why. We’re engaged, then we falter. We start to give ourselves; we hold back.

The disciples were only human. They were simply and genuinely human, even at that moment, on a mountaintop, face to face with another human being who had (impossibly!) risen from the dead. They worshiped him glorious and glorified, but they doubted.

My brothers and sisters, don’t be ashamed in the moments you doubt, or when your worship does not achieve a total gift of yourself. Don’t be disappointed when you waver. Remember these disciples on the mountain. We know that they loved Jesus, and he loved them. In your worship and in your doubt, you love him too. In your moments of being human – high and low moments – moments in liturgy, moments at home, moments at work, moments in your car, moments alone in a quiet church, or at the beach, or lying awake at night in your bed – you worship, you doubt, you love the Risen Christ.

Worship and doubt, this unlikely pair, are as natural for humans as breathing, as living and dying. You are human, and he loves that about you. Haven’t you found that worship creates a relationship that leaves plenty of room for your doubt? So when you can, embrace his feet and do him homage (28:9). And when you can’t, be at peace. He embraces you.
 

“And behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age” (Matt 28:20).
 

Frances Watt. Mixed media painting. Courtesy Sacred Art Pilgrim.

Announcements

• It’s great to be back with you after my hiatus due to our big move! We’re still busy getting settled, but we’re moved in and happy in our new home.
   
• My Advent book is out! You can purchase it at Liturgical Press, Little Rock Scripture Study, or amazon.com. I’m currently working on a book in the same series about finding peace in a stressful world.
   
• I’m enjoying my work with Little Rock Scripture Study! Cackie Upchurch, the Director of LRSS, recently interviewed me for Little Rock Connections. The interview is here.
   
• Everyone is invited to a concert at my home parish in Milford, CT. The Saint Ann Choir will give an encore performance of their inspiring Pentecost Concert on June 21, 2018 at 7:00 p.m. (501 Naugatuck Ave., Milford). The concert is free. I promise you’ll be glad you came!

Blog on Hiatus until May

Happy Easter, all! He is risen!

Just a note to let you know that my blog will be on hiatus for a month or so while we pack up our house and move a few streets over to our new home! This is an exciting time for our family as the six of us find a little more space and settle into a place of our own. Please keep us in prayer during this Easter season as I will keep all of you.

Here’s a poem about “home” that my daughter Siobhan wrote for my husband years ago:

Poem for Daddy

Over the meadow, skip.
Over the rocks, hop.
Over the fields, run.
Over your home, stop.

Enjoy the beginnings of spring, and I’ll see you in May!

This Holy Week: Just the Hem of His Garment

This Holy Week, remember those in the Gospel who only wanted to touch the tassle of his cloak, the hem of his garment (Matt 14:36). Some days, some years are like that. You may not feel that you can keep up with Jesus on the way to Golgotha. You may not feel that you can shoulder that heavy wooden cross. You may not feel that you succeed at walking along the path with him, or listening to him, or always doing what he asks. But do you see him passing by? Can you reach out your hand, like the woman who was ill for twelve long years? Perhaps – like her – you find yourself on the ground, reaching out – grasping, believing, stretching – “If only I could touch the hem of his garment, the tassle of his cloak” (Matt 9:21).

It is faith that has you there, reaching out for Jesus. And this year, that is enough. This Holy Week, accept where you are. Jesus will pass by that place.

And just as he was aware of every person who touched him (Lk 8:46), he is aware of you. He will take your hand and speak the words you need to hear: “Daughter, your faith has saved you. Go in peace” (Lk 8:48).

This Holy Week, just the hem of his garment is enough.

Sunday's Gospel: Jesus Loved a Good Paradox

The following is republished with permission from my column in Catechist magazine. For subscription information, visit catechist.com.

This Sunday’s reading from John’s Gospel (click here to read John 12:20-33) prepares us for the imminent death of Jesus. We hear Jesus’ own words of dread (“I am troubled now”), but above all, we hear hints of the glory to come.

The Gospel’s message about Jesus’ death is conveyed in several paradoxes. (A paradox is a meaningful combination of two seemingly opposite truths.) The first paradox Jesus uses is from nature: “Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit.” Jesus’ death, painful as it will be, will bear fruit. Death, which seems like an absolute end, will do something. It will produce.

Another paradox encourages the disciple of Jesus to espouse the same attitude of self-giving: “Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will preserve it for eternal life.” Of course, Jesus does not literally want us to hate our lives. The powerful language is meant to convey the reality that Jesus is about to live out. It is only in willingly giving ourselves up that we actually preserve our lives. It is only in willingly giving ourselves up that we follow Jesus and remain with him.

The greatest paradox of all is the fact that in death Jesus is glorified. One might think of death as a defeat or an end, especially a violent death such as the one Jesus will face. But Jesus is clear: In his death, he will be glorified! Because of this perspective, the Passion Narrative (the story of Jesus’ suffering and death) in John’s Gospel has traditionally been called the “Book of Glory.”

This is an essential reminder as Holy Week approaches. It will not be a week of doom and gloom. It is a week of glory!

PRAYER: Lord Jesus, you are ready to lay down your life like a grain of wheat that falls to the ground and dies. May I be there with you, to witness your glory and imitate you so that I also may bear fruit.

But I Say to You

There’s a line from C.S. Lewis’ brilliant and imaginative book The Great Divorce that comes back to me a few times a year. It convicts me, in a good way.

In The Great Divorce, folks who have died are freely offered entrance into Paradise (which Lewis describes fantastically). There’s just one hitch. They have to give up the thing that’s dragging them down, the thing that holds them back, the thing they’ve clung to all their lives. They don’t have to cure themselves or fix everything. They just have to let go of a burden. Turns out, after a lifetime of habitual living, that’s pretty hard to do.

One plucky soul has a lot to say to his heavenly guide about why he thinks he’s just fine as he is. What need is there to change? Why would someone dare to ask more of him? And so comes the fateful line: “I’ve done my best!” His heavenly guide responds, “Have you? Have you really?”

The question pains me.

No, I haven’t. I really haven’t.

There’s a lot of talk these days about not being too hard on ourselves. And that’s good in the sense that self-loathing and undue pressure are hurtful and counterproductive. But in affirming our humanity and accepting our shortcomings – and letting go of some of the empty expectations the world places on us – we mustn’t excuse ourselves from the very high standards that God has for us. Not expectations that emerge from a task-masterly nature or a cool unkindness. I’m talking about expectations that emerge from love.

The Sermon on the Mount is a case in point. To paraphrase Jesus, “You have heard it said that you should not kill. But I say to you, do not even be angry with your brothers and sisters.” Or, “You have heard it said that you should love your neighbor. But I say to you, love even your enemy.” If we are full of excuses (and full of ourselves), we will simply never achieve these things.

We are loved beyond our own imagining by the God who created us. The Scriptures describe a God who is enamored with his people, who cannot leave or abandon them without betraying his very self. But because of this undying love, he wants us to strive higher, harder, longer and without compromise. Yes, he loves us as we are. And yes, he demands more from us every single day.

Sometimes we can honestly say, “I did my best.” But sometimes we just say that because we don’t want to try harder. What does “trying harder” look like in your life? How will you give him more, this God who loves you so?

P.S. I loaned my copy of The Great Divorce to someone, so I’m paraphrasing here! I highly recommend the book. It’s short, creative, and it makes wonderful Lenten reading.

A mixed media piece depicting a scene from The Great Divorce: "Ghosts." © Monica Dyer. Shared with permission. Visit Monica's website to see some of her beautiful artwork: monicadyer.net.