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COLUMNS
» Believe as you Pray
» Family Ties
» In Light of Faith
 
28th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Cycle C, Oct. 14, 2007
by Richard Linneberger
What would your reaction be if tomorrow morning you were a citizen of a particular country, opened your newspaper and saw the following headline in bold print? “Foreigner Returns to Give Thanks.”
The article itself told how a man from a foreign country, one not thought of highly by the citizens of your country, returned to publicly thank someone. This foreigner had received medical help from someone in your country, was cured, and came back to give thanks.
But he was a foreigner — but more than that, someone from a country not respected or prized in your nation. As a matter of fact, the citizens of that country were looked down upon, thought to be less than “good and upright folks” — this grateful person was truly from the “other side of the tracks.”
How would you react to reading a headline about this foreigner?
Most of us hearing today’s Gospel will concentrate on this person from the “other side of the tracks” thanking Jesus for healing him.
The gospel proclaimed has a Samaritan “realizing that he had been healed, returned, glorifying God in a loud voice; and he fell at the feet of Jesus and thanked him.” However, this Samaritan was from “the other side of the tracks.”
Scripture scholar Fr. John McKenzie, S.J., writes that for the Jews “the Samaritans were a heretical and schismatic group of spurious worshipers of the God of Israel, who were detested even more than pagans.” A grateful Samaritan? How could this be? What were the headlines like in the newspapers that day? (Yes, I know there were no newspapers, but the gossip mills must surely been at work!)
This miracle story, however, is not just about gratitude. As with many of the gospel stories, there is always more. This gospel also tells us that God can be praised even by those who are not considered part of the official religious structures. Jesus recognized that even a Samaritan could thank God and God is pleased. Jesus said to the Samaritan “your faith has saved you.”
McKenzie also writes that “Jesus’ doctrine of love could demand no greater act of a Jew than to accept a Samaritan as a brother.”
Jesus accepted the Samaritan leper as a brother — a fellow member of the human family. As a member of the human family, the leper praised God and was thankful for the gift of healing caused by Jesus.
You and I are called to ponder once again Jesus’ doctrine of love. What demands does this doctrine of love make on us? What if we had read a headline about a “foreigner returns to give thanks” — especially if that foreigner was not one just like us? Or if that foreigner looked, talked, acted or believed differently than us?
Are we ready to accept the Samaritans in our lives as a brother or sister?
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Parents must learn they’re not always in control
by Mary Hood Hart
My son Charlie called me yesterday. His throat had been hurting all day, but he’d suffered through his college classes because he had two exams.
Once his classes ended, he’d tried to go to the student health center, but they had no appointments available. He asked me what to do. I suggested he go to an urgent care clinic somewhere near campus. He took my advice and called me later with the diagnosis. He has mononucleosis.
There’s nothing more frustrating for a mother than to have a sick child she can’t care for.
Granted, my “child” is now 18 years old, but when it comes to illness, even the most mature among us finds comfort in being mothered. And even the most mature mother is ready to drop everything to nurture her child, whether age 2 or 42. It’s just something we mothers are programmed for.
Last night, long distance, I tried to care for Charlie by phone, but that wasn’t sufficient for either of us.
Today, he tells me, his throat is so swollen he can’t swallow. He’s on his way home as I write this, and we have an appointment with his doctor to find some relief from the swelling, we hope. At least, when he gets home, I’ll be able to fulfill both of our needs to nurture and be nurtured.
Freshman year of college is demanding enough, but to become ill early on in the semester creates additional challenges. I’m sad for Charlie that the school year will begin this way.
While I’m sure Charlie’s professors will excuse his absences for this illness, when he’s well enough to resume his studies, he’ll have fallen behind. But the most important consideration right now is to ensure he’s able to recuperate as comfortably and quickly as possible.
Surely, things could be much worse, yet this illness in what we had hoped was a well-planned first semester of college brings home an unavoidable point. As much as we think we have everything together, as much as we try to anticipate every difficulty our children may face, we parents can only do so much. We usually learn this the hard way, mostly through accidents and illnesses or other incidents over which we have no control.
When life is going smoothly, we forget how easily our plans can go awry. We delude ourselves by believing that as long as we parents are at the helm, our family ship will stay smoothly on course.
Life just doesn’t work that way. There are some days, some weeks, some months, (some years?), when the ship is tossed about, and our most carefully laid plans and procedures, schedules and time management, mean nothing. We are at the mercy of rough seas.
We are forced at such times to recognize our own powerlessness. And, when it comes to discipleship, acknowledging our powerlessness is a good thing.
It strikes me as more than coincidence that the apostles learned this same sort of lesson from Jesus while on a boat. These were experienced fishermen surely familiar with rough weather, yet, when the waters rocked their boat, even in Jesus’ company they were fearful and uncertain. The lesson Jesus taught them was to trust.
It is a lesson we all must learn, especially parents. The sooner we discover we are not what we think we are — in control — the sooner and more fully we place our trust in God.
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A light in the darkness
by Barbara Hughes
The saints have a way of living on in the hearts and minds of people long after they’re gone.
Ten years after her death, Mother Teresa of Calcutta continues to be the subject of much speculation. The publication of her letters and private journal entries in the recently released book “Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light” garnered the cover of Time magazine and was discussed in the New York Times. This from the woman who signed her letters to Jesus, “Your little one” makes it all the more intriguing.
In a culture that is infatuated with wealth and fixated on personal comfort, it should come as no surprise that the holy woman of Calcutta continues to mystify audiences. In response to a call from Jesus, she gave her all for the least of the world.
When the book was released, questions were raised about the seeming dichotomy between her interior life and her public persona. Some wondered if revelations regarding her interior darkness would disqualify her as a candidate for sainthood.
But when her life is viewed through the lenses of faith, her suffering only confirms her holiness. The seeming contradiction between her interior pain and the public witness she gave is one more example of her courage and the presence of God in her life.
Like so many saints before her, Mother Teresa experienced what St. John of the Cross termed the “Dark Night of the Spirit.” Passing through this crucible is the only way to self-surrender but for Mother Teresa it became a way of life; a life that was lived in union with the Crucified Christ.
Her obsession with the poor and the most destitute was rooted, not in any delusions of grandeur or the desire to accomplish great things, but in her love for God.
Her writings reveal that the driving force behind all her works was her longing to satisfy the thirst of Jesus for the souls of the poor. It was toward this end that she spent her life, offering not only her work but, the constant doubts and darkness that were her companions on the journey.
At one point Mother Teresa wrote, “If I ever become a saint I will surely be one of darkness. I will continually be absent from heaven – to light the light of those in darkness on earth.”
Her words bear a likeness to those of St. Therese of Lisieux who was equally cunning at hiding her suffering and proclaimed from her sick bed that she would spend her heaven doing good on earth.
It seems that a lifetime of suffering and striving to live for God alone is not enough for these generous souls. Caring little about their own needs and comfort while on earth, they longed to continue offering their suffering for the salvation of others, into eternity. For them, heaven is but another opportunity to bring souls to God. It’s a desire to which few people can relate.
Instinctively we long for a reprieve from work or suffering and uncertainty. We look forward to vacations, a day off, an outing or some form of distraction.
It’s hard to imagine living with what Mother Teresa referred to as “constant darkness, emptiness, a hole and nothing” in terms of her spiritual life.
When she first began her work among the poor, she felt the consolation of God. She knew the certitude that accompanied doing God’s will, but once her work was launched, only doubt and darkness followed.
All she did, she attributed to God and therefore, she truly believed that she was doing nothing. This served only to intensify her suffering. But rather than pray to be released from it, she offered it to Jesus as one more act of faith, one more act of love.
She lived a maxim for which she became known which was, “God doesn’t ask us to be successful; He asks us to be faithful.”
During one retreat, Mother Teresa wrote that she felt as though her heart was made of stone. Yet despite the way she felt, she treated each person with the love and compassion that she believed Jesus would give them. Her determination to overcome her feelings and surrender her will to the will of God continues to light our world. Her darkness has become a blazing light for all who read her story.
Like the writings of many saints before her, her journey serves as a roadmap for sanctity. Absent is the flowery language of many biographers that portray the saints as “other worldly.”
In reality, the saints were very practical people who saw the world and everything in it as belonging to God. As a result they devoted their lives to transforming it into the Kingdom of God.
Like them we have been commissioned with the same task. After reading their stories, we might ask ourselves: How am I doing?
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