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» In Light of Faith
 
Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Cycle A July 20, 2008
by Ann Ruggaber
Every parent learns that the best way to settle wound-up children is to begin, “Once upon a time…”
Everyone loves a good story! A really good one does more than entertain; it leaves us mulling it over, finding ever-deeper truths, perhaps making us squirm a bit as we come to a realization of the message behind the captivating tale.
Such was the tradition out of which came the teacher, Jesus of Nazareth. And nobody told a story like he did!
Images pop from the pages of the Bible and implant themselves in our minds, one piling on top of the other. The Kingdom of God is like...a field of wheat ...a growing mustard seed ...rising bread.
We walk away from today’s gospel with a head filled with images to ponder. We know what to do to start a seed growing, or bread rising, but we also know that once we have planted the seed or mixed in the yeast, the result is out of our hands.
We have to relinquish control, be patient, and recognize that we aren’t the ones who make the seed grow or the bread rise. And so it is with the Kingdom of God. We do our little bit, and God makes it grow.
One thing becomes quickly apparent: God’s vision is always bigger than ours. We might, figuratively speaking, be happy with a modest mustard plant, but God envisions a huge tree!
I am reminded of the story of St. Francis, who, according to legend, had a dream in which God asked him to “repair my Church.”
Francis dutifully gathered stones and mortar and set about repairing a local church building that had been neglected. He quickly found out, however, that God had something much bigger in mind, and eventually he founded a religious order which helped to revitalize a Church that had grown worldly and out of touch with its mission.
God’s vision is always bigger than ours.
We may be tempted to think very narrowly about our baptismal calling, allowing ourselves to believe that it is primarily about saving our own souls. But the Gospel makes it plain that the mission of the baptized is to do the work of the Kingdom — to literally renew the whole world.
Fear sets in with that realization. We can’t change the world! We can’t make seeds grow or bread rise either, but unless we plant the seed or mix in the yeast, the seed won’t grow and the bread won’t rise.
God invites us to prepare the soil, mix the dough, plant the field (choose your image) so that his Kingdom can grow in our world. Each of us has a part to play, and together, we can begin to glimpse God’s wide vision breaking through.
Our baptismal mission has two parts. The first is to use our gifts and talents for the good of all, celebrating them because they are freely given to us to be freely given to others.
The second is to discover, encourage, empower, and celebrate the gifts of others. We’re only one part of the grand result God envisions, but each of us has a role in God’s Kingdom enterprise.
I suspect most of us find it easier to put our own talents to work than to nurture the gifts of others, and yet, that is how the Kingdom grows.
So, this week if you hear someone singing beautifully, or if the flowers on the altar are especially lovely, or the homily particularly challenging, say so!
Thank a catechist, or a social ministry volunteer, or a lector.
Invite new members to participate in the ministries of the parish. Help them identify their gifts. If we all did that regularly, what vibrant places our parishes would be!
And perhaps we would find ourselves a bit closer to the Kingdom of God on earth that Jesus describes in so many wonderful images in today’s gospel.
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Dogs become part of the family
by Mary Hood Hart
We’ve always had dogs. When the children were small our dogs were treated like dogs. They lived in a fenced backyard with a doghouse.
We always had at least two, so they could keep each other company. We’d take care of their basic needs. They joined the children in their backyard play.
They were large dogs, Rosie, a golden retriever, and Daisy, a yellow Lab mix. Then we added Louie, a boxer.
Not long after Rosie died from bone cancer at age 10, I found Homer, a mostly beagle pup, abandoned on the roadside. He stayed with us for a couple years until he was adopted by one of Anna’s friends who’d always wanted a beagle. He’s thrived in his new home where he lives indoors.
When our dogs faced illness, we cared for them. They evacuated with us when hurricanes threatened. But raising four children was always our first priority, and the dogs came second.
Jim has never been the dog lover that I am. He didn’t have a dog growing up, and he could be content never owning a dog.
I sold Jim on the idea of getting a dog early in our marriage when he traveled a lot (dogs make great protection) and, as a compromise, I agreed the dog(s) would live outdoors (thus the fenced yard and doghouse.)
I kept that promise until Daisy had to be put to sleep (at age 14). At that point, Louie the boxer was our last dog, and I didn’t want to leave him outside alone. He moved inside and was incredibly well-mannered, as if he’d been waiting all his life for the opportunity.
Fast forward a few years: The nest was rapidly emptying. The big dogs, even Louie, had passed away.
Anna and Charlie were teens. Charlie became convinced he wanted an English bulldog. After Internet exploration, we discovered that English bulldogs, selling for over $1,000, were out of our league. Then we saw an ad in our local paper for an English bulldog/boxer mix.
Anna, Charlie, and I talked Jim into accompanying us to look at the puppy. I was pretty sure that as soon as we saw the pup we’d bring him home, and that’s what happened. Hank’s mother was an English bulldog; his father was mostly English bull and some boxer. Hank looked just like an English bulldog without the papers or price tag.
English bulldogs can’t take the heat, so it was never an option for him to be an outside dog. Hank was an exhausting puppy. Suffice to say that in a matter of days, he destroyed a couch. (The only good news: it was an old one.) He was so strong, he could spin me around when I tried to walk him.
I took him to obedience classes, and he completed two terms (preschool and kindergarten). He learned to walk better on a leash, but he was still a challenge.
Yet he was also incredibly lovable and as cute as the bulldogs on commercials and greeting cards. When I was walking him, people would stop their cars to admire him.
It took two years and tons of stress (mostly mine), but Hank and Jim finally bonded. Then, last summer Hank, only three years old, became suddenly ill.
We expected it’d take one visit to the vet and he’d be okay. But he didn’t rally.
Hank’s second visit to the vet coincided with a long-planned trip to an important event in our son’s life. We left our sick dog at the vet’s office as we flew to New York fully expecting he’d be recovering when we returned after a long weekend.
His condition worsened, and when it was clear he wouldn’t live, and his pain became intense, from New York, we gave the vet permission to put him to sleep. It was heartbreaking.
When a dog enters your life at the same time your children are leaving to form lives of their own, the dog fills a void you only partially realized was there.
I grieved for Hank more than for any dog I’ve owned. The amount of trouble he gave us was nothing compared to the hole in our lives that he left when he died.
Hank and I took daily walks, and when I ventured out the first few times alone, the neighbors asked, “Where’s Hank?”
Word got around. I came home to find cards left on my doorstep. There was a time in my life when I would have ridiculed a condolence card for the death of a dog. No longer.
After Hank’s death, the kids tried to persuade us to get another dog. I insisted (to Jim’s relief) that my dog days were over. My heart hurt too much. Yet the empty spot in our lives, while diminished by time, remained.
Several months later, I started exploring the Internet. I decided that a small dog was the only option, since, after a move, we had no fence, and a modest home. Through petfinder.com I found that a humane society in Virginia was adopting out a litter of toy poodles a breeder couldn’t keep.
A friend had raved about toy poodles. They were said to be smart and affectionate. I completed an on-line application, never expecting to be chosen. That night I received a call.
Last April, I drove to Virginia to pick up Remy, a four-month-old black toy poodle. Even Jim has been won over by this charming little dog, who now sleeps at the foot of our bed. His only mischief is typical puppy stuff (shoe casualties). Our couch remains intact. When I’m home, the dog follows me everywhere. As I write this, he’s sleeping in my lap.
A warning should accompany all dogs available for adoption or sale: “Beware: dog ownership has been associated with a high risk of foolishness and doting affection, especially for recent empty nesters. Proceed with love.”
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The Liturgy of life
by Barbara Hughes
As a mother I experienced it first hand. As a grandmother, it serves as a reminder, and as a person of faith, it causes me to reflect on the rhythm of life, a rhythm that is sacrosanct.
Last month my husband and I were blessed with another grandchild and the sacredness of that rhythm was once again revealed in ways both dramatic and routine.
To the non-reflective eye, the repetitive cycle might appear monotonous, even boring, but when viewed through the lens of faith, it takes on a sacred dimension.
Every three hours, like clockwork, our granddaughter’s internal alarm would sound. Within hours of her arrival home, we could set our watches and synchronize plans by this newborn’s tummy alarm.
As if on command, noises, barely audible at first, eventually escalated to a full cry leaving no doubt in the mind of those within hearing distance that it was time for her to be fed.
But the rhythm was about more than establishing a regular feeding schedule. As the need for physical nourishment was being met, Natalie Claire was learning a very important lesson about trust.
She was learning that when she was hungry, someone would feed her and when she was uncomfortable, someone would soothe her and make things right.
The daily ritual of holding, feeding, and bathing establishes a pattern between child and parent that over time will hopefully translate into a sense of safety and security.
Although this real life liturgy seems to focus on the needs of the present moment, it instills the kind of faith that fosters hope for the future. The cycle of cry and response mirrors the human/divine relationship experienced within the daily encounters of communal love.
The cycle of trust and hope is learned gradually and when grounded in faith turns the prose of daily chores into a lover’s poem.
Love is the yeast that elevates our efforts and gives life to the mix of ingredients that might otherwise appear empty and monotonous. It has the power to transform the ordinary into the mystical; the power to take the bread and wine of every day events, consecrate them and with God’s help create something holy.
God’s love and presence are constant, but when we are consumed with self-interest, we miss the big picture waiting to be discovered in the messiness of life. While it is God that transforms us, every person has the power to participate in or reject this divine initiative, a power that was not lost on our six-and seven-year-old grandchildren.
During our visit, one of the highlights was the “Live from the Living Room” performances by six-year-old Callie and seven-year-old Bobby. Their repertoire of songs was still fresh in their minds from vacation Bible school and one of their favorites was a song entitled “We’ve Got the Power.”
Complete with hand motions, their young voices said it all as they sang, “We’ve got the power to be thankful, to be brave and to be a helping hand.”
What a simple recipe for happiness, the kind of happiness that God wants us all to know! Unfortunately, it’s the simple things that become difficult when we lose sight of the miraculous.
When liturgy, be it the liturgy of life or the liturgy of worship, becomes stale, it’s because we’ve lost sight of the fact that we really do have the power to make a difference.
Saints weren’t born — they were made through repetitive acts of consecrating the somewhat boring tasks on the altar of love. Sadly, in love’s absence, unknowing hearts go through the motions, doing the same tasks, but remain unchanged.
As the wonder and awe that accompanied those first weeks of life are replaced by an endless repetition of activities, they, like all liturgies are in danger of becoming boring. In the wake of endless loads of laundry and sleep deprived nights, the miraculous becomes ordinary, even tedious.
Then unsuspecting hearts are at risk for becoming victims of disillusionment and fatigue. They may even find themselves complaining about life’s most wondrous events once the newness has worn off. Yet there is comfort to be found in repetition.
The Liturgy of the Hours, the Liturgy of the Word, the Liturgy of the Eucharist and the liturgy of life are all predictably familiar and yet they are forever changing, just as we are. They touch us in new places and when we are attentive to the Spirit of God present in the recurring themes, they have the power to transform us.
When Mass becomes tedious or dull, perhaps the problem is not so much with the music or the homily as it is with our lack of attentiveness to the big picture.
Every liturgy has the potential to transform us. All we have to do is seize the power.
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Copyright © 2008 The Catholic Virginian Press. Articles from Catholic News Services, including Fr. Dietzen’s column, may not be reproduced due to copyright considerations.
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