We sing of God, immortal yet among us
His body broken here as on the cross
His blood poured out, a sacrifice unequaled
Eternal Word, contained in signs of loss
O mystery, O sacrament most holy
On bended knees, we worship and adore
A world of sin, a legacy of hatred
He bled and died our life, our hope to claim
Enduring shame and agony relentless
For our salvation, Christ the Lord was slain
O mystery, O sacrament most holy
On bended knees we worship and adore
From age to age, this sacrifice unending
In lives destroyed by poverty and fear
His body lives in beating hearts so lowly
And death has died, in place a love so near
O mystery, O sacrament most holy
On bended knees we worship and adore
In every land, in every race and language
In hearts unborn, in faces aged and worn
The God of love, in countless incarnations
His gracious voice in endless echoes born
O mystery, O sacrament most holy
On bended knees we worship and adore
Believers all, bow down in awe and wonder
The King of Glory breaks into this place
Forgiving all our sin and lack of courage
Removing all our guilt with his great grace
O mystery, O sacrament most holy
On bended knees we worship and adore
Come Men of Christ, present your lives in service
His flesh and blood, his sacrifice to share
Our bodies broken on here upon the altar
Our blood poured out, to heal the world’s despair
O mystery, O sacrament most holy
On bended knees we worship and adore
Monday, November 30, 2009
Forty Hours Devotion
This is the homily that opened our Forty Hours Devotion on Sunday evening
I was sitting in O’Hare on Thursday evening thinking about the end times, the Day of the Lord. It was filled with souls. An elderly couple sat indifferently at opposite ends of a banquette. A man in plaid shorts looked confusedly at the departure information located at Gate C6. A little girl in red velvet ran furiously away from her father, laughing in uproarious voice. A little boy in a Yankees hat cradled a hot fudge Sunday from McDonalds. An Asian couple fed french-fries to one another from a bag from the same franchise. A woman in a smart suit stared ahead without blinking. Two flight attendants chatted amiably. A solitary man in a wool sweater read a book about population control. A twenty something woman with long hair and a long face read a fashion magazine. A mother and daughter in matching pink coats walk arm in arm. A young man stumbled on the moving sidewalk. The moving sidewalk was ending and he did not look down. An elderly woman sat passively in a wheelchair and a middle aged priest typed furiously on a laptop.
These were/are the people of thanksgiving. These were/are the teeming masses of humanity that move fatefully from Chicago to Kansas City, to St. Louis, to London, to Sao Paulo.
These were/are the people of thanksgiving hurtling through the dark night at great speed, transcending the bounds of nature to “be there”.
And they know it and they do not know it.
They know that in their hearts they search, they seek, they inquire after a reality that they dare not, perhaps cannot name.
They know that life is difficult, often seemingly purposeless.
They know that there are disappointments, in marriages, in work, in children in the general flow of living.
They often do not know where they are heading, even as they clutch tightly to boarding passes, metaphorical or not.
They often do not know who they are, even as they share their picture IDs with strangers in order to get where they do not know they are going.
They often do not know what makes it all meaningful, what gives step to the little girl’s flight and insight to the priest’s typing.
And so it is with us all, forever, peripatetic, moving, progressing, in transit. We know and we do not know.
We know that we are here, caught up in the matrix of what is termed living.
We may not know that our lives, all of our lives, all of our brave beautiful lives are tied whirlwind into a mystery.
It is the mystery of this season and of this sacrament.
For even as the air vibrates with the finality of the last days, punctuated by the poignancy of unknown thanksgivings, the first days are already engendering themselves in the loins of Creation.
In the midst of decay and denegation, of aimlessness and restlessness, of the perpetual going nowhere, a tiny heart begins to beat faintly in the womb of a woman whose audacious yes whirls around us like the wind, and calls the birds home and renews these days with the promise of child cries echoing down the corridors of time. Child cries that ring like the triumph of the King of Kings.
Just as we are ending, we are beginning and thus we become entangled in the great cycle of Grace, God’s infinite plan of judgment and reconciliation, division and reunion
Just as the sheep are separated from goats, they are summoned back to the one flock by the call of the infant shepherd cascading across the hills.
Calling us in milk and honey tones to a new world, a new life, a new vocation, a new day.
and so
In the midst of a fallen season, we look for a brighter promise
A day when alienation is unknown and we can collapse into the apocotastasis of pure beatitude.
Now I will tell you the whole mystery: That Day is here.
The Alpha and Omega, the One who governs all things, who proceeds and gives flight to all time is here, sheltering himself in the moon of our adoration.
The Lord of the World has gathered strength and power in himself by insinuating himself into the Host who calls all pilgrims to the shrine of his purpose
The creator of history is here, having given flesh to himself in the midst of the huddled masses transported and transporting through the miracle of thanksgiving itself, Eucharistia.
The God of the universe has come to us in this singular way in these cold days and nights
In this sacrament of his love
Of his grace
Of his person
Of his history
Of his purpose
And it is this sacrament and this sacrament only that keeps the world from flying apart.
He does this and we do not know. We do not know. At least we do not know all
Brothers and sisters, here is the truth. There is nothing in this place, in this great transitional gate of life that is good and true, nothing beautiful, nothing good complete, except this sacramental presence. We are consumed by Him whom we consume. And thus we know him a little and we worship him
Down in adoration falling, this great sacrament we hail
Faith will tell us Christ is present, when our human senses fail
And so I am standing in the St. Thomas Aquinas Chapel Sunday evening and it is filled with souls. A man is worried about his final exams. A man is ridden with guilt for a past sin. A man’s stomach rumbles with more than physical hunger. A man wonders how long. A priest is concerned about the salvation of his little flock. A seminarian is intrigued by the haircut of another one. Another is consumed with doubt about his vocation. Another is worried about a sister, a parent. Another was concerned about the certainty of God’s love. Another was anxious for the outcome of his prayer. Another, his integrity, another his ability to love, another, a sacrifice he must make. Another is concerned about obedience, another about celibacy, another his health, another and another.
And they all are here. And they see the alpha and omega, the Lord of the World, the creator of history, the God of the Universe. They see him and adore.
And in this adoration we find direction to our lives.
And we become in our adoration, ostensoriae of Christ for an aimless, transitional world.
I was sitting in O’Hare on Thursday evening thinking about the end times, the Day of the Lord. It was filled with souls. An elderly couple sat indifferently at opposite ends of a banquette. A man in plaid shorts looked confusedly at the departure information located at Gate C6. A little girl in red velvet ran furiously away from her father, laughing in uproarious voice. A little boy in a Yankees hat cradled a hot fudge Sunday from McDonalds. An Asian couple fed french-fries to one another from a bag from the same franchise. A woman in a smart suit stared ahead without blinking. Two flight attendants chatted amiably. A solitary man in a wool sweater read a book about population control. A twenty something woman with long hair and a long face read a fashion magazine. A mother and daughter in matching pink coats walk arm in arm. A young man stumbled on the moving sidewalk. The moving sidewalk was ending and he did not look down. An elderly woman sat passively in a wheelchair and a middle aged priest typed furiously on a laptop.
These were/are the people of thanksgiving. These were/are the teeming masses of humanity that move fatefully from Chicago to Kansas City, to St. Louis, to London, to Sao Paulo.
These were/are the people of thanksgiving hurtling through the dark night at great speed, transcending the bounds of nature to “be there”.
And they know it and they do not know it.
They know that in their hearts they search, they seek, they inquire after a reality that they dare not, perhaps cannot name.
They know that life is difficult, often seemingly purposeless.
They know that there are disappointments, in marriages, in work, in children in the general flow of living.
They often do not know where they are heading, even as they clutch tightly to boarding passes, metaphorical or not.
They often do not know who they are, even as they share their picture IDs with strangers in order to get where they do not know they are going.
They often do not know what makes it all meaningful, what gives step to the little girl’s flight and insight to the priest’s typing.
And so it is with us all, forever, peripatetic, moving, progressing, in transit. We know and we do not know.
We know that we are here, caught up in the matrix of what is termed living.
We may not know that our lives, all of our lives, all of our brave beautiful lives are tied whirlwind into a mystery.
It is the mystery of this season and of this sacrament.
For even as the air vibrates with the finality of the last days, punctuated by the poignancy of unknown thanksgivings, the first days are already engendering themselves in the loins of Creation.
In the midst of decay and denegation, of aimlessness and restlessness, of the perpetual going nowhere, a tiny heart begins to beat faintly in the womb of a woman whose audacious yes whirls around us like the wind, and calls the birds home and renews these days with the promise of child cries echoing down the corridors of time. Child cries that ring like the triumph of the King of Kings.
Just as we are ending, we are beginning and thus we become entangled in the great cycle of Grace, God’s infinite plan of judgment and reconciliation, division and reunion
Just as the sheep are separated from goats, they are summoned back to the one flock by the call of the infant shepherd cascading across the hills.
Calling us in milk and honey tones to a new world, a new life, a new vocation, a new day.
and so
In the midst of a fallen season, we look for a brighter promise
A day when alienation is unknown and we can collapse into the apocotastasis of pure beatitude.
Now I will tell you the whole mystery: That Day is here.
The Alpha and Omega, the One who governs all things, who proceeds and gives flight to all time is here, sheltering himself in the moon of our adoration.
The Lord of the World has gathered strength and power in himself by insinuating himself into the Host who calls all pilgrims to the shrine of his purpose
The creator of history is here, having given flesh to himself in the midst of the huddled masses transported and transporting through the miracle of thanksgiving itself, Eucharistia.
The God of the universe has come to us in this singular way in these cold days and nights
In this sacrament of his love
Of his grace
Of his person
Of his history
Of his purpose
And it is this sacrament and this sacrament only that keeps the world from flying apart.
He does this and we do not know. We do not know. At least we do not know all
Brothers and sisters, here is the truth. There is nothing in this place, in this great transitional gate of life that is good and true, nothing beautiful, nothing good complete, except this sacramental presence. We are consumed by Him whom we consume. And thus we know him a little and we worship him
Down in adoration falling, this great sacrament we hail
Faith will tell us Christ is present, when our human senses fail
And so I am standing in the St. Thomas Aquinas Chapel Sunday evening and it is filled with souls. A man is worried about his final exams. A man is ridden with guilt for a past sin. A man’s stomach rumbles with more than physical hunger. A man wonders how long. A priest is concerned about the salvation of his little flock. A seminarian is intrigued by the haircut of another one. Another is consumed with doubt about his vocation. Another is worried about a sister, a parent. Another was concerned about the certainty of God’s love. Another was anxious for the outcome of his prayer. Another, his integrity, another his ability to love, another, a sacrifice he must make. Another is concerned about obedience, another about celibacy, another his health, another and another.
And they all are here. And they see the alpha and omega, the Lord of the World, the creator of history, the God of the Universe. They see him and adore.
And in this adoration we find direction to our lives.
And we become in our adoration, ostensoriae of Christ for an aimless, transitional world.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
The Wager
I have a problem with gambling
I am against it
In fact I abhor it
Old ladies nickeling and diming their social security away in slot machines
Lottery tickets
Bingo games run amuck
Family’s incomes being swallowed up in online addictions
The whole culture of gambling is laden with subversive greed, the desire to get more, make more, have more.
I have never gambled in my life.
Perhaps its because I am cheap
More likely it is a remnant of unredeemed fundamentalist religion
Fine. Whatever. I can live with that.
Jesus, however, as we might expect, has a slightly skewed perspective
In the cosmic game of chance, Jesus says, go for broke
Give away, Jesus says
Don’t hold back
Bet the bank and never look over your shoulder
Don’t flinch poker face
There is no need to because, ultimately when we gamble everything on God, we are not gambling. We always win.
And yet, like the servants, we hold back, putting our lives in a handkerchief
We fail to give God everything, absolutely everything
Out of fear, out of faithlessness, out of selfishness
We hold back
Nickeling and diming the slot machines of fortune and blessing
Clutching to our chests the chips of grudges, old hurts, prejudice, sour dispositions
Bingoing our way into oblivion.
Because, in all our hearts is a dead place that like a stone keeps us from soaring up to God
Jesus says: Cut it out. Put it on the table
In our spirits is a leaden earthboundedness and Jesus says: Dare to soar! Pull the handle
Give up your life and you will truly learn how to live
Sacrifice yourself completely to the service of your brothers and sisters and learn the meaning of authentic discipleship
Root out all the cheapness in your character and bet everything on his grace
Roll the dice of indifference to power, wealth, youth, materialism.
The doubles sixes of the eschaton are yours
Take all the cards and God will give you a full house of joy, wonder, anticipation, freedom
Bet all on His Grace and your life will be transmogrified with the sure thing of God’s compassion and invitation.
Whatever we hold back is all we will ever have., and we will be faced with the prospect of single-coining our way into eternity.
Jesus knew all of this because he was taking the ultimate chance.
He continued on his way to Jerusalem.
All of us have taken a chance in coming here, in being here, in giving up here.
And in the sacrifices we make, God does not stint on giving us everything, even his body and blood, even his very life on this altar.
Gamble everything, Jesus says, and you will win.
You can bet on it.
I am against it
In fact I abhor it
Old ladies nickeling and diming their social security away in slot machines
Lottery tickets
Bingo games run amuck
Family’s incomes being swallowed up in online addictions
The whole culture of gambling is laden with subversive greed, the desire to get more, make more, have more.
I have never gambled in my life.
Perhaps its because I am cheap
More likely it is a remnant of unredeemed fundamentalist religion
Fine. Whatever. I can live with that.
Jesus, however, as we might expect, has a slightly skewed perspective
In the cosmic game of chance, Jesus says, go for broke
Give away, Jesus says
Don’t hold back
Bet the bank and never look over your shoulder
Don’t flinch poker face
There is no need to because, ultimately when we gamble everything on God, we are not gambling. We always win.
And yet, like the servants, we hold back, putting our lives in a handkerchief
We fail to give God everything, absolutely everything
Out of fear, out of faithlessness, out of selfishness
We hold back
Nickeling and diming the slot machines of fortune and blessing
Clutching to our chests the chips of grudges, old hurts, prejudice, sour dispositions
Bingoing our way into oblivion.
Because, in all our hearts is a dead place that like a stone keeps us from soaring up to God
Jesus says: Cut it out. Put it on the table
In our spirits is a leaden earthboundedness and Jesus says: Dare to soar! Pull the handle
Give up your life and you will truly learn how to live
Sacrifice yourself completely to the service of your brothers and sisters and learn the meaning of authentic discipleship
Root out all the cheapness in your character and bet everything on his grace
Roll the dice of indifference to power, wealth, youth, materialism.
The doubles sixes of the eschaton are yours
Take all the cards and God will give you a full house of joy, wonder, anticipation, freedom
Bet all on His Grace and your life will be transmogrified with the sure thing of God’s compassion and invitation.
Whatever we hold back is all we will ever have., and we will be faced with the prospect of single-coining our way into eternity.
Jesus knew all of this because he was taking the ultimate chance.
He continued on his way to Jerusalem.
All of us have taken a chance in coming here, in being here, in giving up here.
And in the sacrifices we make, God does not stint on giving us everything, even his body and blood, even his very life on this altar.
Gamble everything, Jesus says, and you will win.
You can bet on it.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Belly Up
We are unprofitable servants;we have done what we were obliged to do.
I have to tell you that I am not that into “nice” restaurants. Haute Cuisine is completely lost on me. Give me a good old buffet anytime. Occasionally, however, the job calls me to dine rather than feed and I find myself in some rather upscale establishments. And frankly I am bewildered. The evening usually goes something like this. The waiter tells us what is being served. “Our feature this evening is ratt tatt tatt of pork on a bed of curls of celery, prepared with a foi gras foam and an infusion of slivered bamboo.” Now, I can assure you I have no idea what that is but when it arrives two hours later I am surprised to find a huge white plate with what looks like a raw slice of meat the size of a nickel and an artistically placed piece of dental floss. This is food as art and the art of the day is minimalist. Needless to say on the way home, Arby’s is on the agenda. Why? Because I’m fat and I’m hungry.
Minimalism may be haute cuisine and it may be art, but it ain’t discipleship. Jesus chastises the disciples who only do the minimum, just enough to eek in the side door of salvation. That’s enough for us they say. Jesus upbraids them for their lack of initiative, their lack of creativity, their mendacity. Why? Turn to Sirach
God formed man to be imperishable;the image of his own nature he made them.
By the devil the death of minimalism entered the world.
Catholics are plagued by minimalism. How much do I need to do to achieve my ticket to heaven? Just give me the basics please; too much spiritual food may give me indigestion. How many classes do I have to attend? I want to get married, not become a nun. How long is mass on Sunday? 17 minutes is all I have for God. Just show me the hoops, Father, I can jump, just not too high
And sometimes we leaders can send out the message that all of this Catholic stuff is really not too demanding. Just show up every once in a while, pray a little, confess a little, and drop a little something in the basket.
And little by little we eat away at the substance of our faith. Minimally, we grow smaller and smaller until we despair of the bounty of God. And then we despise religion for its meagerness like a restaurant that has the audacity to serve dental floss to hungry people.
But here is the truth. God is big, God is huge, God is everything and we must be careful that we do not pare down the overwhelming reality of God, a reality in which we are created, in which we hope, in which we dream, in which we long to live, into an entrée that cannot satisfy.
Here is the truth of God, the richness of this altar. Bring it on. Belly up to the buffet sisters and brothers. Let’s get fat on the largess of the Kingdom. Mind your manners, true, but don’t be too picky. God isn’t. After all he created and called us to lives of spiritual excess, overflow, abundance, so let it not be said of us:
We are unprofitable servants;we have done what we were obliged to do.
I have to tell you that I am not that into “nice” restaurants. Haute Cuisine is completely lost on me. Give me a good old buffet anytime. Occasionally, however, the job calls me to dine rather than feed and I find myself in some rather upscale establishments. And frankly I am bewildered. The evening usually goes something like this. The waiter tells us what is being served. “Our feature this evening is ratt tatt tatt of pork on a bed of curls of celery, prepared with a foi gras foam and an infusion of slivered bamboo.” Now, I can assure you I have no idea what that is but when it arrives two hours later I am surprised to find a huge white plate with what looks like a raw slice of meat the size of a nickel and an artistically placed piece of dental floss. This is food as art and the art of the day is minimalist. Needless to say on the way home, Arby’s is on the agenda. Why? Because I’m fat and I’m hungry.
Minimalism may be haute cuisine and it may be art, but it ain’t discipleship. Jesus chastises the disciples who only do the minimum, just enough to eek in the side door of salvation. That’s enough for us they say. Jesus upbraids them for their lack of initiative, their lack of creativity, their mendacity. Why? Turn to Sirach
God formed man to be imperishable;the image of his own nature he made them.
By the devil the death of minimalism entered the world.
Catholics are plagued by minimalism. How much do I need to do to achieve my ticket to heaven? Just give me the basics please; too much spiritual food may give me indigestion. How many classes do I have to attend? I want to get married, not become a nun. How long is mass on Sunday? 17 minutes is all I have for God. Just show me the hoops, Father, I can jump, just not too high
And sometimes we leaders can send out the message that all of this Catholic stuff is really not too demanding. Just show up every once in a while, pray a little, confess a little, and drop a little something in the basket.
And little by little we eat away at the substance of our faith. Minimally, we grow smaller and smaller until we despair of the bounty of God. And then we despise religion for its meagerness like a restaurant that has the audacity to serve dental floss to hungry people.
But here is the truth. God is big, God is huge, God is everything and we must be careful that we do not pare down the overwhelming reality of God, a reality in which we are created, in which we hope, in which we dream, in which we long to live, into an entrée that cannot satisfy.
Here is the truth of God, the richness of this altar. Bring it on. Belly up to the buffet sisters and brothers. Let’s get fat on the largess of the Kingdom. Mind your manners, true, but don’t be too picky. God isn’t. After all he created and called us to lives of spiritual excess, overflow, abundance, so let it not be said of us:
We are unprofitable servants;we have done what we were obliged to do.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
All Saints
After this I had a vision of a great multitude ...
Lively
Lame
Athletic
Frightening
Crippled
Worn
Lovely
Sad
Pathetic
Worried
Withered
Torn
Lowly
Small
Majestic
Blind
Diseased
Sustained
Loved
Unloved
Incarnate
Word in Church Proclaimed
These are the saints
Meek, mourning, merciful, mendicant, maligned
Our Fathers venerated veterans vibrant in their wisdom and depth of understanding
Our Mothers tender and wise in ways beyond comparing
Our Sisters gathering, gathering endlessly the concerns of a ravaged world into the folds of wimples and veils, the inner reaches of prayer
Our brothers toiling hours and hours in anonymous fields, laboring for the Kingdom they see and the Heaven they cannot yet see
And they are living still, like their faith in spite of dungeon, fire and sword
The dungeon of faded memory
The fire of cynicism
The sword of secularization
They are living yet
In every act of charity unselfishly united to the sacrifice of Christ
In every muttered, uttered prayer reserved for the heart, the heart of the Savior
In acts heroic and challenged, in blood shed carelessly in love, in fortitude
In depths unsung and un heralded that make the difference between life and death
In goodness that glows on the skin like the remnants of summer sunshine
In love patient and passionate poured out without regard to cost or care or concern, compassion careening off the caryatids of this world’s pillars
In the face of the wounded one, the face of Jesus crying, smiling, laughing, sustaining in our midst
They are martyrs boldly axed
Confessors rightly syllogized
Virgins singing sweetly
Husbands huddling wives and children
Wives nursing, nurturing
Children wildly trumpeting
Lovers softly cooing
Students diligent and earnest
Teachers wise and wondrous
Races bound together in common acts of worship and sustenance
Nations venerating nations in acts of love over acts of war
Tongues clucking, clicking strange syllables that sound like praise
People, So many people, so many radiant people
And they are calling out to us today, on their feast
Calling us higher into the very mists of mysticism
Calling us into the very heights of incomparable compassion
Calling us deeper into the sinews of God’s own heart
Calling us beyond ourselves and into that corporate community of care, concern, companionship, communion
To Rise above the materially mundane, the mendacic
To Climb imperiously upon the shoulders of angels, ancestors, our elect antecedents
To join in their ascent to the very throne of God
Why?
Because brothers and sisters, this is our home, our homeland, our heritage, inheritance
We are not made for the ground from which we came; we are wondrously, gloriously made for angel choirs
We are made for the brilliant shimmering shook light of a city of adamant and crystal, not the murky sulfurs of a confining earthboundedness
We are made for clarion voices, united in the thundering timbre of the Trisagion, Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord of Hosts
We are made for incandescence, the air of transcendence and not the acrid atmosphere of animosity, rancor
We are made for Him who made himself us for us, who made himself base for us, who made himself death for us, so that we might become saints, rising on his baseness, living on his death
Beloved, we are God’s children now;what we shall be has not yet been revealed
When it is revealed we shall know
The saints are not our fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers alone, they are us. Church triumphant in Church militant.
Church sustaining Church
Church interceding for Church
Church enlivening Church
Church inspiring Church
Encapsulating itself, insinuating itself, ingratiating itself, engaging itself in the whole, the corporeality of connectedness, the Body of Christ.
Happy are we drawn here today into this great company, this cloud of witnesses who are what we are and long to be.
After this I had a vision of a great multitude,which no one could count,from every nation, race, people, and tongue.They stood before the throne and before the Lamb,wearing white robes and holding palm branches in their hands.They cried out in a loud voice:
“Salvation comes from our God, who is seated on the throne,and from the Lamb.”
Lively
Lame
Athletic
Frightening
Crippled
Worn
Lovely
Sad
Pathetic
Worried
Withered
Torn
Lowly
Small
Majestic
Blind
Diseased
Sustained
Loved
Unloved
Incarnate
Word in Church Proclaimed
These are the saints
Meek, mourning, merciful, mendicant, maligned
Our Fathers venerated veterans vibrant in their wisdom and depth of understanding
Our Mothers tender and wise in ways beyond comparing
Our Sisters gathering, gathering endlessly the concerns of a ravaged world into the folds of wimples and veils, the inner reaches of prayer
Our brothers toiling hours and hours in anonymous fields, laboring for the Kingdom they see and the Heaven they cannot yet see
And they are living still, like their faith in spite of dungeon, fire and sword
The dungeon of faded memory
The fire of cynicism
The sword of secularization
They are living yet
In every act of charity unselfishly united to the sacrifice of Christ
In every muttered, uttered prayer reserved for the heart, the heart of the Savior
In acts heroic and challenged, in blood shed carelessly in love, in fortitude
In depths unsung and un heralded that make the difference between life and death
In goodness that glows on the skin like the remnants of summer sunshine
In love patient and passionate poured out without regard to cost or care or concern, compassion careening off the caryatids of this world’s pillars
In the face of the wounded one, the face of Jesus crying, smiling, laughing, sustaining in our midst
They are martyrs boldly axed
Confessors rightly syllogized
Virgins singing sweetly
Husbands huddling wives and children
Wives nursing, nurturing
Children wildly trumpeting
Lovers softly cooing
Students diligent and earnest
Teachers wise and wondrous
Races bound together in common acts of worship and sustenance
Nations venerating nations in acts of love over acts of war
Tongues clucking, clicking strange syllables that sound like praise
People, So many people, so many radiant people
And they are calling out to us today, on their feast
Calling us higher into the very mists of mysticism
Calling us into the very heights of incomparable compassion
Calling us deeper into the sinews of God’s own heart
Calling us beyond ourselves and into that corporate community of care, concern, companionship, communion
To Rise above the materially mundane, the mendacic
To Climb imperiously upon the shoulders of angels, ancestors, our elect antecedents
To join in their ascent to the very throne of God
Why?
Because brothers and sisters, this is our home, our homeland, our heritage, inheritance
We are not made for the ground from which we came; we are wondrously, gloriously made for angel choirs
We are made for the brilliant shimmering shook light of a city of adamant and crystal, not the murky sulfurs of a confining earthboundedness
We are made for clarion voices, united in the thundering timbre of the Trisagion, Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord of Hosts
We are made for incandescence, the air of transcendence and not the acrid atmosphere of animosity, rancor
We are made for Him who made himself us for us, who made himself base for us, who made himself death for us, so that we might become saints, rising on his baseness, living on his death
Beloved, we are God’s children now;what we shall be has not yet been revealed
When it is revealed we shall know
The saints are not our fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers alone, they are us. Church triumphant in Church militant.
Church sustaining Church
Church interceding for Church
Church enlivening Church
Church inspiring Church
Encapsulating itself, insinuating itself, ingratiating itself, engaging itself in the whole, the corporeality of connectedness, the Body of Christ.
Happy are we drawn here today into this great company, this cloud of witnesses who are what we are and long to be.
After this I had a vision of a great multitude,which no one could count,from every nation, race, people, and tongue.They stood before the throne and before the Lamb,wearing white robes and holding palm branches in their hands.They cried out in a loud voice:
“Salvation comes from our God, who is seated on the throne,and from the Lamb.”
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