Sunday, February 16, 2025

Blessed are those who suffer... no, really.

 Homily: 6th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Cycle C

         A little over 12 years ago, a very good friend of mine, Scott Carroll, called me to tell me that the cancer for which he had been treated once had returned and he asked me for my prayers.  I turned to God and asked him to heal Scott, who was expected to be ordained a priest about six months later.

         A few months after that call, in April, Scott called me again and he was quite distressed.  Undetected, the cancer had grown rapidly around one of his organs and caused it great damage.  He was in real danger of dying and he asked again for my prayers.  I prayed fervently to God that Scott’s doctors could repair the damage and that God would miraculously cure Scott of the cancer.  I soon heard that the doctors did repair the damage, but that there was nothing further that could be done for his cancer: it was too widespread and growing too rapidly.  Barring a miracle, Scott would soon die.

         Scott was his usual, positive self through it all.  He was scared, but he had faith and trusted in God.  We continued to pray.  On May 8, Scott’s bishop decided to ordain him to the priesthood in a private ceremony in Scott’s home, surrounded by his family.  Scott was completely bedridden.  I planned to visit him a couple of days later, but before I could, I received the news.  A day and a half after his ordination, on May 10, Fr. Scott died.  My prayers had not been answered in the way I had hoped, and now my friend was gone.

         This situation is very typical of our human condition, isn’t it?  I mean, how often do we find ourselves faced with a distressing situation—one that affects us directly or affects those about whom we care—yet unable to do anything to resolve it.  In these situations, we often turn to God: only, perhaps, to find that God doesn’t seem to respond to us when we need him.  My guess is that, for many of us here, this happens somewhat frequently.

         The ancient Israelites were no different.  As they went about their daily lives, they often encountered distressing situations—situations compounded by the presence of the Roman occupiers in their homeland—and yet when they turned to God to relieve them of their distress—that is, to free them from the suffering that they were enduring—God didn’t seem to respond.  Because of this, many, perhaps, became sullen and on the verge of losing hope that the God whom they worshiped (and whom their ancestors worshiped) really wasn’t as all-powerful as the Scriptures told them he was.

         This all changed when Jesus began his ministry.  In spite of Jesus’ admonitions to the people whom he healed or from whom he drove out demons, as Jesus’ ministry of teaching and healing grew, his fame also grew throughout the land.  Thus, the people who had begun to feel bogged down by the day-to-day sufferings and distressing situations that plagued their lives began to seek him, so that they, too, might receive a healing, a deliverance, or perhaps a word that might bring them consolation.

         In Luke’s Gospel today, we hear of one of these such encounters.  We didn’t hear this in the reading, but the preceding verses tell us that, after spending the night in prayer on the hillside, Jesus called his closest disciples to join him and named the twelve to be his apostles.  Then, as they descend the hillside, they encounter a great crowd of people, some of who had come from a great distance to meet him.  Many were Jesus’ disciples and still many more were those who were distressed: those sick and in search of healing, those tortured by an oppressive demon or psychological disorder, and those simply looking for a word of consolation from this man of God.  Upon encountering them, Jesus indeed speaks to them a word of consolation as he begins his famous sermon.

         “Blessed are you who suffer”, he says.  Jesus, looking upon them and seeing them in their distress, had pity on them.  His pity, however, was not the pity that one has, say, for an injured and helpless animal: whose suffering has no redemptive value.  Rather, his is a pity tempered by a joy that comes from the knowledge that those who suffer, but who nonetheless trust in God, are actually better off than those whose material comforts have relieved them from suffering.  We can imagine that this was quite confusing for the people who came all that way.  These pitiable ones came to Jesus thinking that the relief of suffering was the way to happiness; and Jesus flips the story: the rich are not to be envied, no, but rather the poor, because they are the ones who, in the end, will be happy.

         The reason for this, of course, is that those who are blessed with much in the way of material comfort are at risk of trusting too much in their own capacities and so stop turning to the Lord in their need.  As the prophet Jeremiah reminded us in the first reading, those who trust in themselves (or in human ingenuity, more generally), will find themselves alone when true suffering afflicts them again: like a bush on an arid hillside where no water can be found.  Those, however, who suffer from lack of material comfort, more readily recognize their need for God and his power.  Thus, they place their trust in him and make themselves like a tree that is planted near running water, whose roots are never dry, and who thus has the capacity to persevere through every trial and distress.

         In spite of his teaching that day, Jesus still cured those who were sick and drove out demons from those who were possessed.  Their healing and deliverance were causes of great joy!  Still, they went home to suffer again at some point.  Jesus cured their illness, but he didn’t make them rich.  When suffering inevitably returned, I like to believe that they remembered Jesus’ words: “Blessed are you who are poor, for the kingdom of God is yours…”  Jesus taught them that their suffering was pointed toward something—their happiness—and so taught them to endure, trusting in God through it all.

         The same, of course, applies to each of us.  Each of us, at some point in our lives—maybe even here today—have sought the Lord in suffering and in distress (like I did in distress over the suffering of my friend, Fr. Scott).  Whether or not we received relief from him in the form of a physical healing or deliverance from distress, all of us have heard these words from him and so can find comfort: “Blessed are you who are now weeping, for you will laugh”.  His words are a reminder to place/renew our trust in God so that we, too, will be like a tree planted near running water, whose leaves are always green, no matter the weather.

         How can we have this hope?  Saint Paul tells us in the second reading today: “If Christ has not been raised, your faith is vain… But now Christ has been raised from the dead…”  Friends, life is all we have.  Thus, the ultimate suffering—the one that no one has discovered a way to prevent or reverse—is death.  Jesus’ resurrection is proof that God can overcome even the most irreversible suffering.  His promise to raise up, even from the dead, those who are united to him is, therefore, our hope that strengthens us to persevere through every trial and distress in our lives.

         Thus, it is fitting that the theme for our Jubilee Year is “Pilgrims of Hope”.  This theme is both a reminder of the hope that we have—that is, the assurance of this good, awaiting us in the future—as well as a call to give witness to this hope in our lives: primarily, by showing our trust in God, regardless of the trials and difficulties we are experiencing.

         My friend, Fr. Scott, trusted in God until the end.  I believe that, in some way, he is enjoying his happiness now as he awaits the resurrection of the dead on the final day.  To this day, his witness gives me strength to trust in God in my own trials.

         Our Lord Jesus himself trusted in his Father and endured the trials and sufferings of his crucifixion.  Because of this, God raised him from the dead.  Jesus, therefore, is the model of trust for all of us.  He left us this Eucharist so as to be with us and to strengthen our hope in all our sufferings.  Trustingly, then, let us open our hearts to receive this grace so that we, like my friend, Fr. Scott, might witness to its power in the way we live our lives.

Given in Spanish at St. Joseph Parish: Rochester, IN – February 16th, 2025

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