Homily:
32nd Sunday in Ordinary Time – Cycle B
One of the most moving experiences that I had during my
time studying Spanish in Guatemala happened when I tagged along on a trip with
two other students and an interpreter to visit a couple of small villages north
of the Guatemalan city of Coban. These
villages didn’t have a source of fresh water and one of the students with whom
I travelled, Christopher, was an engineer who worked to design simple systems
to bring fresh water from a source higher in the mountain down to the village
for them to use. We travelled there so
that Christopher could inspect potential sources of water and talk to the
leaders in the villages about how to cooperate in bringing fresh water to their
village.
After checking out a potential water source early in the
morning, we made our way down to the village to meet with the people and talk
with their leaders. We arrived around
lunch time and they had prepared a meal for us.
Everyone gathered in the community hall and we were seated at the head
table. We were then served a simple soup
with meat. Meanwhile, everyone else
watched us eat. It was rather awkward
for me and I didn’t really want to eat, but our interpreter leaned over and let
me know that meat was something that the people of the village rarely ate
because it was so expensive and that they couldn’t have afforded enough to feed
everybody. So, I politely ate while the
others watched.
I was really moved by that gesture of hospitality and when
I think of the poor widow of Zarephath I can’t help but be reminded of the
hospitality that I received from those poor folks in Guatemala. And I wasn’t even the important one! I had just tagged along! These folks, nonetheless, honored me as their
guest like the widow of Zarephath honored Elijah, in spite of what that would
mean for herself and for her son. The
widow considered her duty to hospitality first and so did these folks in
Guatemala.
What moved me most, I think, was just how uncomfortable it
made me. Sure, I’ve never liked being
the center of attention, but this was different. My discomfort was in the fact that I had
become acutely aware of just how much I had and just how little they had. I had driven to their village in a rented
truck. These people probably didn’t have
a truck to share between them and probably didn’t have the means to put fuel in
it to keep it running, even if they did.
I had a hot shower in the morning, but they bathe in rainwater that they
collect off of their roofs. Yet they
served me soup with meat in it and then watched me eat it because they couldn’t
afford to make enough for everybody! And
I couldn’t even offer them the promise of rain to maintain their water
supply! I remember feeling like the
scribes whom Jesus accuses of making themselves important and of “devouring the
houses of widows”.
And it wasn’t just that day, either. In fact, this Gospel passage always makes me
feel uncomfortable. This is because I
know that what I give to support our parish, the greater Church, and the poor
comes from my surplus. I strive to be
generous, of course, but it’s still my surplus.
Thus, my conscience challenges me whenever I reflect on passages in the
Gospel like this one that we read today.
“You’re not giving to the point of sacrifice” my conscience tells me. “But it can be a lot of money”, I reason with
my conscience: “Does God really want me to give it all?” And I can’t help but think that this part, at
least—the part of deciding how much I should be giving—would be a lot easier if
I didn’t have so much.
Some of us, I know, are giving like the widow. You are making sacrifices to continue giving
to the Church and the poor and you should feel commended for doing so. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to
try and maintain a steady level of giving if you are on a fixed income, if
you’re underemployed, or if you’re paying education bills. If this willful sacrifice comes from your
sense of duty to God and to the Church, then you are certainly storing up
treasure in heaven.
Most of us, however, give from our surplus. Some of us are minimalists: we fear our
financial security or we give into self-serving greed (or a little of both) and
so we give as little as is necessary so as to feel like we’ve done our duty. This kind of minimalist sense of “duty” is
false piety, however, because it betrays a lack of trust in God. Many of us, however, give very
generously! And we should be commended if that generous giving truly comes from
a sense of duty to God and to the Church.
Yet we’re not, perhaps, at the point of having to sacrifice something so
that we can give.
Now, I’m not saying that we should give to the point of
sacrifice just so that we can say that we do and thus feel justified before
God. What I am saying, rather, is that, in
giving to the point of sacrifice, we approach a more absolute trust in God. This kind of trust-based giving is much more
pleasing in the eyes of God. The widow
from Zarephath and the widow in the Temple are both great examples of
this. Both gave up their last bit of
security to God—and, thus, made themselves completely reliant on him to provide
for their needs—and both were rewarded for their faith.
My brothers and sisters, if we have not yet given to the
point of sacrifice, then perhaps today’s Gospel will cause us to feel a little
unsettled. Because to resolve this
discomfort, we will have to allow ourselves to be challenged: to ask ourselves
hard questions like “How much do I trust in God” and “Am I ready to give him
everything if he asks for it?” Unfortunately,
there are no simple answers to these questions, only an example to follow:
Jesus on the cross. Jesus’ total faith
in the Father was what made it possible for him to bear the suffering of the
cross. Therefore, as we approach this
altar today to receive the fruit of this sacrifice, let us pray that God would
give us that same faith so that we, too, might give ourselves completely to him
and thus share in the reward won for us by Jesus: eternal life.
Given at All Saints Parish:
Logansport, IN – November 8th, 2015
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