The Hubris of Man, the Humility of God

Friends, All Saints Day falls on a Sunday this year, so the Church can give special attention to this important solemnity. Léon Bloy famously said that there is only one real sadness in life: not to be a saint. Sainthood is the ordinary goal of Christian life; it’s what the whole spiritual life is about. But what does it mean to be a saint? What do we have to do to become one? And do we truly want it?

Friends, our Gospel this Sunday is from the twenty-second chapter of the Gospel of Matthew. Jesus has been doing battle with the scribes and Pharisees, and this passage brings that great argument to a conclusion in an interesting way. One of the teachers of the law, making an old move in rabbinic circles, tests him: “Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?” In other words, can you sum up the richness and complexity of the law in one statement? When Jesus gives his answer, we’re on holy ground, because this is not just one rabbi among many but the Lord—the Word made flesh—telling us what’s at the very heart of the matter.

Friends, on this Twenty-ninth Sunday of the year, our Gospel features the question from the Pharisees about paying taxes. In response to the trap, Jesus offers one of the most famous one-liners in history: “Repay to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God." His answer didn’t automatically solve the problem of the relationship between church and state, but it did point the way through two opposite extremes, both of which are predicated on a false understanding of how God relates to the world.

Friends, our Gospel today is the parable of the wedding banquet, and like all the parables, it’s kind of unsettling. What we’re meant to see is that this invitation from the king is the greatest invitation possible. God the Father is asking you, personally, to come to the marriage feast for his son. Therefore, the refusal to accept that offer is the central tragedy of the spiritual life. Will you say yes to God’s invitation? And not only that, but will you behave as someone who is worthy of being in God’s house?

Friends, in our second reading this Sunday, Paul tells the church of Philippi, “Have no anxiety at all.” It’s hard to imagine that Paul—who was shipwrecked many times, beaten within an inch of his life, threatened and harassed and persecuted and opposed, and finally arrested, dragged to Rome, and decapitated—never experienced any anxiety. So what does he mean? What he says next is the clue: “But in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God.”

Friends, our second reading, a passage from the second chapter of Paul to the Philippians, is one of the master texts in the New Testament. It’s not only ancient and poetic but also substantive; indeed, in some ways, it lays out the whole of Christianity. Adapting an early Christian hymn, Paul presents the answer to Adam’s grasp at divinity—namely, the self-emptying love of God.

Friends for this Twenty-fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time, we hear a story from Jesus that tends to bother everybody: the parable of the laborers in the vineyard. We’re meant to hear our own voices in the complaint of these workers. Dealing with God, we often think things are unfair. Why does he do what he does? I’d like to get at this with a clarification that comes out of the heart of the spiritual tradition: You don’t fall in love with the benefits of God; you fall in love with God.

Friends, our Gospel for this Twenty-fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time is the familiar story of Peter asking the Lord how many times he should forgive his brother: “As many as seven times?” Jesus responds, “Not seven times but seventy-seven times.” I want to get at this passage by looking at the second reading, taken from the Letter of Saint Paul to the Romans, which sheds distinctive light on it. When we are clear about our mission—when we know that we belong to the Lord—we can let go of resentments and harms done to us, and get on with the business of our lives!

Friends, for the wokeist philosophy that dominates today, empathy—feeling the feelings of the other and not harming those feelings—is treated as a supreme value. But while empathy is perfectly good and decent, the Bible teaches that love, not empathy, is the supreme value. And love does not mean, primarily, feeling the feelings of the other or not hurting those feelings; it means willing the good of the other—and that can be, as Dostoevsky said, “a harsh and dreadful thing.”

Friends, for this Twenty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time, I want to begin with our very brief second reading from Paul to the Romans. It opens, “I urge you, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice.” Here we see Christ’s cross and resurrection—the supreme sacrifice fulfilling all the offerings of the temple—extended to all the baptized. The Church is now the place where divinity and humanity are reconciled.