19^th Sunday in Ordinary Time (A); Aug. 9, 2020

1 Kgs 19:9-13a.  Ps 85.  Rom 9:1-5.  Mt 13:22-33

Deacon Jim McFadden

 

       The French mathematician and philosopher, Blaise Pascal, once said that the reason there is so much evil in the world is that a person cannot go into one’s study and be still for 15 minutes.  Some time ago an elite, Eastern university conducted a study in which volunteers were given a choice to be absolutely still in a secluded room with no external stimuli or receive an electric shock.  The majority opted for the latter! Both anecdotes show how difficult for us to be still.

How so?  To begin with, we’re surrounded by a wall of endless chatter, small talk, off-the-cuff remarks that have no beginning and no end—not just in person but from the media and from our myriad technological devices.  But, it’s not only external distractions—such as FaceBook, Instagram, TikTok—that command so much of our attention, but we also have to deal with the white noise that dwells within our own mind: that incessant flow of one distracting thought after another that makes us feel as if we’re like a monkey bounding off one side of the cage to another.  The need for constant “communication” and external stimuli can get to the point where we simply worship noise and can’t live without it.

Today’s readings invite us to hit the ‘pause’ button: to enter into spaces of silence, where it can be easier to hear the One who is constantly communicating his divine love for us if we only listen.

In the first reading from the first Book of Kings, Elijah is on the run and afraid for his life.  After he slaughtered 500 of queen Jezebel’s prophets, she was out for blood.  During his flight he got so discouraged that he plopped himself down by a broom tree and asked God to let him die.  Life was just too much to go on any further.  Haven’t we all had that feeling at one time in our life when the demands of life seem so overwhelming?  God, however, has other plans for Elijah, just as he does for you and me.  First, an angel fortifies him with food and drink.  Thus strengthened, he begins a 40-day trek to Mount Horeb, the same mountain that Moses received the Ten Commandments.

Elijah climbs the mountain.  He goes to that place that connects him with the God of Moses; he goes to his roots where the covenantal bonds between God and his people were forged.  Elijah was seeking intimate contact with God.  He needed to feel connected with the Lord if he was to continue his arduous journey.  He wanted God to show himself.  There then appeared to him a fierce, roaring wind that shook the mountain and crushed rocks.  But, God was not in the wind,  nor was he in the ensuing earthquake that gave rise to fire—just like the flames that engulfed the Burning Bush but did not consume it.  God was not there.  God would not come to him via spectacular special effects.  Instead, God came as “tiny whispering sound” or, in another translation, as “a sound of sheer silence”

 (1 Kgs 19:12c).

What’s going on here?  In order to come into God’s presence, we need to be still.  We have to ask ourselves whether our thoughts, choices, actions are leading us to fulfill our deepest desire to be in communion with God and to do God’s purposes, or are they driving us away into the wilderness of distraction.  Elijah was still, and in that encounter with God he was strengthened for the remainder of his prophetic mission.

In the Gospel, we see Jesus likewise retreat to a mountain by himself to pray, following the noisiness and clamor of feeding 5,000 people and learning the death of his cousin, John the Baptist.  But, the crowds find him and he breaks out of his solitude to respond to their needs.

As the Gospel story unfolds, Jesus retreats again.  Even at night the people’s needs for him don’t ease.  Moreover, his disciples are in distress in their boat, which is being buffeted by strong winds.  This scene is so rich with meaning.  The earlier Fathers of the Church saw the boat as not only the life of each one of us, but also the life of the Church.  By virtue of our baptism, we have been initiated into the mystical Body of Christ, the Church, which is built by Christ and steered by the Apostles and their successors.  In other words, we are never alone as we are connected to our Lord and to each other.  The sea represents life and the instability of our visible world; it represents our existential situation here and now.  Within the sea, the storm points to every kind of trial and difficulty that oppress human beings.  In the year 2020, we know what that means.

Peter’s invocation —“Lord, bid me come to you”—and his cry—“Lord, save me!” (Mt 14:28,30) are very similar to what we experience:  we want to feel the Lord’s closeness amid the fear and anguish that accompany the most difficult moments of our life and of our communities.  The pandemic has exposed the deep fissures of fragility and inequality that are ingrained in our country; we feel vulnerable, weak, and helpless.

The disciples also are in distress; but, notice that Jesus does not go to them until the fourth and final watch of the night, about three hours before dawn.  We can surmise that Jesus was aware of the strong winds that were tossing them about.  He, however, remained in solitude in that necessary stillness, where he experienced oneness with God.  Strengthened by that intimacy with his Father, he then compassionately ministers to his disciples.  He saves them.

This story offers a wonderful archetypal image of the reality of the Church throughout the ages.  The boat, the Church, must make the crossing, must also weather contrary winds and storms in our historical moment which threatened to capsize it.  Make no mistake:  what saves the Church is not the courage and qualities of her members; the guarantee against shipwreck, of being overwhelmed by trials, is not our doing, but is faith in Christ and his Word!  This is the guarantee: faith in Jesus and his Word will get us through anything.

If the Church returns to our still Center, which is the heart of Jesus, we can traverse any stormy sea.  As we dwell within Jesus, he can do through us that which seems impossible.  As Peter, the first Pope of the Church, was floundering in the sea, Jesus stretched out his hand to him just as he does to you and me in the year 2020.  Peter grasped his hand to come closer to Jesus and, as he did, he found his true Center, where Jesus’s contagious courage dispels all fear.  He did it with Peter and he can do it for you and me if we let Him,if, we “Come to the Quiet.”