Reflecting on Genesis 22:1-2,9a,10-13,15-18

If ever there were an example of why NOT to take some parts of scripture literally, it’s that first reading today. The story of the Sacrifice of Abraham (or the Binding of Isaac) has been out there for 2600 years, listened to around the campfire and proclaimed in synagogues and churches. I can’t find a single case of a mentally competent father ever murdering his beloved first-born son because he wanted to show God how obedient he was.

There is in us a certain filter that activates when we read a story like this. We say, “This is horrible, “ or “How can this be in scripture?” or even “Who wants a father like that?” But there is something in us that gets, right away, that this is a story told to instruct, not to be imitated.

There are other scripture texts that bring the filter down immediately too. I’ve known thousands of devout Christians in my life, people whose entire worlds are about bringing the Good News to the poor, and not one of them has, to my knowledge, ever cut out their eye or hand or foot because it offended them (Mt. 18:9).

I have heard of some Pentecostal churches that have encouraged believers to pick up snakes or drink deadly poisons in order to show the power of God’s word to save them (Mk. 16:18), but as people around the world become better educated in scripture those stories have begun to die out.

So, what IS the point of that terrifying Genesis story we read today? Maybe it’s that our relationship with God is the treasure we want to protect above everything else.

What would your life be like without the intimacy of Christ?

Kathy McGovern ©2021

Reflecting on Genesis 9: 8-15

Many years ago I was hospitalized several times over the course of five months. Probably the most visceral memory I have of that terrible time is of a recurring dream. The Greeks had it right when they named “Morpheus” (morphine) the god of dreams. If you’ve ever spent a length of time on morphine I’ll bet you’ve had some awful dreams too.

In this dream I was on an escalator, going down, down. There was no escape, no hope. I remember thinking how odd it was that everyone was on the escalator, everyone was doomed to an eternity of going down without any glimpse of sky or light, and yet we all kept pretending that we didn’t realize this.

Through the grace of God and the strength of the prayers of hundreds of people, I recovered. And over time the dream lost its power, so much so that, nearly fourteen years later, I have to work to remember it at all.

But when I think of the Great Flood, the terrible waters covering the earth and all that dwelt upon it, I remember that feeling of going down, down. A catastrophic flood is related in several ancient texts. There seems to be, lodged in our universal collective unconscious, a sense that we are traveling down, down, without hope of rescue.

But, stronger than death, Rescue did arrive, and even the torments of Satan couldn’t keep him from us. Such is the fierce love of Jesus. The early Christians imaged the Church as a boat on high seas, keeping us up, up. Jesus commands that boat, of course. Grab on to that boat. Grab on to Jesus. He will raise you up.

How will you cling to Jesus this Lent as you exercise a new discipline?

Kathy McGovern ©2021

Reflecting on Mark 14: 1-15:47

What did Jesus know, and when did he know it? That question can haunt us as we hear the Passion read, and as we meditate throughout this Holy Week. Did he always know that he would die?

He must have known by the time of the transfiguration at Tabor. When Moses and Elijah appeared in the cloud, they spoke with him. He must have known then that his life was coming to an end.

I’m sure he must have known by the night of the Last Supper. Judas must have been behaving oddly. Even some people in Jerusalem could have been whispering, loud enough for him to hear, that someone had betrayed him. When Jesus told the Twelve that the hour of his death was upon him, their behavior must have confirmed what his heart already knew.

The arrest followed, and the night spent in Caiaphas’ dungeon.  There was the sentence of death, the terrible scourging, and, finally, the cross. Mark records that his last were, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” This is the very worst part. Nothing is as terrible as our Jesus crying out in despair, asking why God has abandoned him.

And then it is complete. The ultimate passion―to have his Father’s face turned from him—is finally finished. If he had had the comfort and intimacy of the Father with him on the cross, it would not have been the cross.

There may be a time this year that in your greatest hour of darkness you cannot find Jesus. Remember, then, that Jesus knows what that loneliness is. You have been given a share in his cross.

So, likewise, in his resurrection.

What parts of the Passion resonate with an experience in your own life?

Kathy McGovern©2018

Reflecting on John 12: 20-33

Everybody clings to stuff. We cling to our mothers on the first day of kindergarten. We mark off our sacred chair, or crayon box, or the line of demarcation in our shared bedrooms. This is mine. You’re not allowed to touch this, or borrow that, or go beyond this point.

Winter makes its mark on us. We pull our coats tighter, and tie our scarves close to our necks. The wind howls, the bare trees stand as silent witness to death. The earth, cold as iron, closes up and offers no hint of the miracle going on just underneath.

The grain of wheat tries to cling too. Hidden in darkness and cold, it tries to hold on to its color and shape. The baby, safe and warm, clings to the womb. But oh, what wondrous life the Master Designer has encoded in us. The grain breaks open—painful death! The baby pushes out of the womb―terrifying! And then comes the Great Reveal: we were never meant to stay a grain of wheat, or a child in the womb.

Staying where we are just doesn’t fit the pattern that God set up in order for us to thrive. That grain of wheat won’t feed the world if it’s allowed to cling. If seeds don’t die, then birds and insects and animals and humans can’t live. If a baby remains in the womb, mother and child will die. The DNA God imprinted in us requires that we not hold on forever. God has greater plans.

We cling to this life because it’s all we know. And yet, season after season, God tells a different story. Keep your spring clothes handy. Resurrection is afoot.

What things in me have to die in order for me to live more fully?

Kathy McGovern ©2018

Reflecting on John 3: 14-21

It’s hard to read those powerful words, those iconic words, those life-changing words of Jesus found early in John’s gospel, and not wonder how many tens of thousands of times the great Billy Graham led people down for an altar call after reading those very words to them.

We can imagine him, in his youth and in his graceful old age, proclaiming to the thousands gathered in the arena and another million watching on television, that God so loved the world that he gave us his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth unto Him should not perish but have everlasting life.

I find myself slipping into the King James language for this famous text, partly because I’m imagining how it sounded coming from his eloquent tongue.

There are some theories as to why Catholics loved him so much and felt so comfortable with him. Certainly there was closeness there because of the urgency of the Gospel. He never wavered in his absolute love for Christ, and him crucified. Catholics understand the long view of history. We have been with Christ from the beginning of the Church, on that terrible Good Friday when, from the Cross, he gave his Mother to us, and us to his Mother. We understand about holding fast.

In season and out, Billy Graham held fast to Christ. He lived in the exact same culture that we do, but he never took his eyes off the prize, which he has now achieved through God’s grace: life on high with Christ Jesus.

In this era of the New Evangelization, this great lion of Christ showed us how to draw souls to heaven. What a welcome he must have received there last week.

In what ways are you helping to draw souls to heaven?

Kathy McGovern ©2018

Reflecting on Ex. 20: 1-17

Those commandments Moses brought down from the mountain have served the world well. There are some cultural commandments that are making us kinder and gentler too. What do you think of this list?

THOU SHALT RECYCLE: We’re doing better, but it’s so strange that a culture so enamored with the Nature Channel is still filling the oceans with plastic at a rate of 8 million tons a year.

THOU SHALT NOT LITTER: We HAVE done better here! Lady Bird Johnson initiated the Keep America Beautiful movement over fifty years ago, and it caught on. Those of us alive in those days remember that it used to be acceptable to throw receptacles out of cars, or leave picnic trash on the ground. Gross.

THOU SHALT MAKE PUBLIC PLACES ACCESSIBLE: This is huge. Dedicated parking spaces for those with disabilities give a daily kindness to those who need a little help. Thank you!

THOU SHALT BE TOLERANT OF BALD WOMEN: I bless every brave person―woman or man― who forged this frontier. I live in a city that is filled with merchants who didn’t bat an eye when I walked in their store, bald from chemo. I hope that your city is as gracious as mine.

THOU SHALT CARE ABOUT THOSE WHO ARE POOR: Twenty years ago my brother asked us to help a family living in low-income housing. There were four little kids―tragically, the baby drowned after being abducted by her father―and a traumatized mom who didn’t speak English well. Today, thanks to financial aid and brilliant programs set up for children just like them, they (and many of their friends) have all graduated from college and are thriving, contributing members of society.

What “cultural commandments” are creating a kinder environment in your town?

Kathy McGovern ©2018

Reflecting on Genesis  22:1-2,9ª, 10-13, 15-18

Okay, let’s take that Genesis reading and stare it down. It’s awful. And it’s not about what we thought at all. Whew.

Let’s get this out of the way immediately. If any person attempted to “sacrifice” their son because God demanded it, we would quickly remove the child and get the parent psychiatric help. This is precisely what God is doing in the story of the sacrifice of Isaac. The entire story is meant for the ears of the neighbors, those terrifying Canaanites who killed their firstborn sons in huge numbers in order to prove to the gods of rain and harvest that they were seriously devoted to them.

See how the Canaanites behave? It shall never be this way with you, says the God of Abraham.  It’s God’s way of removing the children from the scary parents.

When Abraham allowed Sarah to cast Hagar out into the wilderness (along with his firstborn son Ishmael, a thirteen-year-old) he did so because God assured him they would survive. Years later it was Isaac’s turn to be endangered, as he himself had become thirteen (the threshold of adulthood). The same God who proved trustworthy earlier was demanding Abraham sacrifice his second son as a sign of devotion to him. Would the God who was faithful then be faithful now?

This isn’t about a sociopathic god requiring the blood of children. It’s about life’s most important question: can God be trusted in our lives and in our deaths?

We’ve all stood at the grave. Like Ishmael and Isaac, we’ve stood at the threshold of death. Can God be trusted to bring life from death? That’s the big question in this Lent’s gospels. Take heart, and wait.

Can God be trusted with your life?

Kathy McGovern ©2018

Reflecting on Mark 1: 12-15

So, we had a baptism during Mass last Sunday. Baby boy twins Thomas and Owen shared the historic baptismal gown that has been used in their dad’s family since it was hand-sewn in 1882. Think about that. The Civil War was less than twenty years in the past. The owning of human beings had only been legally eradicated since 1865.

The tragic “re-settlement” of the native peoples in the west would not be complete until 1892. Two world wars would bracket a Great Depression. Periods of great prosperity followed the second war and have continued, for many, into our own time.

Cultural convulsions erupted and changed the world, creating entirely different boundaries, economic systems, new enemies, and leading to many wars around the world, which also continue in our time.

The world of 1882 is nearly unrecognizable to us today. Well, that’s not quite true. We’d recognize a baptismal gown anywhere. Thomas and Owen are the 108^th and 109^th babies in their family to be baptized in that gown, made so lovingly 134 years ago.

Go back and find those old scrapbooks in the attic. I’ll bet you’ll find glimmers of the long-ago faith of your forebears, passed on to you, one baptism at a time. And today we hear readings for the First Sunday of Lent which have been treasured and proclaimed by the Church since the fourth century.

Think about THAT. Think about all the changes in ritual just in our lifetimes. Reflect on the millions of believers who have come to Mass on this day and heard Jesus debate the Great Liar. In every age, the message has not changed.

Repent and believe in the Gospel.

Wouldn’t this Lent be a great time to finally frame your baptismal certificate?

Kathy McGovern ©2018

Reflecting on Philippians 2: 6-11

You probably didn’t realize it, but in the Philippians reading this weekend we heard perhaps the oldest hymn in Christendom. Certainly the earliest Christians sang the psalms every day, and probably even a musical version of the crossing of the sea on holy days in the Temple. But Paul’s recitation of the hymn of kenosis―the self-emptying―of Christ on the cross suggests he knew that this beloved hymn was being sung by the Church at Philippi, which was the earliest Christian community in Europe.

Perhaps it was the On Eagle’s Wings of the first century―a well-known hymn that everyone could probably sing by heart with a little help. But why did Paul choose to include it in his letter? I wonder if its beautiful prelude is a key: though he was in the form of God, he did not deem equality with God something to be grasped at.

Paul, that super-educated Jew, that Pharisee who studied with the greatest rabbi of his day, that tri-lingual missionary par excellence, eventually admits in this letter that all of that perfect pedigree is just “worthless refuse”.  The only thing that matters is that he gain Christ, and be found in him.

Let this mind be also in you, he writes. Don’t compete with each other. Don’t think that whatever status you hold in the world means anything in the kingdom of God. Christ, who was God, chose to take the form of a slave. So it must be with you.

Our western culture is crazy for fancy letters behind our names. Somehow that means we have accomplished something. But at our deaths we only need three letters: F.I.H.

Found in him.

In what ways are you making sure you are found in him?

Reflecting on John 12: 20-33

Where do you live? Come and see. With that invitation, Jesus draws the first disciples to himself. They have heard of him, but that’s not enough. They want to know him.

It’s interesting that in the earliest three gospels—called the Synoptics because they tell the story with the same eye―Jesus calls the disciples away from their fishing boats and into public life with him. But in John’s gospel the first disciples seek him first. They approach him, and he invites them to come and see.

What a great Lenten message for us. The spiritual life is sometimes illuminated with “God encounters”―moments when we feel the Holy Spirit alive in us, and we joyfully respond. This was the experience of Peter, James and John when Jesus found them and called them.

But most of our spiritual lives―which is to say, our real lives―is spent actively seeking Christ, positioning ourselves so that we may encounter him where he lives.

So that’s our great, soul-stirring quest. Do you have a place of encounter with him, where you find the Holy Spirit every time you go there? Some friends find Christ every time they serve a meal to those who are homeless. Others seek him where he lives by living and working in the most challenging places in the developing world.

For me, any school where children are safe and happy is where Christ seems to dwell in delightful abundance. But I know that I must come and see him in the schools where children are hungry, and not safe.  As Mother Teresa said, “There is Christ in his most distressing disguise.”

Where do you go to find Christ where he lives?