THE TWENTY-SECOND SUNDAY IN ORDINARY TIME – C

Sirach 3:17-18, 20, 28-29
Hebrews 12:18-19, 22-24a
Luke 14:1, 7-14

Dear Jesus,

My father was a mild mannered man, well able to control his emotions. It took a great deal to provoke an angry response from him. The rest of the time a glance from him was sufficient to register his displeasure with something said or done. That being said, when he did erupt it was memorable.

How old was I that day? It seems to me that I wasn’t more than in the third grade of elementary school. We were walking down an avenue not far from home. I held his hand. What possessed me? I saw the man sitting, leaning his back against the Woolworth store. A scruff of beard showed on his face. His clothes were well worn and in need of repair. He had a cup in his hand to accept the offerings of people passing by. What struck me as funny? Why did I laugh? From this vantage point, I cannot recall. I do remember that my father paused in front of the man and inquired about his health, shook his hand, and dropped something into the proffered cup. Father and I continued passed for a few paces. Then he stopped and turned toward me demanding my full attention.

“Listen to me, Young Man. And I hope I never have to repeat this. I am very disappointed in what you just did. What gives you the right to hold another person up to scorn? (I don’t think I knew what scorn meant then.) You laughed at that man. Do you think you are better than he is? Do you know the troubles he has dealt with in his life or the sorrows that have befallen him? Never forget that God loves that man the way God loves you. He’s family.

“You think about what you did just now. When we get home, I want you to tell me what you are going to do to make sure nothing like that ever happens again. Do you understand me?”

He did not have to raise his voice. He did not have to spank me. The hurt that registered in his eyes was more painful that a shout or a slap. Even as I write this these many decades later, I can hear his voice and feel the pressure of his hand holding mine. The lesson etched itself indelibly in my consciousness.

I think of that childhood memory in the context of your Good News this day. You teach about humility. But I wonder if people might miss the point you are making if they concentrate on the instruction to take the lower place at a banquet table. The possibility of being shown to a higher place by the host and being the recipient of the adulation of the other guests who get the point of just how important the one being reseated is in comparison to the rest of them just might translate into a temptation to vanity. Of course there is also the possibility that noticing the person in the lower seat, the host might thing the person chose aptly. Then imagine the chagrin.

Isn’t this lesson meant to take us deeper, to challenge us to be different from what our natural inclinations might incline us to do? Isn’t this meant to confront our natural perceptions regarding self in relation to others? That child that I was laughed at the beggar because instinctively I thought I was better than he. My father apprised me of the truth.

It is not easy to be a Christian. You never said it would be easy to be your disciple. We’re back to the narrow gate, the eye of the needle through which the heavily laden camel can only enter with great difficulty. Through Luke, you challenge your disciples to see people through a different lens. Among your disciples, the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind, all those easily ignored or overlooked by the societal elite, these are to have primacy of place. They are all to have a place at the Table. Hosting this class of people and publicly denounced sinners with them opened you to ridicule and became the source of charges leveled against you, charges that led to your rejection and crucifixion. If I am going to be your disciple I have to be the host of that kind of banquet and number these kinds of people among my friends.

I struggled with the community where I had worshipped. Looking around the assembly, I saw only the comfortable, the white. Other races and ethnic groups were not in evidence. I should have taken my lead from the parking lot. Luxury cars occupied most of the slots. And inside, everything was too pristine, the padded pews, too soft. I lasted a few Sundays before I went on a search for a place that told me: All are welcome here!

I knew I was home when I saw the severely disabled woman struggle with dignity to ascend the stairs to the altar area, there to receive your Body and drink your Blood and then to struggle down the steps to begin her Eucharistic Ministry. I saw the person in the motorized chair struggling with Cerebral Palsy. Her Amen came a little later than those of the rest of the assembly. I saw Hispanics and Blacks and Asians. And on my way into the worship space, three people at different times welcomed me and told me how happy they were to see me. All are welcome here!

Sometime,s I wonder about the padded pews. I wonder about the elitism that seems evident in some assemblies. A collection for the St. Vincent de Paul society is not enough to counter act those first impressions. God help me if I should look about me and dare to think that I belong among the elite much less, recognizing the poor and the disabled think Thank God I am not like the rest of men or even like these.

I don’t think I have to sit in the lowest place. I certainly don’t want the place of honor. I just want to make myself available to wash feet.

Sincerely,

Didymus