julie vieira

Memorial of Saint Boniface, Bishop and Martyr
Lectionary: 353

Tobit 1:3; 2:1a-8
Psalm 112:1b-2, 3b-4, 5-6
Mark 12:1-12

Today’s readings are difficult ones. There’s no easy way to find a word of hope without doing a disservice to the reality of life which while certainly beautiful, is also fragile and broken.

Not all stories have a happy ending, not every cloud a silver lining.

We cannot gloss over the the realities of poverty, racism or the willful destruction of Earth. We cannot give a passing glance to oppression of LGBTQ+ people. In fact this month of June, we remember particularly the Stonewall Riots of June, 28, 1969, when the queer community broke out in spontaneous protests to a police raid targeting their community at the Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village of New York City.

We humans are no stranger to the harshness of life. Sometimes we are its victims, and sometimes we are its aggressors.

In our readings today we hear from both classic antiquity and the time of Jesus about the struggle we have to live justly and in right relationship with one another.

In our first reading, Tobit shares with us about his desire to share a meal with “a poor person from among our kin exiled here in Nineveh” only to receive word from his son Tobiah that one from among the poor had been murdered and left lying in the marketplace.

And in the gospel, Jesus shares a parable with the chief priests, scribes, and elders about how a vineyard owner’s servants, and even his own son, were abused and killed out of a sense of disrespect, entitlement and greed. The parable of course is a way for Jesus to point out the hardness of heart that some people had toward Jesus’ message of the radical inclusivity of God’s love.

Far from happy endings, these stories hold only tragedy and heartbreak. There is no dramatic turn of events that saves the day.

“But hope is on the way!” we might cry out in protest. “Jesus does save the day!”

Yes.

But not on that day in Nineveh. Not on June 28, 1969, at the Stonewall Riots, and not on March 13, 2020, when a Black woman, Breonna Taylor, was murdered by police in her Louisville apartment.

That these stories do not end on a hopeful note does not mean that there is no hope. Rather they are an invitation for us to stay present in the moment, in the here and now, tending in a very personal way to one another in the hour of our greatest sorrow and hopelessness. This we must do, even while at the same time we long for and work on behalf of a new creation, “a new heaven and a new earth” (2 Peter 3:13).

Tobit models for us what this might look like. Let’s go back to what happened in Nineveh that day. Upon hearing of the murder of his kin, Tobit says:

I sprang to my feet, leaving the dinner untouched;
and I carried the dead man from the street
and put him in one of the rooms,
so that I might bury him after sunset.
Returning to my own quarters, I washed myself
and ate my food in sorrow….

And I wept.
Then at sunset I went out, dug a grave, and buried him.

Looking at Tobit’s response symbolically, we might ask ourselves:

what experiences urge us to “spring to our feet”?
what rooms in our home can we open up for others?
when are we called to accompany others – or give permission to ourselves – to lament and to weep?
what actions are we compelled to take that emerge out of our heartbreak and our deep faith and commitment to God?

Perhaps in the absence of finding a word of hope within these stories, we might instead follow Jesus and become a cornerstone, a foundation of the new heaven and new earth that all of creation longs for.

Image Credit: Rhododendrites, CC BY-SA 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons

Wednesday of the Sixth Week of Easter
Lectionary: 293

Acts 17:15, 22—18:1
Psalm 148:1-2, 11-12, 13, 14
John 16:12-15

The past few weeks I’ve been working on a presentation at Visitation on my fave theologian, and the subject of my master’s degree, Karl Rahner. I will spare you the long list of reasons why I love Rahner. However I would be remiss if I missed an opportunity to mention Rahner’s insight into understanding God as Holy Mystery. God is the one who is “incomprehensible and impenetrable”. God is the nameless one, the infinite horizon.

Of course my ears perked up with today’s reading from Acts where Paul speaks about the Athenians’ shrine to “the unknown God”. Now I don’t want to be anachronistic in any way, but I do think there’s an interesting connection between the Athenians’ experience of the sacred as unknown and the emerging Christological sense of the sacred as mystery.

The Athenians liked gods – the major Olympian gods like Zeus and Athena and the minor gods like Pan and the Muses. They even paid homage to the titans. Athens was so inclusive and welcoming that their city boasted shrines to all kinds of deities beyond their own religious circle. They were “inherently hospitable to new gods, ideas, and interpretations” (source). The Athenians were also careful. They erected a shrine to “the unknown God” just to make sure they’d covered all their bases. For they did not wish to offend any deity, even one they did not know.

Paul rightly observes “that in every respect [they] are very religious” (Acts 17:22). What’s interesting to me is that he doesn’t make an issue of any of the shrines. He doesn’t try to bring his Christian message into dialogue with Artemis or Dionysius. Instead, he focuses on this one particular shrine to the unknown God. There’s something about the “unknownness” of this particular deity that Paul finds a connection with. He takes the opportunity to make the connection between this unknowable God, and the God whom he knows intimately. This God, he says, is in fact very much known – not “fashioned from gold, silver, or stone by human art and imagination” but a living God in whom “we live and have our being”, a God who makes Godself known through Jesus the Christ.

Some have read this passage as Paul pointing out their folly and reprimanding the Athenians for the foolishness of worshiping a deity that they did not know. But I don’t think so. Paul knew the ways of the Greek world – he spoke Greek and was well versed in Greek philosophy. There was something about the unknown God that resonated with him and compelled him to begin there, rather than with the very knowable (and rather fallible) deities of the Greek world.

Although Paul did not have the benefit 20^th century philosophical concepts or theological language of Rahner, it’s clear that he also has had a fundamental experience of God as mystery – and God as revealed, knowable. He speaks of this throughout his preaching. He is passionate about sharing this with the Greeks, to help them make the connection between the unknown and the known.

In our life today, we have many things that remain unknown to us, not just God. There’s our health, our relationship⁠s⁠ – I don’t even know what I’m having for lunch today! I’d like to be able to flip a switch – from unknown to known, from hidden to revealed, but that’s not how mystery works. It’s something we have to not only live into, but embrace. It’s in the dance of mystery that we find our creativity, our passion, and our zeal.

Perhaps we can take a page out of Paul’s playbook. To respect the places of unknown and mystery that we find ourselves in and to also begin to move around it, start to find shapes and patterns, colors and textures in the midst of the unknown. In doing so, we begin to name what has been unnamable, reveal what has been hidden.

It doesn’t mean that it’s easy nor that it wont have discomfort, suffering or pain. In today’s gospel, Jesus promises that we are not alone in this and that we do not have to bear everything alone. The Spirit is truly with us.

As we “live and have our being” today, let us be on the look out experiences of the unknown and known – and not be afraid to dance with this mystery.

Image Credit: Kamil Feczko on Unsplash