General – Page 15

Egypt

It must have been a strange and solemn sight for the apostles. Here they were about to do what they had done countless times before: break bread, eat bitter herbs, drink wine, and partake of the lamb in a meal that declared their deliverance from a place of slavery called Egypt. The Passover was a meal to remember their evening escape from the days of toil and bitter slavery under Egypt. As with the other such meals they had shared before, this one would proclaim again what God had done, the chains God had broken, the flight from prison to freedom, by the blood of the lamb. They were gathering again to remember that they were slaves no longer, that Egypt was no more. Then before even a bite is taken, here comes their Master, doing what they themselves thought they were freed from doing. He assumes the stance of a slave, bends down to the floor and proceeds to wash their feet. That alone must have repelled, if not silenced them. He their Lord was doing what they used to do in Egypt, the Master doing what only slaves are supposed to do, the Lord doing an Egypt even if they were in Egypt no longer. Perhaps the good Master was mistaken? Cleary, they were in Jerusalem now. Or, might it not be that it was they who were mistaken? Perhaps even if they were in the very heart of Jerusalem, they had never really left Egypt, given how they were still moving about in bondage and in fear. Perhaps they were still very much slaves since slavery has always been subtle in the way it conditions slaves with numbness and delusion and despair. It is possible that when our Lord bent down to wash their feet in the manner of a slave, they were awakened from their numbness and despair. It is possible that with water in his hands over their feet, they saw through their delusion, saw how deluded they were in supposing they were no longer in Egypt. You see these Egypt moments in our lives as well, given how readily we sometimes concede our loyalties to the many powers that vie for our allegiance; subtle forces that seem benign at first but eventually hold us captive. We know we are not free when we are under the spell of these attractive forces. We know we are not free when we are driven by repulsive energies that tear us apart from ourselves and from each other. When we no longer know we are not free, when the numbness and delusion and despair take over, we are back again in that place of slavery. Yet while we are there, the Master comes to our lives as someone who bends down to our feet, keeping our heart close to his, awakening us from numbness to love he has borne for all eternity. On the eve of our deliverance, before he presides over a new Passover meal, our Lord does not take the stance of one who is about to take flight. He takes the stance of one who is about to stay with us to the very end. He takes the stance of a slave not because he is not free, but because he is about to show us what it will take for us to be free. He asks us, “Do you realize what I have done for you?” Can you see what I have given you? Do you know what is happening here, what you are receiving? Do you recognize the place you are fleeing from? Can you sense where you are going? Do you know what I have done for you? Do you know why? I have shown you the way out of Egypt, the path of your deliverance. That path starts here, the very moment you bend down to the feet of each other, keeping the heart of your neighbor close to yours, awakening each other from numbness to the love you bear for one another. “I have given you an example to follow, so that as I have done for you, you should also do.” After this gesture for us to follow, Christ presides over a meal that recalls our deliverance from Egypt. In that first meal, a lamb was slaughtered, its blood smeared on our doors for death to pass us over. In this new Passover, the Master is the very lamb of sacrifice; the bread is his body, the wine his blood. From that wash of water in his hands over our feet, he turns us back to the Table and leads us to his body and blood about to be offered for our lives. The Master on his knees, washing the feet of his disciples. Christ on his knees, in the garden of tears, bent at the pillar, bound to our cross, staying to the very end. As I have done for you, so also shall you do for each other. Let us pray on this eve of our deliverance. Let us keep watch over this solemn sight of love bending down and being offered for our lives. See his hands in the water over our feet. Keep vigil over the bread that is his Body, about to be broken and shared. The bloodstains from the Lamb smeared on our daily crosses; condemnation and death passing us over. Tonight we shall leave Egypt. Tomorrow, Egypt shall be no more. Jose Ramon T Villarin SJ Cenacle Retreat House Holy Thursday, 24 March 2016

General, Homilies, Soul Food

A Pondering Heart

January 1, 2016

This homily was given by Fr. Arnel Aquino, SJ, on January 1, 2016, at the Cenacle Retreat House. Early this week, we went on a full ferry boat on our way to Bantayan Island. Across from us sat a mother, and on her lap, a very restless toddler. The little boy was irrepressible. He would squirm out of his mom’s arms, then go onto the floor. There was very little legroom between benches so the little boy wouldn’t notice he was already under the seat in front. Then he would suddenly straighten up and bang his head under the seat, and start to scream. Then his mother would ease him out from under there, put him on her lap. He’d be fine for a while. Then he’d start being antsy again, and start squirming away, and sliding down onto the floor. Same story. Banged his head again, screamed, rescued. This happened around four times through the hour-and-a-half hour trip. I’d have been flustered on the second time that the same thing happened, were I the mother. I’d have tried to, like, “reason” with the baby in some awkward, if stupid way to solve “a problem”. But this mother, like many mothers—she had her toddler on a very long leash. It was the look on the mother’s face that I found most haunting. It was an unflinching, contemplative look. Not smiling but not frowning either. Not a weak, helpless look, but not a grave, heavy-handed glare either. She was very “there”, very present to her baby. Yet, she also looked like she was present to a hundred other things a-swirl in her mind. The best metaphor for her gaze we could borrow from Mary: the look of “pondering these things in her heart.” Many of us are familiar about pondering things in our hearts. We also call it contemplation, don’t we? To ponder contemplatively. And it makes sense that mothers have the forbearance of a Job when they ponder their children in their hearts, because, as we know, unlike the thinking mind, the contemplative heart has a lot more space. Pondering in the heart has plenty of room where our thoughts and considerations can freely drift and dance, without censorship, without analysis, or do’s and don’t’s, or should’s and shouldn’t’s. In fact, one clear sign that we’re pondering with our hearts is when we do not obsess about dichotomies. A contemplating heart has room for contradictions and paradoxes. When our hearts ponder, we’re not cramped by either/or’s, or all-or-nothing’s. A contemplating heart has room for both/and’s, yeses and no’s, should’s as well as shouldn’t’s—and still be at peace. “Hay nako, anak,” Mary must’ve pondered as she gazed at Jesus. “How much you’ve already gone through before you were even born. In the eyes of the world, I’m your dalagang–ina, so you’re an anak sa labas. The angel said you’re the son of God, and savior of the world. But look at your woeful, makeshift nursery, anak.” How much more irony was there for the more fastidious among us to analyze and solve? But in Mary’s pondering heart, there was no contradiction pressing to be straightened, no mistake needing correction. Everything belonged; everything fell into place in that wide space that her pondering heart was. A second clear sign that we’re pondering with our hearts is when love silences fear. When we contemplate with our hearts, love does not erase all fear—for there are things we’re still afraid of when we contemplate about our life. But in a pondering heart, love defangs our fears. It neutralizes its venom. Mary actually had much to fear—before, during, and even after her son’s birth. For one, her womb was growing even before a Joseph showed up at the door; probably why she had to go on self-exile to Elizabeth’s, for fear of being accused of adultery and sentenced to death by stoning. When Mary went on labor, she was far from the welcome of home. Then, no sooner than the child was born, a mad king decreed the massacre of innocents. Oh, there was a lot to fear alright. But Mary’s pondering heart had more space for love than fear. Her love for God far exceeded her fear of men. If ever she was afraid, and I’m sure she was, she never feared for herself alone, which was probably why her world didn’t come crashing down on her. Fear for nobody but ourselves does that to us, remember? It shrinks our world, cramps our space and makes it hard for us to breathe. Kapag natatakot tayo para sa sarili lamang, lalo na dahil pinakamahal natin ang sarili lamang, lumiliit ang mundo natin. A third and final sign of pondering with the heart is that latitude we give for God to move and do whatever he wishes in the space we relinquish to him. It’s like welcoming into your home someone you owe a lot to: you give up your bedroom for him, you leave for him the tastiest portions of the meal, you give him the keys to your house and tell him not to worry about the time of his coming’s and going’s, and that he could wake you up any time if he needs anything, anything at all. That’s the kind of space a contemplative heart has for God, a space of total surrender out of deep respect and gratitude. All her life, Mary welcomed God that way, with a life of constant surrender of her space to whatever God or his son chose to be and to do—even to the way her son chose his death. Pati ‘yon, kahit masakit, napagkasya ni Maria sa lawak ng kanyang puso. I imagine that the way Mary contemplated her child is very, very similar to how God contemplates us, from the day he willed our birth, up to now. The divine pondering has unbelievable space for all our contradictions, our inconsistencies, our infidelities. Every inch of God-space is filled with divine love that casts