Fr. Alan's homily for Sunday July 9th 2006
We usually like to be praised for our strengths. Saint Paul wants to boast about his weakness, his "thorn in the flesh". Jesus points out the mark of a true prophet: that he is despised among his own people.
When priests go off the rails it is bad and people are shocked. But mixed up with the shock is also a measure of humbug. Perhaps priests are not expected to be human, to have to struggle with "thorns in the flesh" just like their parishioners have to. Thorns, of course, once formed a crown.
The prophet is not listened to at home. Family dynamics usually provide too much background noise for the prophet to be heard. There's too much baggage there for serious listening. "The Carpenter's son?" Come on.
So we're talking about the weakness being the real glory; we're talking about the unexpected, the outsider being the real prophet. There is a profound theology here, and a bit of local recent history too.
First, the theology. Christian tradition says that God does not form part of the created universe. God creates, God comes, from outside. That's why we mustn't idolise anything in that universe. That's why we are not limited by that universe but have commitments and a destiny that lie beyond it. That's why, in order to hear the word of the Lord, we must learn to look outside the normal, the expected, what we are used to.
The Church is built up from outside. So often it is the newcomer, the guest or the stranger, who gives new life to the community. Our own Church in the UK is being refreshed and revitalised by people from other countries. The guest, the immigrant, the foreign worker: whatever the politics, we have to understand that first and foremost they are sent to us from God.
We've been very blessed for the last few months to have Fr. Brian with us. He has been the guest who has made a real difference, helped us to listen again, refreshed our life as parishes.
Three words from today: bless God for the thorns in the flesh, give thanks for the outsider; expect the unexpected.
Another angle:
I was talking to someone this week about what is commonly known as "The world's oldest profession." I think that there are in fact two professions which deserve that title. The one, I don't have to mention. The second is priesthood, the representative of the holy in our midst: the shaman, the medium, the spirit doctor, the prophet.
The priest is a marginal person. In all ancient religions the priest is special, even slightly ambiguous. In the classical Christian tradition he is male and has to be so. He is celibate, sexually ring-fenced. That is both an internal spiritual discipline and a public, ritual placement in what is seen especially by today's standards as a marginalised space. He seems ambivalent. Though a man, he vests in long, almost feminine, clothes which enshroud the individual in a ritual identity, as opposed to trousers and tops that display individuality. There's a strangeness in priesthood.
But the sacred goes with the strange, the unearthly is kin to the weird; they are not so far apart. For when the course of our lives is interrupted by something from beyond, that is both strange and sacred. "Weird" has a root meaning to do with fate, things foreordained, supernatural mysteries. Traditional Christianity viewed the priest with awe, reverence (The Reverend), even with fear.
So for the priest, like the prophet, "his own country" is a strange one. For him it is often an exile's land. For those around him he seems to be both family and stranger all at once. Perhaps this is what deprives him of honour in his own country. The flip side of reverence is scorn. "Who does he think he is?" is the question. We heard "Who can this be" asked about Jesus last Sunday. Today it is the other question "Who does he think he is?" But the one demands the other. "Who does he think he is" is set against that more profound and awesome mystery of "Who can this be?"
I stand in persona Christi capitis, in the person of Christ the head of the Body. But I remain myself. Despite the modern habit of placing altars so that the priest faces the people at Mass, I am not imitating or play acting Christ at the Last Supper. That's the Leonardo "Last Supper" of course and, also, I'd have to grow a beard for that.
I am here both "for" you and "with" you in order to enact Christ's presence, his "persona" or identity as our common head, our real priest. God accepts your sacrifice at my hands, just as all of us together are an "everlasting gift" to the Father, offered everlastingly at the hands of Christ.
Saint Paul boasts of his weakness, the thorn in my flesh, a strange thing to boast about. But in Christ, thorns become a crown. To be and act "In the person of Christ the Head" means that to be a priest one must also be a victim, to be a healer one must also be wounded, to forgive sins one must also be a forgiven sinner.
Often when priests go off the rails there is huge scandal. Amid the sin and shock, though, there is sometimes humbug too, as if priests were somehow not expected to be human. Indeed we are more human than many others, if the world only knew it. If Christ had to struggle to become obedient unto death (Father, let this cup pass from me) then so do we. Priests should not be play acting these things, but truly exist in weakness mode.
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