Homily for Nov.12th, 2017: 23rd Sunday in Ordinary time, year
A.
AIM: To help the hearers live in the light of our final end.
“We do not want you to be unaware,
brothers and sisters, about those who have fallen asleep.” These words from our
second reading direct our attention to a subject we mostly try to avoid: death.
The Church puts death front and center during this month of November. It begins
with All Saints’ Day, which is immediately followed by All Souls’ Day, when we
pray in a special way for our departed loved ones.
The celebrated eighteenth century
Englishman and wit, Dr. Samuel John son, said once: “Depend upon it, Sir, when a man
knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.”
In a sense we are all like the man who knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight.
We all know we must die. What better time to think about death than in this
month of November, when we can do so calmly and prayerfully, rather than pushing
the whole uncomfortable subject out of our thoughts until the knife is at our
throat?
In our second reading Paul says that
when the Lord Jesus returns in glory, those who have already died “will rise
first. Then we who are alive ... will be caught up together with them in the
clouds to meet the Lord in the air.” That is poetry. It is symbolic, not
literal. Throughout the Bible clouds symbolize God’s presence. God appeared to
Moses in a cloud atop Mount Sinai to give him
the Ten Commandments (Ex. 24:15-18). God spoke from the same cloud at Jesus’
transfiguration (Mk 9:7). At his ascension Jesus disappeared into a cloud (Acts
1:9). He said he would come again “on the clouds of heaven” (Mk 14:62).
When that will be, we cannot know. The
Bible nowhere gives us any kind of timetable for predicting the end of the
world. Jesus himself says this quite specifically: “That day or that hour no
one knows, not even the angels in heaven, not even the Son, but only the
Father” (Mk 13:32). Nor can any of us know the time or circumstances of our own
death.
The Bible tells us that we are to
prepare for this great and final event, and for our own personal death, not by speculation about the date, but
by living here and now in the light of Christ’s return and God’s final triumph.
This means living not for ourselves, but for God and for others. It means
pursuing justice instead of exploitation; trying to build people up rather than
tearing them down; being more interested in giving than in getting. That way of
living is the “wisdom” we heard about in our first reading: “The perfection of
prudence,” that reading told us, which makes those who pursue it “quickly free
from care.”
In today’s gospel reading Jesus warns
that those who spurn this wisdom, living for themselves, heedless of life’s
meaning and of God’s claims on them, are headed for disaster. They are like the
foolish bridesmaids who made no preparations. They assumed that they could
always get more oil for their torches whenever they needed it, and that the
door of the house would be opened for them even if they arrived late. The
foolish bridesmaids are shocked to discover that, at the decisive hour, they
are unprepared, and excluded. Until then, there seemed to be no difference
between the wise and foolish bridesmaids. “They all became drowsy and fell asleep,” Jesus tells us. The midnight
call to action finds the wise prepared, however, and the foolish unprepared.
Here is a modern commentary on this
gospel story. It’s a young woman’s letter to the man she loves. Someone I can
no longer identify sent it to me by e-mail long ago. Here’s what the young
woman wrote:
“Remember the day I borrowed your
brand new car and dented it? I thought you'd kill me, but you didn't. And
remember the time I flirted with all the guys to make you jealous, and you
were? I thought you'd leave me, but you didn't. Remember the time I forgot to
tell you the dance was formal and you showed up in jeans? I thought you'd drop
me, but you didn't.
“Yes, there were a lot of things you
didn't do. But you put up with me, and you loved me, and you protected me.
There were a lot of things I wanted to make up to you when you came back from Afghanistan
“But you didn't come back.
“We think there is always tomorrow;
but one day soon our tomorrow will be
on the
other side. Today's parable of the wise and foolish Virgins is asking us: on
which side of a locked door do you wish to spend eternity? We need to make our
decision now, not later; because soon that will be too late.”
Let me conclude by telling you the
story of the medieval morality play Everyman.
It is still performed today, in some places. At the play’s opening Everyman is
walking home, thinking happily of dinner, family, and fireside. He almost bumps
into a black-clad figure. Startled, he asks the man’s name.
“My name is Death,” the man replies.
“I have come to take you with me.”
“There must be some mistake,” Everyman
insists. “I never felt better in my life.”
“There is no mistake,” Death tells
him. “You must come with me.”
Desperate, Everyman pleads: “At least
let me bring a friend with me. I don’t
want to go alone.”
Death smiles: “If you can find a
friend who will go with you, he may come. I will give you one hour. Then meet
me here.”
Everyman hurries back toward town to
the house of a friend he knows well, knocks on the door, and pours out his
story to his friend. The man looks at him with mingled sadness and terror. “I
cannot come, my friend. It’s impossible.” The friend’s name is “Riches.”
Increasingly desperate, Everyman hurries to the house of a second friend, then
to a third. In each case the answer is a frightened, “I’m sorry. I cannot
come.” Their names are “Fame” and “Pleasure.”
Slowly Everyman turns back down the
path to his rendezvous with Death. As he
walks along, he comes upon another old friend, one he has not seen lately. Without much hope, he tells his sad story
again. To his astonishment, this friend replies: “Sure, I’ll go with you.” His
name is “Good Deeds.”
Death was a familiar figure in the
Middle Ages. Average life expectancy was under forty; infant mortality was
common. There were no hospitals or nursing homes. People tended their dying and
buried their dead. Death at a great age was rare. Today we take it for granted.
We Americans tend to insulate ourselves from death. When it comes, we
cosmeticize it. Perhaps it’s all a way of trying to avoid Everyman’s question:
Who will go with me on my final
journey?
There is Someone who would love to go
with you. But he doesn’t walk with strangers. If you want Him to go with you on
your final journey, you must start to make friends with Him now.
His name is Jesus Christ.
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