A Lectio Divina Approach to the Sunday Liturgy
BREAKING THE BREAD OF THE WORD (Series 9, n. 19)
4th Sunday of Lent, Year A – April 3, 2011 *
“Seeds of Light … The Fruit of Light”
BIBLE READINGS
I Sm 1b, 6-7, 10-13a // Eph 5:8-14 // Jn 9:1-41
(N.B. Series 9 of BREAKING THE BREAD OF THE WORD: A LECTIO DIVINA APPROACH TO THE SUNDAY LITURGY includes a prayerful study of the Sunday liturgy of Year A from the perspective of the Second Reading. For reflections on the Sunday liturgy of Year C based on the Gospel reading, please scroll up to the “ARCHIVES” above and open Series 3. For reflections based on the Old Testament reading, open Series 6.)
I. BIBLICO-LITURGICAL REFLECTIONS
In our Lenten journey as a worshipping community, the word of God continues to sow seeds of inspiration that brighten our path. The living word comes as “seeds of light” that germinate in our hearts to produce a rich spiritual harvest. The liturgy of the Word of this Sunday makes us appreciate Christian baptism as “illumination” – a bath of enlightenment in which we become “children of light”. Indeed, our Christian existence is permeated with “light” and impels us to be “bearers of light” to those in darkness.
The Old Testament reading (I Sm 1b,-6-7, 10-13a) is important for the baptismal theme of light because it underscores the ability of God, who is font of light, “to see”. He looks deeply into the depths of our hearts. The prophet Samuel, who was sent by the Lord God to Bethlehem to anoint one of Jesse’s sons as king of Israel to succeed Saul, asserts: “Not as man sees does God see, because man sees the appearance but the Lord looks into the heart.” The reading challenges us “to see” through our human imperfections and recognize the beauty and dignity that our loving God “sees” in us.
Martin Connell comments: “Few of us are chosen for greatness in the eyes of the world, in the eyes of the Church, or even in the eyes of our parish. Yet we are magnificent in the eyes of God, because we belong to God, whatever our state in life, whatever our abilities or disabilities. (…) What is not appreciated in the sight of the world is often appreciated in the sight of God, and what God appreciates, is often never noticed in the world.”
This Sunday’s Gospel reading (Jn 9:1-41) narrates that the man who was born blind followed Jesus’ bidding. He went off and washed himself in the pool of Siloam – which means “sent” – and came back able to see. His faith encounter with Jesus, the light of the world, enabled him “to see”, in the deepest sense of the word. The man born blind journeyed from blindness to sight, from darkness to the light of Christ.
Harold Buetow remarks: “Although the healing of his physical blindness was instantaneous, his growth in spiritual sight was gradual. He grew from the vague perception of the Savior as the man called Jesus (v. 11) to boldly proclaiming Jesus as a prophet, and finally to turning his back on his lack of personal support and the hostility of the religious leadership to recognize Jesus – whom he had never actually seen face to face – as the Lord whom he worshipped. While the blind man came to see, the seeing became more blind. The Pharisees saw the same miracle, but to their spiritual loss. The Pharisees met Jesus, without really meeting him … They heard Jesus and they saw him, but they neither saw nor heard the salvation that was at hand. (…) We, too, suffer from various forms of blindness. For that reason and more, we need the penance and sacrifices of Lent. Lent is a time of preparation for, and reflection on, baptism and the sacrifices entailed in its promised allegiances … Self-denial can purify us into becoming a ray of that blessed light which broke the darkness of Calvary and heralded the glorious Resurrection. It can beautify us before God who is looking into our hearts and seeing goodness that people cannot see; and it can change the sinful part of our lives, from the blindness and darkness of appearances into seeing the way God sees.”
In the Second Reading (Eph 5:8-14), Saint Paul contrasts the time of darkness before baptism and the time of light that results from baptism. In this time of light, we are called to make the “seeds of light” grow and produce – to bear the “fruit of light” that is found in all that is good, right and true. Our sharing in the light-life of Christ must be reflected in the way we live.
The Benedictine biblical scholar Ivan Havener explicates on today’s passage from Paul’s letter to the Ephesians: “The readers of this letter were once Gentiles without Christ and were darkness itself, but now as Gentiles in the Lord, they have become light. Their new identity as children of light requires that they live in a different way. The fruit produced by their light-life is all goodness, righteousness, and truth, considering what is pleasing to the Lord. Therefore, instead of participating in the unproductive works of darkness, they should condemn such deeds. It is even shameful to speak of the deeds done in secret by the children of darkness. Such deeds condemned, however, are illumined by light, and everyone so illumined becomes light. To underscore the point, the author quotes a passage from an unknown source, probably a fragment of a baptismal hymn. It challenges the one to be baptized to wake up from the sleep of a spiritual death and to arise from among the spiritually dead. Resurrection is conceived here as entry into the newness of life, permeated by the light of Christ.”
In the following testimony by Charles Holden, a seminarian studying for the Archdiocese of Portland and a former bus operator for the public transportation of Portland for fifteen years, we realize that it is possible to experience light and to radiate its rays in today’s world (cf. “Annie’s Story” in THE WAY OF ST. FRANCIS, January-February 2011, p. 12-19).
Even to this day I’m not sure if her name really was Annie, but that is what she called herself. She was a petite little thing, but both summer and winter, she was layered like an onion, every piece of clothing she owned on her small person, making her look corpulent as she waddled down the street. She had a round, sweet face, weathered and lined. She had no teeth, but that somehow made her smile seem brighter and wider. Ah, Annie. She looked like a little apple-doll: a wrinkly little face, with deep set eyes that sparkled as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
A bus driver will often serve “regulars’ – that is, individuals who spend their days riding the transit system in search for company, or because they have nothing else to do. Most are homeless or transient. The drivers, for their part, will usually allow them to continue riding if they behave, don’t panhandle and refrain from using foul language. People who work among the homeless and transient know that these individuals are typically the “cast-offs” of our society. Many are mentally challenged. Some have no family, or are no longer in relationship with them. All are poor in purse and in spirit: they live by their wits and thread. Although “communities” will sometimes form among this population, many will ultimately die alone or disappear.
Annie was somehow different. She was proud and independent, yet certainly not invulnerable. One day I noticed she was being harassed by some passerby. Characteristically, she did not call out for help, but I stepped forward anyway, and walked her away from the abuser. Although I had seen Annie many times before, this was the first time I spoke with her. From that point on, we engaged in a daily greeting ritual, and I would often buy her a cup of coffee – “four sugars, please, and lots of cream” – and we would talk about nothing in particular.
As the fall rains came to Portland, Annie would sit on the corner with her makeshift raincoat made of Hefty bags connected with duct-tape, and become soaked like so many who had no place to call home. I often wondered what she did before I came along. I decided to have her come along and ride, to get out of the wet and cold, and share my day. Unlike some others in her circle, Annie wouldn’t go to the homeless shelters. She didn’t like being in close proximity with others, and she had a fear of being robbed in the night. In fact, she told me she slept with her eyes open. When I learned this, I found it both amazing and disturbing, and I decided to find her a safe place to go at night. At first she resisted. She hadn’t slept in a bed for years. Even after we acquired a room for her at a residential hotel, she would always take her belongings with her whenever she left the building.
In our short time together, Annie shared her story. Her mother died in childbirth, and she never knew her father. She had worked as a show-girl “floozy” in a nightclub, and longed to sing solo, but could never get out of the chorus. She married a card shark in Vegas, and they had a daughter, but she had to give her up because she couldn’t support her. Annie told me she was a grandmother, but she has never seen her grandchild and could not say if it was a boy or a girl. One rainy night, after a show, she was crossing the street and was hit by an on-coming car with no head lamps. The injuries she suffered ended her dancing career. Her husband left her while she was still in the hospital, and, having no other skill, she became homeless at the age of thirty-one. When I met her in Portland, she was eighty-seven.
Annie taught me a lot about courage and hope in the light of loss and despair. She found joy in everything, and nothing was more unacceptable to her than to feel sorry for oneself. Yet for all her independence, Annie admitted she feared death. It was a striking contradiction: she was adamant she needed no one, but she dreaded the idea of dying alone. She would laugh that she feared being discovered in an “indelicate” position – she was, after all, a lady. But her humor was tinged with a darker truth that there was no one to hold her hand at the end.
If Annie believed in God, she didn’t let on. She found ways to change the subject when religious faith came up. I often wondered if she might have harbored a deep-seated anger at God, or if her relationship with God was so personal she kept her feelings and faith to herself. I did notice, however, that she frequently clutched a small coin in her hand. It was worn smooth, like a worry-stone, from constant handling and rubbing. I asked her what it was, and she replied it was a St. Christopher’s medal, given to her a long time ago – for luck, she said.
For me, reaching out to Annie was a ministry of friendship. There really was very little I could do for her except to invite her to climb aboard and rest awhile from the rawness of street-life. Over the course of the fall and winter, we would ride and talk and laugh for as long as she chose to remain on the bus. And when it was time to go, she would ask for the wheelchair lift and wiggle her pudgy fingers “toodle-loo” as she waddled back on to the sidewalk. In the spring, Annie started to fail. Perhaps she had a stroke. Whatever it was, something had changed, and she moved more slowly and talked less. I spoke with a representative of the local Catholic Charities, and a caregiver was sent to assess what might be done for Annie. Because Annie was so independent, this step – like the small room she ultimately agreed to move into – was a process of convincing and negotiation.
I didn’t see Annie for several weeks. I asked the other bus drivers who knew her and the road supervisor who monitored the transit mall, but no one had seen her. More than anything, I hoped that the people at Catholic Charities had found a way to bring something lovely to the end of her life.
Then one day, quite out of the blue, there was Annie, waiting at the corner. My heart was filled with the joy and relief of seeing my friend, and I could tell somehow she felt the same way. For the rest of the afternoon we talked and caught up on what had been happening in her life. She had been ill, and spent some time in the hospital, but now she was glad to be up and around. Other than that, nothing much had changed. Annie was Annie.
Annie and I resumed our routine, and she seemed her old self. She still wore every piece of clothing she had, including her little knit cap that covered her white hair, never complaining of the heat. Yet as the summer progressed, she slowed dramatically. She had greater difficulty getting on the lift, and she could no longer lift the worn sack that held her few possessions. Her smile, however, never seemed to waver.
One late afternoon in July, as twilight set in, that I glanced over to see Annie. Her eyes closed, a little smile curled about her lips. I never really gave it a thought. These days she slept or dozed most of the time she rode with me, and I was grateful she felt safe enough to sleep. When I reached the end of the line, I went to wake her, only to find that she had passed away, quietly, peacefully, without fear or struggle. Most importantly, she had not been alone. She had been accompanied by a friend.
Losing Annie was hard for me. She was a beautiful spirit, and amidst the sadness she suffered throughout her life, she brought joy and offered some of life’s most important lessons. I had been attracted to the beauty of Annie’s poverty. With nothing to burden her, she lived with a certain freedom, a freedom to enjoy life in its simplicity. Like our Seraphic Father, St. Francis of Assisi, Annie proved that it is possible to be truly happy with almost nothing. She chose to look not at the material of this world, but rather to embrace something which eludes many of us – a grateful heart.
Despite a very difficult life, Annie never looked back in anger. She never regretted, never expressed bitterness for her misfortune. Instead, she always had a kind word and a smile on her lips. Annie’s example illustrated for me a number of profound truths. If there is nothing inside to block the light, we cannot prevent it from emanating outward and casting it upon those around us. In showing mercy and love to others, in honoring their dignity as human persona of great worth, we see the face of God – and of ourselves – in that reflection.
II. POINTS FOR THE EXAMINATION OF THE HEART
Do we trust that God truly “sees” us and looks into the heart?
Do we believe in the power of Jesus to make us see with the light of faith?
As children of light, do we endeavor to bear fruit of goodness, righteousness and love?
III. PRAYING WITH THE WORD
Leader: Loving God,
you dispelled the darkness of chaos
and created the beauty of pure light.
We thank you for the saving radiance
of your loving Son-Servant, Jesus Christ.
Immersed into the paschal destiny of Christ through baptism,
we rise up with him, the Sun of Justice,
and become children of light.
May the “seeds of light” we received from you as gift
be transformed into marvelous “fruit of light”.
By our acts of goodness, righteousness and truth,
may we reap a rich spiritual harvest.
Let us delight in your abiding presence and eternal light,
now and forever
Assembly: Amen.
IV. INTERIORIZATION OF THE WORD
The following is the bread of the living Word that will nourish us throughout the week. Please memorize it.
“For it is the light that brings a rich harvest of every kind of goodness, righteousness and truth.” (cf. Eph 5:9)
V. TOWARDS LIFE TRANSFORMATION
ACTION PLAN: Pray that the “seeds of light” may produce abundant spiritual fruits. By your acts of goodness, righteousness and truth, enable the people around you to feel the saving radiance of the light of Christ.
ACTION PLAN: That the “seeds of light” may grow and bear abundant fruit, make an effort to spend an hour in Eucharistic Adoration. Visit the PDDM WEB site (www.pddm.us) for the EUCHARISTIC ADORATION THROUGH THE LITURGICAL YEAR: A Weekly Pastoral Tool (Year A, vol. 7, # 19).
Prepared by Sr. Mary Margaret Tapang PDDM
PIAE DISCIPULAE DIVINI MAGISTRI
SISTER DISCIPLES OF THE DIVINE MASTER
60 Sunset Ave., Staten Island, NY 10314
Tel. (718) 494-8597 // (718) 761-2323
Website: WWW.PDDM.US