13th Sunday 2015
Robert VerEecke, S.J.
Today is my mother’s 100th birthday. As you know, she died this past
March. My brothers and I thought it would be wonderful to have the
celebration we had planned in NY for her 100th here in Boston at Saint
Ignatius—where she celebrated her 90th.
I imagine that most of you have heard the story of how she asked me on her
90th to give the homily that I would give when at her funeral. I actually was
able to use most of what I said 10 years ago. What I didn’t say was the word
“sparkles”. That weekend 10 years ago, our mother was wearing a dress that
had sparkles/ glitter and she left a trail of sparkles and glitter wherever she
went.
In reality, she did that throughout her life, whether dancing the Charleston,
singing love duets with my father, pretending to faint in dramatic fashion to
stop us boys from fighting… the list could go on. She sparkled with a
wonderful spirit! In fact, she was so filled with the spirit that you can sense
her presence in the church this afternoon. But not just her spirit. Somehow
she is here in body as well as in spirit. Her body is here in four of the five
sons who are here this afternoon as each of us received her body and her
blood, given for us in birth.
It’s kind of fortuitous that our scriptures today ask us to contemplate the
mystery of Spirit and Body. The book of Wisdom, with its influence of
Greek Philosophy, speaks of God as imperishable, eternal, unchanging
because God is Spirit. And we human beings are made in God’s image. But
herein lies the problem. We are not simply spirit. We are corporeal beings.
We are embodied. We are flesh and blood beings. Even if death creates
separation—the body dies, the spirit lives on—can we imagine ourselves as
purely spiritual beings?
I know, as we celebrate 100 years of my mother’s life, my brothers and I do
not simply think of her as “spirit”. We imagine her voice, her face, her
laughter, her tears, her touch. Can we remember a loved one from whom we
have been separated by death without thinking of the “way they were”? I
certainly cannot think of my mom’s spirit without thinking of the way she
spoke, sang, danced, loved my father, loved her children and grandchildren
and great grandchildren and all that comes with that in a human life.
A human life has so much texture, so much detail. That’s what I love about
the Gospel of Mark. The way he tells the stories of Jesus are filled with so
much human inflection, so much texture and detail.
The Gospel we have just heard is classic Mark. He gives the listener so
much detail. You do not have to strain your imagination to see the crowds
following Jesus, hear the distraught voice of the synagogue official, or see
the look of desperation in his eyes as he begs Jesus to save his daughter from
death. And can you feel the panic, the pain of 10 years of suffering of
woman whose life’s blood is leaving her, robbing her of energy, exhausting
her and her one last hope for healing in Jesus? And can you see the look of
confusion on the face of Jesus as he turns and asks “who touched me”? Or
the look of incredulity on the faces of the disciples? Can you hear it in their
voices? Can you see the face of Jesus and the face of the woman, the tears,
the joy, knowing that her life has been given back to her? And can you
imagine the sounds of weeping and wailing coming from the mourners who
have relegated Jairus’ daughter to the grave? And can you hear the tone of
Jesus’ voice as he dismisses them? Can you feel the touch of Jesus’ hands as
he takes the young girl by the hand and gives her back to her parents? And
can you see the smile on the face of Jesus as he tells them “give her
something to eat”?
This is not just a “healing” and a “resuscitation” story. It’s not simply a
“your faith has saved you” story. We are not meant to hear this
“dispassionately”. Mark, I believe, wants us to see the faces, hear the voices,
and feel the touch of Jesus. Mark immerses us in the chaos and confusion of
illness and death, of hope and helplessness, of life and love. Mark wants to
affirm that Jesus is in the midst of our pain, our worries for our loved ones,
our struggles to make sense of death and loss. Jesus is in the midst of
everything that is human. Jesus in the midst of our loves, whatever face,
voice, touch , shape they may take. Jesus is not a naysayer. Jesus reveals a
God who is so much more than just spirit. God in Jesus takes flesh and blood
and knows what it is touch and be touched, to love and be loved, to speak
and to listen, to laugh and to cry. Although this is a celebration of 100 years
of my mother’s life, I invite you now to listen and remember a loved one
whose life continues with you. Remember a face, a voice, a touch.
(Meditation from the Opera Thais/ Jules Massenet)