Lent 5, Year B Magnetism

Reading the readings for this week in the late afternoon light, I was filled with a strange lightness of spirit despite the darkness of the words.  This feeling transported me back to a moment, a couple of years ago, when as a curate at All Saints, Riverside, I spent several afternoons visiting with Father Lyn, a retired priest of that parish who was dying.  I used to go and visit him and we would sit in his yard.  His son would stoke the little fire pit that Fr. Lyn had and he would offer me something hard, and I begging the need to drive, drank only water, and sparingly.  Lyn, jaundiced and grave in his quietness, yet somehow full of light, filled me up with wisdom those afternoons.  I was ministering to him in some ways, attending to a dying man’s spirit, but really he was ministering to me.  Do I remember much of our conversations? 

A bit, but out of context little of what passed between us seemed very grand, but the afternoons after I would drive back to my house, over the desert hills, watching the sun slowly descend, knowing that Lynn would soon be with his beloved Ruby, his sun descending in this world, to ascend in another.

A dying person of faith is somehow magnetic—have you felt it?  The grave lightness of those who really know, in faith, that something better is in store, and yet who have really enjoyed the life of this world?  There is a sweet poignancy to their presence, and at times you feel filled up with wisdom just sitting with them.  Somehow this is true of Jesus, in today’s readings.  He is filled up with spirit and light and yet knows about his very heavy future.  He knows and yet he attracts the crowds. 

Why?  Well it helps that he is the Messiah, the Son of Man.  But he is also magnetic because he is a person of faith (perhaps the epitome thereof) who is facing what will happen—with grace, sadness, and so much wisdom.

He doesn’t speak words of comfort—but he speaks truth, and somehow to be near him is to absorb some of that truth.  Yet to hear that truth isn’t a guarantee that it will be easy, as we are reminded with this week’s passage from Jeremiah.  Jeremiah does speak words of comfort, but he does so to supremely uncomfortable people.  They have just seen the two pillars of their nation’s safety tumbled—the temple razed and the King unseated[1] and they are seeking solace, grasping at the hope that God is still with them. 

And Jeremiah says yes, not only is God with you but God is going to renew his vows to you, renew his marriage vows to his people, whom he adores. 
And here in the Gospel, we see Jesus, the true God-with-us, in this dark moment, stepping surely but sadly towards this seemingly final destination and I am reminded of something. 

I am reminded that , just as Jeremiah talks of a New Covenant, one that we see in Jesus, one that we remember in our Eucharistic service—this wine, the blood of the New Covenant made with God, our love, our bridegroom, so too Jesus talks of a New Commandment. 

Love one another, he says.  Love one another as I have loved you.  We may say, Jesus, what’s the point in that?  Love?  Simple, silly love, in the face of all these dark times ahead? 

Love in the face of sure and certain death?  It seems absurd.  Yet those who have been through those valleys, those who are facing them, exuding that supernatural calm, as well as those whose spirits are as troubled as Jesus’ is here, say, yes, Love.  Love is what gets us through.  Love is what helps us to see the truth of what will be and still have hope.  Hope to see the cross and to glimpse the resurrection beyond.  Amen.

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[1] Richard Floyd, “Pastoral Perspective: Jeremiah 31:31-34,” FOTW Year B, Vol. 2, 122.