Fr. Timothy Radcliffe, the English Dominican, former Master of the Order, tells a story I’ve always remembered and which has shaped me. A profound story, I’ve always thought, from his days travelling across the world, looking after innumerable Dominican communities: he was in Burundi just after there had been great violence in that country, leaving more than a hundred thousand dead, genocidal violence between the Hutu and Tutsi peoples. Devastating, decades-long horrific violence, it was a country barely a country, barely united—because of ethnic hatred and bloodshed.
The visit was difficult, Fr. Radcliffe said, because the Dominican community there was comprised of both Hutu and Tutsi, and each of the brothers had been effected by the war, each had lost family members. Understandably, it was a community frayed; the brethren were on edge. Even within a religious order, even after solemn vows, that sort of violence is bound to bring up dangerous emotions, divisive emotions.
Nothing miraculous happened. The story Fr. Radcliffe tells is simply that at the end of his painful visit, all the community did was come together to celebrate the Eucharist. During the Mass, each member was allowed to speak and simply share the story of his sufferings, the family he lost, the friends. Nothing special, really, just the sharing of pain—unjudged and unbelittled in the silence of the Eucharist.
Nothing miraculous, as I said, simply a story I’ve been thinking about lately.
Because the lesson Fr. Radcliffe learned is one I’m trying to learn. I think I will always need to try to learn it. “One of the lessons of the Church,” he said, “is to try to be present in those places of deafness and incomprehension, to offer a space where conversations may begin.”[1] In a country torn apart by violence, Fr. Radcliffe learned that simply coming together at the Eucharist was by itself a deep sign of hope, that it was likely the most significant thing they could offer their country—a ritual of unity in the midst of division.
Now you know, of course, why I share this story with you, why it’s been on my mind lately: because of us, our country, our society. I’m not talking about any one incident, really, nothing topical. You can fill in the blanks yourself if you want. I’m talking more about all of it in the aggregate, all our fighting and bickering and angst. We are not Burundi, of course. And we needn’t think we’re destined to descend into violence such as that. We don’t need to be ridiculous and blow things out of proportion. Nonetheless, we are a little weary and a little nervous, many of us worn down by it all, tired of it all, tired of what Gavin Esler called twenty years ago “The United States of Anger”—prophetically now, it seems.[2] You know why I’ve been thinking about stories like this, wondering how the Church exists in the middle of anger. Because it’s a serious question for our time.
So what is the Church’s purpose in a world like ours? What’s the purpose of a parish like this? What’s our task? Well, to answer these questions, we must of course turn to scripture; we must discover there first, before anywhere else, the mission which matters for the Church and for us. And so what do we see there, in the words of the word of God? What do we find?
In a word: Zion, which is the dream of Isaiah and the other prophets. What they dreamed of was the mountain of God, which all nations would come to.[3] Foreigners, gentiles—frankly, us—we were dreamt of by the prophets. We are they called from among the nations to the joy of the one God of the Hebrews.[4] We are the stars and sands of Abraham’s promise—his children, as God said we would be.[5] It’s God’s dream, his mission: the gathering in of everyone, the billions born in his image.
It’s why Christ is “light for…the Gentiles;” to enlighten you and me, we pagans before God drew near to us in Jesus.[6] It’s why Jesus died on the cross the death of an outcast, as Paul said, on a tree outside the city. He didn’t die the death of a good Jew but the death of an exile, someone cursed—to save the cursed, because he loved the cursed.[7] Because he loved us. “[W]hen I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw everyone to myself,” Jesus said.[8] That “everyone” is us; it is everyone. It’s the dream of Zion and the dream of Jesus. It is the point of the blood of the cross, the point of his death and the purpose of his resurrection.
And it’s also why he said, “love one another. As I have loved you.”[9] It’s why he said, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”[10] It’s why the disciples were sent from Jerusalem to the corners of the world: for this dream of God, built on his love—his dream that everyone would come to him and experience the joy of Zion.[11]
Thus, it is the mission of the Church and the mission of this place, to be a sign and instrument of the union of God with his people, and also to be the sign and instrument of human unity—all peoples, all nations.[12] That is our task; it’s what we are charged to be and do. Everything we do serves this eternal mission. It’s what we’re about when we’re at our best, when we’re being faithful.
Which brings us back to consider the divisions of our world and that little story about that little Mass in Burundi where natural enemies simply talked in the presence and silence of the Eucharist. Knowing the word of God, knowing our mission, what may that story teach us today, now, in this place?
It teaches us, I think, this: Our mission is God’s mission in Christ to draw all people, by what we say and do, to the joy and love of God. And that call is for all people, but it’s a call that goes out to a loud world full of sin and wounds. It’s a call that goes out to people who hate each other.
And that means in this parish we will find all the wounds and cracks of the world. We will find people who love each other and people who hate each other, people who agree and disagree. We will find people who think one thing as well as people who think the other. And we will find these messy differences because we are not a cult or club of the like-minded but rather the true Catholic Church of Jesus Christ.
And that means we must be committed to loving one another even with these wounds and cracks and differences. That doesn’t mean this is a community wherein we never have arguments or disagreements; a community like that is a dead community, which has politely banished the prophets. That’s not this community. This parish is not a “safe space.” It’s not a place where you have some right not to be challenged or confronted. It is, though, a place where you can expect to be loved and respected; you can demand that. If we’re to be a community that is faithful to God and valuable to the world, then we need to be the sort of people who come here every day, or Sunday by Sunday, committed to loving and hearing and praying alongside everyone else God draws to this little Zion, this little outpost of the kingdom. Not just you, all of us—until heaven. Because that’s the mission, that’s the point.
What did Jesus do for that Canaanite woman, that foreigner? He told her the truth, bluntly. But what did she do? She argued with him, with faith. And then he healed her daughter, praising her faith. Think about that. That’s Church; it’s what I’ve been talking about all along.
Pray for it here. Amen.
[1] Timothy Radcliffe, OP, Sing a New Song, 241
[2] Gavin Esler, The United States of Anger
[3] Isaiah 2:2
[4] Isaiah 56:6-7
[5] Genesis 22:17
[6] Luke 2:32
[7] Galatians 3:14
[8] John 12:32
[9] John 13:34
[10] John 20:21
[11] Acts 1:8
[12] Lumen Gentium 1
© 2020 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield
