Sometimes I worry about this task I have taken on, wanting to say something every day that will be useful to at least one of the people who reads my words. Then I think of that phrase: my words. They are never just mine—these words that come to me sometimes with little or no effort, and sometimes as if I were a woman in labor, seeming to push each one out with a mighty force, in order to convey a thought, a feeling or an image. I know I can never adequately express the effect that the sun has on the mountain outside my window, especially on a frigid day like today when some of the frozen trees create a zigzag path to the top that only a nimble giant would attempt to scale.
Today, on the feast that notes the conversion of St Paul, I wonder how he felt when trying to express his experience of the light that changed his life that day on the road to Damascus…or on any day that followed. There are lines in the Scriptures that can touch our hearts with a power that we cannot understand but only recognize. There are poems that take our breath away and lines that when put to music move our bodies even without our consent because they cause such a stirring in our souls.
So today I celebrate those women and men down through the ages who have given us the gift of language and the facility to make words do for us what we cannot do ourselves to express and praise and love and explain ourselves—especially to the One in whom we live and move and have our being. (Acts of the Apostles: 17:22-28)
We know only two things about St. Matthew whose feast we celebrate today. First, we know him as a tax collector and secondly that he responded to the call of Jesus who approached him with the command: “Follow me,” and later was credited with the Gospel that bears his name. In the time of Jesus, tax collectors were not beloved members of society. It seems that, once again, Jesus was trying to make an important point by calling Matthew to be a disciple – a call that Matthew was unlikely to accept in the unquestioning way that he did. He was making some money, after all, and his job was likely secure. But Matthew got up from his customs post and seems to have never questioned the motives of Jesus or his own response. Clearly, others questioned however! “Why does the teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?” they boldly said – not thinking of any transgressions they themselves might have committed. Jesus was clear in his response to these queries. “I desire mercy, not sacrifice. I did not come to call the righteous but sinners.”
I almost disregarded the first reading from today’s lectionary (ACTS 9:1-20) – not because it held nothing worthy of comment but because it seemed so familiar. I know the story of Paul’s conversion and know that it appears in the liturgical calendar more than once a year. I decided, however, to read it again for a possible point of inspiration and, of course, I was not disappointed.
Sometimes I think we can get carried away doing penance during Lent. I must admit that for many years I refused to talk about the need for repentance because I thought life held enough challenge and people I knew needed nothing more to feed their poor self-esteem. I have now come, I hope, to a healthier place where admission of imperfection lives in concert with a willingness to reform. This is the message that stands out to me in the lectionary readings for today, clarifying God’s desire for us and urging us on from the very first words.
On this feast of the Conversion of St. Paul, the thought comes to me that God can work with anyone to grant a behavioral turnaround. Granted that more serious situations demand more cataclysmic, Cecil B. De Mille-like solutions (as in Paul’s case) but it seems that God is willing to go to any extreme to bring us back from the precipice of destruction. A comforting and hope-filled thought, I’d say, when I am feeling less than saintly.
As a child in Catholic school, I offered my work, as did all my classmates, to Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Especially on tests, our papers were signed at the top with a small cross and the letters JMJ. As a high school student studying Latin there often appeared a more sophisticated reminder at the top of our papers: AMDG under the cross reminded us that all our work was dedicated “for the greater glory of God.” (Ad majorem Dei gloriam) I doubt that I knew at that time the origin of that phrase as a motto although I was aware of the esteemed men’s religious community that claimed it: the Jesuits, formally named the Society of Jesus, founded by St. Ignatius of Loyola in the 16th century. Today is the feast of St. Ignatius.
I was on the internet yesterday checking driving directions to the location of the retreat center I will be visiting next week. It was astonishing how quickly I came to know not only how to get there but also how many miles I would travel depending on which of two possible routes I take (with a map available for each) and how long (to the minute!) it would take to arrive at my destination – including the indication of how dense the traffic might be. Although this service of mapquest – or google maps or another site – is quite efficient, there was a tiny twinge of sadness associated with the exercise. I have always loved maps and figuring out the best way to reach a destination was always satisfying for me. No matter. The important thing is arriving at the destination, I suppose, even though the journey itself can be engaging and instructive if sometimes confusing.
I don’t ever recall the Church celebrating a feast in honor of St. Paul’s companions Timothy and Titus even though they have been known to me as recipients of Paul’s letters. Today I hear them accorded the title of “Saint” which clearly they deserve because of their zeal in spreading the gospel for which they eventually lost their lives. A few things stand out for me after reading commentary and thinking about Paul’s letters to each of them.
Today is the feast of the conversion of St. Paul, an event that in today’s world would be characterized as “doing a 180.” Paul, one of the most diligent persecutors of Christians was “blinded by the light” in a miraculous theophany. He could suddenly see nothing with his physical eyes so that he would turn inward and see with spiritual eyes the pain he was inflicting on people. His conversion, the total turning of his life to the opposite direction, was startling.
The Sophia Center for Spirituality 