Fr. Bob’s Weekly Reflections

There was a young boy named Rocky Dennis. You may have heard about him, his life was once loosely depicted in the film, Mask. Rocky had a rare disease that caused his skull and bones in his face to grow larger than they should. His face was misshapen and disfigured, and people would avoid him.

For many of us, Lent is the season of gloom and giving up, of ashes and lashes. When it is gray outside, and purple inside. When we feel guilty about not feeling guilty.

The words a person chooses to speak are a window through which to see and know their heart. According to statisticians, the average man speaks about 25,000 words a day, and the average woman 30,000. From the first “good morning” to the last “good night,” each engages in approximately 30 conversations a day. So given these figures, the average person spends about 15 years, or about one-fifth, of his or her life talking.

I want you to put aside all the preconceived mental and emotional images we have of Jesus. Forget too all the doctrines and titles about Him. Just think of a first-century Jew living in occupied territory, looking just like everyone else. Jesus would be hard to distinguish from any other Arab or Palestinian Jew of today. He is just an itinerant rabbi, standing surrounded by a crowd of people, some friendly, some hostile. He says some of the most outrageous words ever uttered. Some think He’s mad. Some are intrigued, though skeptical, that such a program is possible to live by. He’s kidding, isn’t He? Is a comment heard more than once.

At a 25th wedding anniversary reception, the husband, who had perhaps had a little too much to drink, began thanking the crowd for coming. He started going on and on about how this was the best marriage in the world, and how much they love one another. When he eventually sat down, his wife said, “Tell me what hurts me.” Bleary-eyed, the husband said, “How do I know what hurts you?” The wife’s answer was swift: “If you don’t know what hurts me, how can you say you love me?”

Failure is a fact of life, it happens to all of us. We try to do something, but fall short of the goal. The experience comes in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes it is relatively immaterial: we play a game and lose. We burn the pot roast. We try to lose a few pounds, but end up gaining. These are failures of a sort, but we soon forget them and they do not have a lasting effect on our lives.

None of us like to be deceived. Most of us would rather have the truth, even though it may be unpleasant. Most of us would rather our doctor be honest with us even if the news is bad. Or a teacher letting us know when our child is failing rather than let us think all is well. It is better to be troubled by a painful truth than to be consoled with a pleasant lie, but there is one notable exception.

In our second reading today you heard a letter from Paul to the Corinthians, and I would not be surprised if you knew absolutely nothing about the city of Corinth. Corinth was a cosmopolitan city. People flocked there from all regions of the Roman Empire. It was a center of government, of trade, of sports, and was also known as sin city.

It is a funny feeling today. We come into the Church that is still lively, but strangely different. The crib is back in storage, the wise men have returned to the east, the shepherds to their flocks, the angels have stopped singing, and the star has disappeared. Christmas is a memory.

We read about Peter in our second reading. Word comes to him that a Centurion of the Roman guard named Cornelius, a Gentile and therefore in the eyes of the Jews an unclean man, wished to be baptized.