EVENT
CHAPTER FOUR: Homilies and the Tsunami
There is a hideous homily that cycles through a dozen parishes each hour. It’s multiplied for years, and it is probably delivered approximately 155,000 times around the world each year.
This is the “Why does God do bad things to good people,” or as I like to call it, the “why, God, why?”
As I said, it’s not a bad homily, but a hideous homily.
A large percentage of the homilies I’ve heard are what I’d call “bad,” and they are characterized first and foremost by a detatched and almost bored delivery on the part of the priest, and a similarly affected interest in the part of most parishioners. I’ve heard these homilies in large and small parishes, in Flushing, Flint, and Chicago, Ireland and Romania. They put the obligation into the phrase “weekly obligation.”
What separates a bad homily from a hideous homily is the potential to be good.
We roll our eyes when we hear about God punishing saints and sinners, the local catastrophe greeted by “what did we do to deserve this,” that we’ve heard it so often that it’s become something of a Hallmark sign-off. It’s an appropriate response to a subject that warrants remorse… there’s little risk in such a consolation, and it’s a convenient way to empathize without compromising our priorities or schedules.
Of course, by definition, catastrophe is extreme. The placation and smallness of the “why, God, why” is almost insulting in its trivializing dimensions.
Which is why I recoil from milky-eyed sermons. Because at the end of the day, I don’t believe they were compelled by anything, nor do I believe they compel.
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Every now an then, maybe 1% of the time, the same subject is tacked with the same metaphors, the same theology, and sometimes by the same people, but the sermon is entirely different. Instead of beginning with “I guess there’s no way to not talk about this,” the motivating moment is “this has to reach out.” The moment is crucial. The stakes are very high, because if we cannot compass human suffering, than we cannot aspire to conduct by Christ’s standards. And because the events discussed surround us, there is the possibility of contact, of communication.
This is the “Job” homily, and its similarity to the “Why, God, Why” is merely superficial.
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I’ve heard three Job homilies in the last six years of attending Mass.
The first was delivered in winter of 2004, about exactly a year ago, at a Spanish parish. The homily involved the deadly fire in a Chicago high-rise. I speak practically no Spanish, but the priest’s passion and his energy communicated perfectly. With the parishioners around me engaged, leaning forward, breathless, I could not avoid the thought that I got it. That he had somehow more penetrated the language barrier more effectively than if he has spoken coldly, in English.
The second was delivered on the Sunday following September 11th, at St. Michael’s in Flint. A tall, imposing, Charlton-Heston-as-Moses of a priest thundered into the sanctuary, and began by denouncing… the opening hymn. “The words suggest I ‘am prosperous in the love of my God,'” he said, “that whatever happens around me, I’ve got a comfortable slice of heaven carved for me because of my faith.’ It’s a trite, arrogant little song, and it happens to exclude most of the world.” The lines he drew were not religious. He drew on to his most point: “A God with whom we are comfortable in this tragedy and catastrophy is not worthy of our prayer and sacrifice.”
The third was delivered last Sunday, the Feast of the Baptism of Christ, at St. Thomas the Apostle, by a visiting priest. I won’t quote him extensively, but the problem, the heart of the discussion was the statement:
A friend of mine who is a scripture scholar commended to me this week about the strange coincidence of our celebrating this feast of Jesus’ baptism at this particular moment in time – Jesus’ baptism reminds us of our own baptism, at which time each on of us was named a beloved daughter or sun of God — in that sacrament we benefitted from the cleansing, life-giving power of water – the new beginning of our life in Christ — yet during the past couple of weeks all of us have watched in horror as we saw reports of the destructive power of water in the lives of those so tragically affected by the tsunami in South Asia – tragedy of almost unimaginable proportions – one that leaves us awestruck at the power of nature – and that leaves us silent before the mystery of human suffering, silent before the mystery of God — there are no easy spiritual or theological answers to the why of this tragedy.
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This third Job homily was the most quiet, the most pensive and thoughtful. And probably the most useful.
It also summarizes the truth that makes each so effective: “There are no easy spiritual or theological answers.” Attempted ease at setting a disaster in God’s hands is the heart of the “Why, God, Why”… it is why they are hideous. The heart of the “Job” homilies is discomfort and sitress at what we see as disaster set against our hands by God… the struggle to maintain faith in a God who (by our theology, and through our prayers) deliberately conceives and executes such events.
What is meant?
There are moment when I’ve come to trust my gut more than my mind or my senses. Perhaps by “gut” I mean the fusion of mind and senses… that sort of physical twisting and turning over in response to events occurring six thousand miles beneath me. I believe horror is both a mental and physical sensation. I believe in prayer to this God who so recently slew so many of his children, seemingly arbitrarily. I believe it’s my job, as a human being to be upset and distressed and horrified by this conjunction.
And that’s part of the reason for these posts: to realize and articulate this horror. To render it physical, like a wall of water that comes crashing down. To realize that it isn’t physical at all, not even ink on a screen, scrolled away in a moment. To realize that my best and most sincere efforts and prayers are a house of cards, erected with bias and ignorance. And then, to return to prayer.
This is something we can even have a small pride in.
Listening for Job.
~ Connor