The Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary: Day
Which came first, the cantor or the psalm?

Even if a singer took an active role here or there, it took time for uniformity of worship patterns to emerge as a value. Evidence of wide variation, even in the number of readings proclaimed in early church liturgy bears this out. Details found in the Liber pontificalis, an early official history, seem to indicate that the psalm in the Fore-Mass (Liturgy of the Word) did not appear in Rome until the arrival of Pope Celestine I (422-432). The earliest rubrics permit the practice of reading rather than singing the psalm (The Christian West and Its Singers, Christopher Page. Yale University Press: New Haven, 2009. [p 118–120]).

Within a century of the psalm’s landing in the liturgy, the sung responsorial form emerged as common practice. This pattern took advantage of the poetic structure apparent in many of the psalms, where one or two line interventions repeated in the biblical texts, promoting a “popular” response from the entire assembly. A refrain, chosen from within the text, served well for psalms that did not already include repeated interventions.

By the eighth century, however, ritual fashion favored more stylized repertoire sung by a soloist, now called a cantor, who sang from a higher level (literally a step up). Even the psalm received a new name--the gradual. This development marked a decline in the promotion of active singing by the whole congregation. By the dawn of the Middle Ages, the liturgy had collapsed into a set of private rituals: Mass for the priests, lesser devotions for the onlookers.

20th Sunday in Ordinary Time
In the Gospel, Jesus speaks and acts in a way that shatters our expectations.

Let us consider this parable of action in its original context: Thus far, Jesus has carried out his mission among the Jewish people. He has instructed the Twelve to avoid pagan territory and Samaritan towns. Today, Jesus steps over that boundary, withdrawing “to the region of Tyre and Sidon.”

A Canaanite woman cries out to him, “Have pity on me, Lord, Son of David!” In accord with cultural expectations, Jesus ignores her. She persists. The disciples prod him to dismiss her. Jesus clearly states his mission: “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” The woman dares to approach and beg for his help. He underscores the boundary between them with a ringing insult: “It is not right to take the food of the children and throw it to the dogs.” She fires the metaphor right back at him: “Please Lord, for even the dogs eat the scraps from the table of their masters.” As if to say, touché, he concedes: “O woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.”

From the beginning, Jesus recognizes her faith and determination. Seizing a teachable moment, he lets the scene unfold, playing his part to the hilt. In allowing the woman to best him in public with her superior argument, he leads his disciples to a wider perspective on the mercy of God, setting the stage for their future mission to the world.

21st Sunday in Ordinary Time
“He has cast down the mighty from their thrones, and has lifted up the lowly” (Luke 1:52).

Shebna hears the following words delivered by the prophet Isaiah with the usual preamble, Thus says the Lord: “I will thrust you from your office and pull you down from your station.” One wonders what this Shebna has been up to in his role as “master of the palace.”

The surrounding biblical text indicates that Shebna has built a grand tomb (for his own eventual repose) “on a height.” In a culture where burial on one’s ancestral land was the accepted practice, he has used his position of authority to gain greater honor than his family connections merit. The Lord challenges his presumption: “What are you doing here, and what people have you here, that here you have hewn for yourself a tomb?” In choosing such a prominent location for his personal monument, Shebna seeks some measure of immortality, prompting the prophet’s stinging rebuke: “The Lord shall hurl you down headlong, mortal man!”

In the preceding passage, a mighty army lays siege to Jerusalem. City officials (like Shebna) see to its defense, making tough decisions, tearing down houses to strengthen the wall, transferring precious water to a safe reservoir. They take these critical steps without prayer, without the first thought of the city’s Maker, the Lord God.

The prophet scolds: “On that day the Lord, the God of Hosts, called on you to weep and mourn, to shave your head and put on sackcloth. But look! You feast and celebrate, you slaughter oxen and butcher sheep, you eat meat and drink wine: Eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.” Given the opportunity, Shebna and the rest choose self-reliance over repentance and reliance on God. Their efforts end in disgrace.

Awareness of our vulnerability and utter dependence upon the God of the universe forms the root of both humility and hubris. The former accepts this fundamental aspect of the human condition and surrenders to God in trust. The latter denies it and rejects God’s invitation into relationship.

© 2016 OCP. All rights reserved.

Second Sunday of Easter (Divine Mercy)
The liturgy marks our entry into the Easter season with a change-up, a hurry-up-and-wait sensation generated by first readings from the Acts of the Apostles (post-Pentecost) paired with resurrection stories from the Gospels of John and Luke (pre-Pentecost). It takes the season for the latter to catch up to the former and converge for the solemnities of Ascension and Pentecost.

Our annual return to Acts reminds me of churches that install icons or Stations of the Cross on their walls. For these readings from Acts conjure pictures from our collective imagination, vivid scenes and characters we recognize from stories of the early Church. These somewhat idealized tableaus highlight significant moments in the Church’s birth and growth into the Body of Christ. As the Lenten Sundays pointed us toward baptism and initiation, so the Sundays of Easter (especially in year A) confirm our inauguration into this new life of faith in community.

Psalm 118 begins and ends with verses from the Vigil and Easter Sunday, bracketing a new middle. Thus, ritual roll call gives way to the testimony of the individual, as the psalmist tells of dislocation and deliverance, reaffirms loyalty to the Lord, and invites all to respond with a joyful shout to God’s enduring mercy. This links us to today’s designation as Divine Mercy Sunday.

Saint John Paul II revealed his special affinity for the Divine Mercy devotion in 2000, as he canonized its humble champion, Saint Faustina (1905–1938). The Holy Father later died on the vigil of Divine Mercy Sunday in 2005.

Third Sunday of Easter
As we do our work, Sunday to Sunday, we notice that our ritual worship consists of two main parts—distinct (but not separate) services of word and sacrament. Readers of the word and cantors of the psalm, as recognized, active ministers in the Liturgy of the Word, both use the Lectionary. This book of Scripture passages, selected and ordered for worship, expresses the point of view of the greater religious community (the Church), as it reads the Bible together at this time in history.

Students of Jewish history tell us that the tradition of gathering (“synagogue” means “gathering”) to pray and study the Scriptures (with Sabbath regularity) emerged during the Babylonian exile, when, bereft of the Temple, the Jewish people responded to their dire circumstances by reimagining worship. (Reading is possible without the Sabbath; but Sabbath is not possible without the reading. [The Reading of the Bible in the Ancient Synagogue, Charles Perrot. Fortress: 1988, p.150.])

This move both transformed and maintained their identity as God’s chosen people. The synagogue tradition, well established by the time of Jesus, lies at the root of our Liturgy of the Word.

In today’s reading from Acts, we hear Peter preach the kerygma, the good news of salvation accomplished by God through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. Peter breaks open Psalm 16 as a proof text, and you, dear cantor, reinforce his message with a musical echo of these words of confidence. Thus, we notice another feature of the Lectionary, the pairing of readings from different categories of Scripture according to theme.

Fourth Sunday of Easter
As the first of six siblings, I received the sacrament of baptism on the thirty-second day of my life, at our parish church of Ste. Anne (affectionately called the French church to distinguish it from the German, the Irish, and the Polish). Our pastor (Pere François to the elders, Fr. Geynet to us kids) had recently arrived from France (in today’s parlance, an international priest). We children, awed by his massive physique, likened him to the Statue of Liberty. Less impressed, my somewhat formal and rather hard-to-please Parisian grandmere noted that he spoke English with an accent “as thick as pea soup.”

I grew into an adult knowing this man. As an image of strength, he kept his little flock safe from the wild and the marauding. In troubles, he steered the sometimes reluctant with a gentle, if firm rod, and perhaps due to his membership in the Priest-Worker movement in France, he led with a socially and liturgically progressive staff. All these years later, his magnetic voice (with the accent) still rings in my memory.

He delighted in capturing the idioms of his new language. I recall for instance, his fascination with the concept of the ‘oney-moon (accent grave on the third syllable) as the brief period of bliss following the wedding rite. He almost immediately applied it, with a sly smile and a wink, to the Sundays of Eastertide, “the ‘oney-moon of the Church.” Only years later did I “get it” and come to appreciate the propriety of his gentle metaphor.

Fifth Sunday of Easter
As witnessed in first reading, the early Church experienced growing pains. Conflicts arose. Those in charge realized that they could not do everything. They had to entrust some responsibilities to others, giving up personal control over certain aspects of community life. The Luke-Acts evangelist describes a process, proposed by the apostles and accepted by the community: First, the apostles put forward criteria (“reputable men, filled with the Spirit and wisdom”); then, the community chose appropriate candidates; finally, the apostles appointed the candidates to serve in the new role.

This scenario demonstrates effective leadership in community: It listens. It takes feedback seriously. It proposes a way forward and invites folks to commit. It involves people in the actual process of addressing the problem and thus gains both their cooperation and their insight in finding a solution. Twenty-first century leadership gurus would affirm this approach, because, even if individuals do not get exactly what they want (or wanted at the outset), their engagement with the process helps them to support the outcome.

Then, as now, changing circumstances generate new challenges. Too many times in church life, folks cling to the past with such determination that they misread the present and make no provision for the future. “But we’ve always done it this way” drowns out the whisper of the Holy Spirit and puts a damper on new possibilities OR one or two people take on more and more responsibility, rather than discerning the gifts of others and stepping back to make room for their contribution.

Sixth Sunday of Easter
Sandwiched like a (spicy) fried egg between two sides of a split (everything) bagel, the Samaritans lived between Judea to the south and Galilee to the north. While Jews (of Judea) and Samaritans shared a common ancestry predating Jerusalem, their relationship had disintegrated through centuries of hostility and insult to the point of overt hatred and brazen violence. Each had their own temple, and they took turns profaning the other’s worship space. The Samaritans refused even to read the Torah in the Aramaic of the Jews, allowing only Hebrew characters for their Scripture.

Enter Phillip, a believer on the run from persecution in Jerusalem, who took to heart the Lord’s command to “go and teach all nations.” His silver tongue and wondrous touch caught the attention of even the most stolid of Samaritans. They heard, they saw, they believed, and their joy overflowed. Word of their conversion reached Jerusalem, prompting the apostles to dispatch the big guns, Peter and John, to confirm the report and lend their aid. The two prayed and laid hands, and the Samaritans, already baptized by Phillip, received the Holy Spirit.

Psalm 66 captures the awe on both sides of the former divide, as Samaritans and Jews contemplate the unthinkable reconciliation brought about by Gospel proclaimed and Spirit unleased. Verse 1 delivers the call to praise; verse 2 invites all on earth to join in; verse 3 revisits the miracles of water-walking (through the Red Sea, and over Jordan with the sacred ark); and verse 4 makes it personal.

Ascension of the Lord
According to cultural context scholars, our scriptural tradition builds upon certain assumptions. Namely, reality has two parts, the present world, and the world of the spirit where we go to be with God. Between the two, a door occasionally opens, over the place where God is closest (Delphi for Greeks, Jerusalem for Israelites). This door opened for Ezekiel to see and hear the Lord, and for the voice of God to reach ready ears at Jesus’ baptism. In the reading from Acts, Jesus is lifted up through the same opening and taken into heaven.

Welsh poet Saunders Lewis (1893–1985) sings the mystery of Ascension Thursday in the beauty of a day’s dawn and a question, “What is happening this May morning on the hillside?”

His reply comes easily: mounding floral witnesses with fabric textures and colors, bushes and trees with lives of their own, the ensemble musicians of bird and falling water all enveloped by morning mist.

The Latin Introit for this feast begins, Viri Galilaei (Men of Galilee), and continues (in Latin), “why do you stand there looking up at the sky?” A famously heroic rising melodic incipit in Mode VII draws the imagination upward with the chant. Our poet, Lewis, mirrors this movement as he shifts in his third stanza to a variant strain:
“Come out, you men, from the council houses/Before the rabbits run, come with the weasel to see/The elevation of the unblemished host from the earth,/The Father kiss the Son in the white dew.”/Literary Companion to the Lectionary, Mark Pryce, ed. Fortress: 2002).

Seventh Sunday of Easter
The Luke-Acts evangelist distinguishes between two basic settings for Jewish and early Christian life, the temple and the household, and through the two-volume work marks the transition from one to the other as the locus of spiritual life for followers of Jesus.

Early in Luke’s Gospel, scenes in the temple hint at who Jesus will become. Simeon and Anna prophesy there. His parents find him there, sitting among the teachers and asking questions. Yet, they all go home, and in the household, he grows “in wisdom and age and favor” (Luke 2:52).

In his ministry, the temple becomes a place of challenge and increasing conflict, as Jesus speaks and acts with authority. He makes clear that the temple has failed to do its job of drawing people close to God, and those responsible for its operation perceive the threat in his critique. They plot, they incite, and they succeed, “using lawless men to crucify him” (Acts 2:23). Even so, after his resurrection and ascension, his followers are found “continually in the temple praising God” (Luke 24:53).

In today’s reading, the disciples gather not in the temple but in the upper room. The group includes the eleven, some women, including Mary, the mother of Jesus, as well as other relatives. (By the next paragraph, they number 120!) This place of prayer and community, safety and sanctuary, brings to mind the haven Jesus found at the home of Martha, Mary, and Lazarus.

As Acts proceeds, we see the disciples “meeting in the temple area and breaking bread in their homes” (2:46). The scenes of the unfolding drama alternate from one setting to the other. As with Jesus, however, conflicts ensue, and the temple becomes a dangerous place for his followers. The death of Stephen and the persecution incited by Saul drive the followers of Jesus from the public sphere into the private. Households emerge as places of assembly, worship, and communal life, where the Church will take root and grow.

In light of all this, the second verse of today’s selection from Psalm 27 takes on a different cast: “One thing I ask of the Lord; this I seek: to dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, that I may gaze on the loveliness of the Lord and contemplate his temple.” Saint Paul calls one’s body “a temple of the Holy Spirit within you” (1 Corinthians 6:19). Do we seek and find the presence of God with and within us, wherever we are?

Pentecost Sunday: At the Vigil Mass
Permit me to break open a Pentecost moment I recently experienced at my diocesan cathedral.

I crossed the state to attend our first ever commissioning of lay ecclesial ministers in the diocese, visiting the cathedral for a special Mass. Folks came together from all sorts of parishes—big and small; urban, suburban and rural. A special assignment (managing the technology for the virtual attendance of one candidate recuperating from an injury) put me in observer mode for most of Mass. (I literally could not sing aloud without dominating the broadcast for the remote participant.) This gave me the opportunity to pay particularly close attention to the cantor.

Wearing a simple alb, she enacted her ministry from a location near the ambo, within the expansive sanctuary. She called all to worship, not with a verbal “Welcome to the cathedral; please silence your electronic devices,” but with a stirring, stunning cantillation of the entrance antiphon. Clarity and simplicity marked her a cappella delivery of the text. The entrance hymn followed, an appropriate text set to a familiar hymn tune.

Singing with the sizable organ in our cathedral space proved remarkably easy. The cantor sang with the assembly, precisely in sync with the organ (though a great distance from it). Her clear voice provided just enough support for the assembly to find the melody within the sea of overtones created by the instrument and the building. Those unaccustomed to singing with organ in a large space grabbed hold of the lifeline she provided and sang with vigor.

In week-to-week parish practice, I encourage cantors to step away from the microphone and the position of physical leadership on well-known assembly music, but in the Pentecost-like atmosphere of assembly gathered from everywhere, the cantor’s clear but unobtrusive vocal leadership was entirely appropriate.

Pentecost Sunday: At the Mass during the Day
Cantors who engage the Sunday psalm on a regular basis recognize that the Lectionary version rarely incorporates the entire biblical text. Instead, verses selected for liturgy often come from different sections, and, put together, form a new whole. Sometimes this new creation sums up the original beautifully; sometimes it comes across with an entirely different tone. (Few biblical laments make it through the process without considerable cheering up.) In light of this, we do well to read the entire psalm text from the Bible, for doing so helps us to see the excerpts in context and interpret them more faithfully. Such advice seems particularly apropos in the case of today’s selection from Psalm 104.

Scholars suggest that our ancestors in faith borrowed poetic material from other peoples, adapting it to their own religious sensibilities. Psalm 104 shows signs of such exotic origins in its style and composition. Not bound to earth by concrete memory, it soars with lofty language. Though it attributes all things to the creator, it celebrates creation itself: the symmetry, arrangement, and order; and the relationship between the different elements, as they cooperate with the act of creation.

A Rabbi once told me that Hebrew words, though comparatively few in number, have many shades of meaning. As a word appears, context clues indicate a particular meaning, but all the other possibilities still hover like musical overtones. For example, the word nephesh, often translated “soul,” also means “throat” and closely connects with “life,” since the necessities of life (air, water, food) pass through the throat.

Psalm 104, an ecstatic hymn of cosmic praise, uses the Hebrew word ruah to great effect. Often translated “spirit” (as in today’s refrain), it refers to moving air (the wind over the waters in creation and at the Red Sea) and to breath, specifically the breath of life (that makes Adam a living soul in Genesis 2). This breath taken back by the creator means death for the creature. Conversely, the sending forth of this breath restores and renews life. Psalm 104 wraps its mighty wings around the entire Easter season, appearing both at the Easter Vigil and at Pentecost. To mark this fiftieth day of the Easter feast, one could do no better than this: A) Before liturgy, read aloud with singular attention the entirety of Psalm 104 from the Book of Psalms; B) After liturgy, pick up your favorite psalms commentary and begin a new and deeper relationship with this exquisite piece of poetic prayer.

© 2016 OCP. All rights reserved.

Solemnity of Mary, the Holy Mother of God
Cantors and lectors for this solemnity of Mary: Let me remind you that our ancestors in faith, who handed on to us the Scriptures, put much store in dreams, feared unseen (and potentially malevolent) spirits, and believed in the power of curses with the force of conviction. Just as certain that a good blessing could cancel out a bad curse, they considered blessing essential currency in the relationship called covenant and sought it often from the Lord.

Notice, in the solemn and moving formula of benediction, drawn from Numbers 6, the lines that reappear (slightly redacted to shift point of view) in today’s selection from Psalm 67. First, the lector will pronounce the priestly words (assigned to the ministry of Aaron, brother of Moses, and his sons), “The Lord bless you and keep you! The Lord let his face shine upon you, and be gracious to you!” Then the cantor will sing, “May God have pity on us and bless us; may he let his face shine upon us.” In this case, as in many others, our ancestors rely on God’s own words, handed down from generation to generation, as a sure-fire means for getting God’s attention, whether for blessing, rescue, or timely help.

The final line of the blessing from Numbers, “The Lord look upon you kindly and give you peace!” reminds us of the promised reign of the child born to us (touched on in verse 2 of the psalm), and of the other emphasis associated with this feast—World Day of Peace.

The Epiphany of the Lord
Today’s readings feature rising stars and mystical dreams, wonder-wanderers and exotic caravans, kingly gifts and palace intrigue. Even the title, Epiphany, bears a trace of mystery, which we all too readily accept without raising a single question. Sadly, familiarity strips this account of its original capacity to evoke both shock and awe. What might this story mean beyond here come the Gentiles?

To whom does this epiphany (revelation, manifestation, appearance of divine glory) belong? Isaiah’s testimony makes a strong case for Israel, as he describes the throngs headed to Jerusalem, drawn by the shining radiance of God’s glory residing there. Yet in Matthew’s Gospel, the mystical hints of divine incarnation pierce the ready hearts of strangers, foreigners, others, while King Herod “and all Jerusalem with him” play catch up and deploy damage control. Therein lies the shock: Insiders, who think themselves entitled to the glory, miss it; while outsiders, seeing just the glimmer, follow it faithfully, and discover their heart’s desire.

Psalm 72 forms a bridge between Isaiah and the Gospel and the figure of the king plays a key role. Endowed by the almighty, this one establishes justice and profound peace, and rumors of his holy reign draw gift-bearing dignitaries from foreign parts. Drawing the parallel, justice manifests the glory of God.

As a record of ancient liturgy, Psalm 72 shows us a ruler who seeks guidance (“with your judgment endow the king”) and aspires (in public worship) to govern with justice, turn enemies into allies, and defend the powerless.

2nd Sunday in Ordinary Time
Likely, back in December, you heard mention of the First Sunday of Advent marking the beginning of the Liturgical Year, and so it did. Actually, though, the Gospel readings in Ordinary Time distinguish one year from the next. In years A, B, and C (respectively), the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke (respectively) unfold a section at a time, “in course.” The public life and ministry of Jesus—his preaching and teaching, healings and parables, encounters with sinners and conflicts with religious authorities—fill the Gospel readings of Ordinary Time with striking episodes.

(The birth stories, or infancy narratives [found only in Matthew and Luke] feature predominantly in the Advent-Christmas season, while the Passion, Death, and Resurrection stories propel us through Passion/Palm Sunday, the Triduum, and the Easter Season.)

Next Sunday, the Third Sunday in Ordinary Time, we begin reading from the Gospel of Matthew “in course.” This semi-continuous technique allows for the omission of particular verses or sections in the reading of a particular book of the Bible, while preserving the sequence of the biblical material. A venerable form of public reading in the Christian tradition, this approach follows a pattern first established by early Christians, as they read from the Hebrew Scriptures at liturgy. (For early Christians, no other Scriptures yet existed.)

These days, Sunday readings from the Old Testament, carefully selected according to the principle of correspondence, match up thematically or theologically with the Gospel. Similarly, the psalm connects to the Old Testament reading, and thus, somewhat less directly, to the Gospel.

3rd Sunday in Ordinary Time
Just last week on the Avenue, we mentioned the principle of correspondence as linking readings by means of a thematic or theological connection. Today’s Scriptures show one way this can happen.

We hear an echo from Christmas Mass in the Night, as Isaiah describes the deliverance (through savage conflict) of the tribal lands of Zebulon and Naphtali (captured earlier by the Assyrians) from darkness and gloom into the light of joyful freedom. The Gospel actually quotes from the same passage, as it presents Jesus, light of the nations, proclaiming his mission and calling his followers from the same geographical location. Thus, his ministry begins in Galilee, where he lives, with the simple directive, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.”

Today’s selection from Psalm 27 goes directly to the heart of both these accounts, with the refrain, “The Lord is my light and my salvation.” Read the verses aloud, listening for phrases that particularly strike you. Now, read the entire psalm aloud from the Bible, placing our small handful of verses in their larger context of trust and hope in the Lord.

At one time, Psalm 27 probably existed as two separate selections (1–6, 7–14). Either part merits memorization. For what we know by heart lends itself more easily to prayer. Saint Jerome relates that one could hear the psalms sung in the fields and gardens in his time. According to Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the psalter impregnated the life of early Christianity (Psalms, The Prayer Book of the Bible, Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg, 1974, p. 26).

4th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Another lesson in correspondence…
Today’s Scriptures open with a daunting message from the prophet Zephaniah. God seems to be giving us one last chance. I recall a famous cartoon from The New Yorker, featuring a lonely, rather unkempt person, walking the city streets holding a one-word sign, Repent. With that image in mind, consider the Book of Zephaniah, one of the shortest in the Bible, with a message similarly unwelcome, and share my wonder that it ever made it into the canon.

The helpful headings in my tattered New American Bible highlight the emphases of Zephaniah’s three chapters, portraying the day of the Lord as one of doom, judgment and, finally, reproach and promise for Jerusalem. Our Lectionary selection plucks a verse from chapter 2 and finishes with two from chapter 3. As it reads, our hope lies in seeking justice and humility and in the witness of the faithful remnant, who “do no wrong and speak no lies.” Here we look not to the rich and influential, but to those others, persons with whom we would not ordinarily associate (in Zephaniah’s world, lowly shepherds). Psalm 146 provides a handy list for our consideration: the oppressed, hungry, imprisoned, and otherwise bowed down: strangers, widows, and orphans. Today, we sing of the lowly ones, who haunt our lives with their own generous remnant of divine presence.

Jesus captures the witness of the remnant in the Beatitudes, teaching his disciples to seek and find the reign of God at the margins and on the underside of human experience.

5th Sunday in Ordinary Time
Perhaps we remember hearing parents or grandparents tell of hard times, when widespread poverty made even the necessities of life scarce and difficult to secure. In many cases, people shared to survive. Sometimes, however, those enduring hardship reacted by drawing in their boundaries, limiting their generosity to family or close-knit community. History teaches that economic depression, war, plague, famine, and natural disaster cause the flight of refugees, a forced exile of peoples from their homelands. In the wake of such tragedy, survivors too often become victims; those seeking hospitality meet instead, hostility.

Knowing how our ancestors suffered during their exile, and anticipating the possibility of hearts and hands less than open to the poor, the Lord comes to God’s people with a deal. Isaiah presents it as an if-then: IF you feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, clothe the naked, and, yes, take care of your family; THEN, your light will shine, your wound will heal, and God will protect you and answer when you call.

Now cantor, lest you think us finished with the principle of correspondence, notice the thematic link that Psalm 112 reinforces between Isaiah and the Gospel. The refrain “The just man is a light in darkness to the upright” recalls the ramifications of just action (see THEN above) and points forward to the words of Jesus: “You are the light of the world…your light must shine before others.”

That great light shining in the midst of darkness that we met at Christmas continues to reveal the path of justice.

6th Sunday in Ordinary Time
In the spirit of a heads-up, I offer this warning: Soon the day of ashes will be upon us (and the sign thereof upon our faces). Most years when this happens, we stop in our tracks (or at least, pause), resolving to make some adjustment in our way of living. Maintaining our resolve generally proves difficult, for we remain easily distracted by that faux-reality called the status quo. Consider the following strategy for making this a fruitful Lent, a time to rethink poor decisions, to repair our share of the damage that surrounds us. Let us take the time to intensify our attention to the Lenten Scriptures. We just might discover resources previously unrevealed.

Should this idea stimulate your thinking, let me encourage lectors and cantors (with an open invitation to others) to begin by reading at least the first reading and Gospel for each Sunday. As you become familiar with the presence and the role of correspondence between the Old Testament and the New, you might begin to recognize a rhythm (a rhyme, if you prefer) of thought, exchanged between these two readings.

Once the two establish a dialogue in your imagination, insert the psalm into the conversation. Can you identify one idea that draws the three pericopes (excerpts) into resonance with one another?

To give you a head start this Lent, let me suggest that you keep an eye out for the following: garden and desert as locations for action, with journey and wandering as connecting dots. We will revisit these possibilities.

7th Sunday in Ordinary Time
In the first reading from Leviticus, we hear the divine imperative, “Be holy, for I, the Lord, your God, am holy.” This constitutes the core of ancient Hebrew (and later Judeo-Christian) morality. Put simply, covenant has consequences. We belong to this holy God; therefore, our relations with others need to reflect God’s holiness.

The brief passage from Leviticus gives us a taste of the power of this book, for it moves immediately from the divine imperative to its implications for relationship with one’s neighbor. Harboring hatred, seeking revenge, holding a grudge, all fail the holiness test. Reproof (without rancor) passes, but just barely. Today’s pericope ends with part two of the great commandment, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” In its 27 chapters, Leviticus addresses family, Temple worship, social connections, law, and business. It establishes the legal boundaries for a community life founded upon justice and respect for kinfolk and neighbors (including visitors and resident aliens). We have come to call this inheritance from the Old Testament the “old law.”

Jesus goes beyond that law, beyond concern for neighbors and simple altruism. He preaches love for enemies, and his actions broaden the boundaries of community to include outcasts and sinners, the lost and broken ones on the margins. His new “law of love” fulfills and surpasses the “old law,” calling us more clearly to the holiness of the Father—the perfection of compassion.

As you study Psalm 103, look for ideas that link the Old Testament reading and Gospel, the old law and the new.

8th Sunday in Ordinary Time
As we complete this section of the Lectionary and lean our thoughts and lives toward Lent, I find the final pairing of readings (under the principle of correspondence) not simply appropriate but touching.

Today’s Gospel reading calls attention to a father’s care. Here Jesus cites earthy examples of God’s loving fatherhood (providing food and clothing for birds and flowers and human beings) and in doing so, pays tribute to the goodness of so many of our own fathers and grandfathers, who helped each of us come to terms with life in gracious gratitude.

The architects of the Lectionary pair this paternal homage with a tender tribute to motherhood, showing how like a loving mother is our loving God. Our ancestors considered the bond between mother and infant (established in the womb, strengthened at the breast) to be the closest and most indestructible of human connections, the epitome of unconditional love. Yet as close as it comes to the perfection of compassion, God’s steadfast love surpasses it.

Between the images of loving mother (Isaiah) and loving father (Matthew), Psalm 62 sings, “Rest in God alone, my soul,” an expression of trust at once deep and childlike. Lectionary verses 1 and 2 (verses 2–3 and 6–7 in the biblical text) express the same sentiment with very slight variation. (A lament separates the two in the Bible.) Verse 3 carries on with related images of God’s protection and ends with an exhortation for people to pour out their hearts to the ONE worthy of trust.

© 2016 OCP. All rights reserved.