32nd Sunday in Ordinary Time
The handful of verses from Psalm 146 selected for this Sunday make a clear connection with the first reading and Gospel. “The fatherless and the widow he sustains” reminds us immediately of the widow who offers the last of her food to Elijah only to see it replenished day after day. “[B]ut the way of the wicked he thwarts” points forward to the warning Jesus issues concerning the scribes, who “devour the houses of widows and, as a pretext, recite lengthy prayers.” Here we find worship tested by justice, and in this case, the “lengthy prayers” of the scribes fail to excuse their unjust demands on the meager resources of the widows.

The rest of the verses we hear sound like a summary of the modus operandi of Jesus. In his life and ministry, he clearly aligns his actions with the long tradition of biblical justice and jubilee spelled out in Psalm 146: “The Lord … secures justice for the oppressed, gives food to the hungry … sets captives free … gives sight to the blind … raises up those who were bowed down,” and so on.

Which brings us to the widow in today’s Gospel: Like Elijah’s generous host in the first reading, she offers all that she has, “her whole livelihood,” to meet her religious obligations (as set by the scribes). Both materially poor and poor in spirit (aware of her dependence on God), she risks everything, entrusting her very life to the One with a long history of commitment to the poor and powerless.

This season of the year reminds us of the end times. The leisurely days of summer have long since been shaken off like sand from a shoe, while the waning warmth and creeping cool have brought about unmistakable changes in work and weather. A certain parallel can be found in the time between the Old and the New Testaments—the last four centuries before the birth of Christ—called the intertestamental or Second Temple period.

During this time, the Greeks (who had replaced the Persians) were toppled by the Hasmoneans, who were themselves conquered by the Romans. Each of these regime changes dramatically altered the social and political life of the Jewish people. The golden days of nationhood had faded into memory. More and more Jews lived outside the Holy Land, and those who remained in the territory of their ancestors were tossed about in perpetual political ferment. Generations of violence and social unrest followed one after another, each threatening the collapse of life as it had been promised.

In this period of persecution, with the end of the world a constant threat, a positive belief in an afterlife and even a resurrection began to take hold. The Book of Daniel bears this out in today’s first reading: “Many of those who sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake.” Daniel envisions the just shining like stars in the sky and, thus, continuing to enlighten a people in darkness with their enduring wisdom.

Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe
Today’s solemnity marks the end of the liturgical year. We hear readings that appear, at first glance, wholly foreign to our experience. Otherworldly scenes of thrones and angels either dazzle our imagination or set our human eyes rolling. What shall we make of these flights of prophetic fancy?

The first line of our first reading provides a clue. Daniel begins, “As the visions during the night continued, I saw.” Ancient prophets, also called seers, looked to the heavens for signs of the divine. Like the magi from the east, they observed the movement of the stars to gain knowledge of the changing fortunes of peoples and rulers. Daniel is one such stargazer.

I remember a night, thirty-seven years ago, when a friend and I slept out under the stars. The camp where we worked included a vast field, kept mowed for daytime activities. Laid out in the middle of that field, in the middle of the night, one could witness the wonders of the heavens: the planets, the Milky Way, the constellations, and the four-leaf clover of star-watching, the meteor (or so-called shooting star). Thinking back to that experience, I can imagine Daniel looking up on a dark night and seeing “one like a Son of man coming, on the clouds of heaven.”

In the second reading from the Revelation to John (another stargazer), we hear an echo. The one “coming amid the clouds” can be clearly identified from context clues (“every eye will see him, even those who pierced him”).

Nearly everything we know about the Passover meal involves a people built for speed: the hurried preparations for the journey (no time for bread to rise), the eat-and-run meal (no leftovers), the description of travel wear (loins girt, sandals on feet, staff in hand). Only years later, after generations of journeying, does Moses hand off the staff to Joshua. Then, this small tribe of desert nomads, grown stronger through adversity, drives through the beating heart of Jericho and into the fertile lands of their desire. Only in the relative peace that follows does their annual commemorative meal become the opportunity for settling the details of ritual story.

Compare now the way the sense of identity in the United States recreated itself from the stories of the puritans at Plymouth Rock, how long, harrowing journeys and violent overthrow of native inhabitants culminated with a harvest dinner of thanksgiving. (The Thanksgiving Day tradition moved cross-country when Abraham Lincoln, during a Civil War crisis, seized upon this bit of history as a foundational ritual of national unity.)

Psalms 113–118 form a subgroup in the Book of Psalms known as the Hallel (praise) psalms. A brilliant choice for our feast of living memory, Psalm 113 (known as the Egyptian Hallel) extols the name of the Lord who stoops down from the heavens, raising the lowly from the dust and the poor from the dunghill (parallelism, albeit a bit graphic). No wonder Psalm 113 enjoys an honored place in the Passover lineup!

© 2015 OCP. All rights reserved.

19th Sunday in Ordinary Time
In today’s first reading, we meet Elijah, the prophet, at a low point in his career. Exhausted and discouraged to the point of despair, he prays, “This is enough, O Lord! Take my life, for I am no better than my fathers.” How did our hero come to such a pass?

Let me sum up: Elijah challenges and defeats the prophets of Baal in spectacular fashion, calling down fire and rain from heaven. He incites the witnesses against the pretenders and the people seize all four hundred and fifty, dragging them down to the brook of Kishon. There Elijah dispatches them one by one.

King Ahab, undoubtedly impressed, races the storm home and gives a full account to his wife, Jezebel. She, the original Baal devotee, vows revenge against Elijah: “May the gods do thus and so to me if by this time tomorrow I have not done with your life what was done to each of them” (1 Kings 19:2). Elijah runs for his life, heading south into Judah.

Today’s passage picks up as Elijah leaves his servant behind and goes into the desert alone. There he sits down in the shade of a broom tree and prays for death but, it appears, the Lord has other plans. Attended by an angel and provided bread from heaven, Elijah finds the strength to walk forty days and nights to the mountain of God.

Psalm 34 speaks gently to Elijah and to every other weary and spent soul, “Taste and see the goodness of the Lord.”

The lore of the ark of the Covenant began with its crafting, under God’s instructions, soon after the first reception of the commandments at Mt. Sinai (cf. Exodus 25). Made from precious acacia wood and lined and plated with gold, it measured just shy of four feet in length and just over two feet in width and height. With its cover in place (pure gold with cherubim guardians stationed at either end), the ark housed the sacred tablets upon which God had written the commandments. Poles of gold-plated acacia inserted through rings at the corners of the ark allowed it to be carried without being touched.

When the Israelites entered Canaan after their extended desert wandering, the ark rested in several temporary locations until sometime after the battle of Aphek, when the Philistines captured it (1 Samuel 4:11). These hapless enemies kept the ark for seven miserable months, suffering unmentionable affliction at the Lord’s hand before sending it home on an unmanned cart (see verse one of today’s psalm).

Around 1000 BC, David finally brought the ark to his new capital city, Jerusalem, with “chanters” and musicians in the throng, as recounted in today’s first reading. (Only under Solomon, David’s heir and the builder of the great temple, did the ark take its place in the sanctuary, the holy of holies.) On this solemnity, the transfer of the ark to the ancient city symbolizes the Assumption of Mary, the Christ-bearer and ark of the New Covenant, into the holy city, the New Jerusalem.

More than forty years back, I spent several fruitful seasons learning and teaching at Saint Joseph College in Rensselaer, Indiana, in the company of Fathers Lawrence Heiman, Paul Arbogast, and Eugene Lindusky. One of those heady summers saw the campus up-ended by the arrival of Bernard Huijbers (1922–2003), visiting church musician from The Netherlands. His enthusiasm for opening even broader vistas for liturgy than we had previously imagined, coupled with the presence of ready and receptive pupils (myself included), encouraged him to remain longer than his originally scheduled visit.

The first waves of Vatican II had crossed the pond to lap on American shores, but a lingering reverence for rubrical red had limited the changes in the discipline of music for liturgy to the most timid of adjustments. Nevertheless, the polite American students found themselves captured by the practical imagination that the Dutch musician seemed to tote about in his satchel.

Few of us had ever seen a soccer ball, much less a game, and his descriptions of “football” fans bursting into song at European matches thoroughly mystified us. Lost in his narration, Huijbers told first-hand how, at certain moments, the energy of the action leapt from the field into the stands and thousands of fans released their passion for the game and national identity in the uniquely transformative act of public singing. “Here,” he exhaled, “here you will find the model of liturgical music which makes things happen.”

I really had no inkling but, that evening, my life shifted.

20th Sunday in Ordinary Time
In today’s Gospel, Jesus uses food as his primary metaphor knowing that people will listen hard, bound as they are to the daily grind of securing their daily bread. The possibility of “living bread” seems too good to be true, and so they quarrel, asking, “How can this man give us his flesh to eat?” Jesus persists with his living-bread-from-heaven language in spite of their protests, saying, “Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me and I in him.”

We Catholics hear these words and immediately think of the Eucharist, the sacrament in which the risen Christ shares his very life with us. Interestingly, the Lectionarypairs this Gospel with a first reading from Proverbs that depicts the feminine figure of divine Wisdom spreading the table and inviting the simple to eat and drink. Here food functions as a metaphor for Wisdom sharing her very life with those who answer her invitation: “Come, eat of my food, and drink of the wine I have mixed! Forsake foolishness that you may live; advance in the way of understanding.” This pairing of a slice of John’s Bread of Life discourse with a Wisdom passage reminds us of the first words of the Gospel: “In the beginning was the Word,” that is, the Logos, an image of Christ patterned after the Old Testament Wisdom figure. For John, Jesus extends the invitation, offering abundant life—rich, satisfying, and meaningful.

Once again, we respond: “Taste and see the goodness of the Lord!”

21st Sunday in Ordinary Time
The notion of covenant emerged in a time when the Israelites still believed in multiple gods. Even the Ten Commandments acknowledge the existence of other “strange” gods as a matter of course. Under the terms of the Covenant, the Israelites vowed to abandon all other deities and worship Yahweh. Among the peoples of the ancient Middle East, this shift to a singular allegiance was truly countercultural. Even a powerful Egyptian king could not turn the tide of popular religious devotion for long. Ancient records attest that Pharaoh Akhenaten introduced exclusive worship of the sun god, Ra, while ignoring the other traditional gods of Egypt. His successor quickly dropped this deviation.

In ancient parlance, “covenant” rang with legal overtones. As a formal treaty binding two parties together, “covenant” defined a relationship of mutual responsibility. The Israelites promised unwavering fidelity to the Lord in exchange for his powerful protection under the cultural assumption that breaking such an agreement would have serious consequences. That is, if the people broke the Covenant, Yahweh would be perfectly within his legal rights to suspend his favor and punish them immediately and completely.

Today’s first reading from the Book of Joshua recounts a moment of decision in the life of Israel. Challenged by Joshua’s words and example, “As for me and my household, we will serve the Lord,” the people remember and retell the story of God’s mighty deeds on their behalf, and they pledge, “Therefore we also will serve the Lord, for he is our God.”

© 2014 OCP. All rights reserved.

Second Sunday of Easter
The repeated use of certain psalms in the Lectionary with different combinations of verses for different Sundays happens more frequently than we notice. A change of refrain will often disguise such a reprise from the assembly. I confess to calling the occasional Sunday selection a stack of “snippets.” Yet careful study of the biblical texts and their history yields strong evidence of a cut-and-paste approach, both before and after the psalms were compiled in the centuries before the birth of Christ. (According to scholar Robert Alter, there exist medieval manuscripts that divide the text of Psalm 118 into as many as five different psalms.)

Looking at today’s selection, verses 2–4 of the biblical text include a repeated refrain from Psalm 136, “His mercy endures forever,” and spell out a call and response form. The call sings out to the house of Israel, the house of Aaron, and again to all those who fear the Lord to join in the proclamation of God’s mercy. Clearly, a psalmist calling upon different congregations implies a liturgical gathering.

In verses 13–15, the psalmist thanks God for rescue from enemies who pressed down hard. “My strength and my courage is the LORD, and he has been my savior” echoes Exodus 15:2, sung by newborn Israel at the edge of the sea. Verses 22–23 personify a stone, passed over and abandoned by human beings, now rescued and installed as cornerstone by the Lord.

Third Sunday of Easter
Easter reminds me of Gene Walsh. Father Walsh promoted an active, intentional focus during liturgy. His common-sense term was “paying attention”—paying full attention to every ritual action as the foundation of transformative liturgy.

Not surprisingly, this focused approach has some history as a tradition in worship, as illustrated by the account of Boniface of Canossa, powerful ruler of Tuscany. Around 1040 AD, to ensure continued intercession on his behalf by generations of monks after his death, he endowed the Abbey of Pomposa with robust support.

Boniface began regular visits to the abbey, reviewing the fruits of his generosity. His visitations, complete with men-at-arms and courtiers-in-tow, were heralded for the unexpected. (He once stripped off his clothing and directed the Abbot Guido to draw blood with the lash in punishment for the sin of simony to which he had just confessed.) On one occasion, Boniface tested the discipline of abbey choirboys, widely known to sing with eyes cast reverently toward the floor. He sent an aide up to the height of the sanctuary to fling down gold coins upon the stone floor near the vested singers mid-song. With unflinching aplomb, not a single chorister raised his eyes to discover the source of the tinkling golden rain.

Coincidentally, one of those present was Guido d’Arezzo, a namesake of the abbot and, later, the inventor of the musical staff.

Fourth Sunday of Easter
Originally part of an entrance ritual, Psalm 118 was—and still is—often recast for various thanksgiving events. But today’s refrain from verse 22 brings to bear an aura of reverence. Indeed this text became an Easter cry for early converts, with its once-rejected cornerstone emerging as an iconic image of Jesus in the Christian tradition (cf. Mark 12:10–11).

The call of verse 1 from the biblical text identifies this as a psalm of thanksgiving: “Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good, for his mercy endures forever.” Its call and response form, reminiscent of Psalm 136, appears less obvious here because verses 2–3 do not appear. The precise text of verse 1 does repeat in verse 29, framing both the biblical text and today’s selection. Subtle shifts in your vocal approach (e.g., tone color, diction) can highlight this call and response embedded in the text.

Verses 8–9 present a pair of proverbs with a familiar form, and the parallel construction makes the listener circle back to the notion that even princes are mere mortals. The inclusion of verse 21, “I will give thanks to you, for you have answered me and have been my savior,” makes the stone metaphor in verse 22 more clearly personal. Verse 26 begins with recognizable ritual language: “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the LORD.” It also contains another hidden call and response.

Fifth Sunday of Easter
Cantors who have cultivated some level of psalm number recognition will shudder to think that Psalm 22 turns up today, in the thick of the Easter season. The biblical version includes an array of grisly images: life draining away, bones out of joint, heart melting like wax, throat dry, tongue stuck to palate, hands and feet wasted, dogs circling, foes mocking, and clothing stolen and divided. We get the picture.

When the Gospel evangelists reference this psalm, it usually means trouble (cf. Matthew 27:43, Mark 15:24, and John 19:24). The Gospel of Mark (15:34) places the opening verse of Psalm 22 on the lips of Jesus, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” invoking the entire text for his largely Jewish audience.

Now look at the portion of Psalm 22 that you sing today and revel in the good news: the poor will eat well, seekers of God will praise, the ends of earth will remember and turn, nations will bow, and even the dust-dwelling dead will bend before the Lord. Coming generations will serve the Lord, hearing and telling of God’s justice. This hopeful vision comes from the latter part of the biblical text, as the psalmist’s vow to praise gives way to the praise itself.

In the end, God saves—alleluia!

Sixth Sunday of Easter
For those who have not kept track, let me note that Psalm 98, proper to this Sunday, last appeared on Christmas Day. In the Nativity continuum (Christmas Vigil through Epiphany), we celebrated God’s arrival in the heart of the human community, with herald angels, rustic shepherds, and foreign sages lining up in turn to hail the great birth.

Today’s first reading from Acts peeks past Pentecost to a similarly surprising arrival, this time of the Holy Spirit in the midst of a Gentile community. God-with-us now manifests as God-within-us, and the reliable divisions of us and them (in this case, Jews and Gentiles) break down. Once again, the God of the universe invokes the divine privilege of coloring outside of the lines. As Psalm 98 rightly acclaims, “The Lord has revealed to the nations his saving power.”

Listen to today’s selection of verses, as we sing of the Lord reigning over our world. God’s mighty deeds have earned the response of our praise in every act of worship. The Lord’s “right hand” and “holy arm” have “won victory,” and that victory means “salvation” and “justice” for us and for all. All lands—and all peoples who inhabit them—hear the invitation to “sing joyfully to the LORD.”

In every worship celebration, we open our hearts and minds to a future church, transformed by the generosity of God’s spirit pouring out upon all who listen and moving out, through them, to “all the ends of the earth.”

The Ascension of the Lord
When you hear a band strike up “Hail to the Chief,” you can reasonably expect the president of the United States to make a public appearance. This march tune clings so closely to the office of the presidency that any other use of the song borders on irreverence.

Psalm 47 comes close to this standard of ritual relationship. While bearing the superscript “A psalm of the Korahites,” Psalm 47 also falls into the category of royal or kingship psalms (along with 93 and 96–98). The Hebrew phrase Malak Adonai, common to these texts, translates as “The Lord rules” or “The Lord reigns.” Scholars argue over the precise historical role of these psalms, but many believe that they were sung in a lavish New Year enthronement ritual.

In this annual ceremony, the king played the part of the God of creation, reenacting a duel to the death with the great monsters of the other side. At the victory of the king, the ark of the Lord was placed once again in prominence as a sign of the Lord’s enthronement while the people cheered, danced, and sang through the blasting of the shofar. Imagine the chosen of Israel celebrating such a ritual with full and passionate hearts. Imagine also the visitors and non-believers witnessing such behavior and experiencing a moment of intense revelation.

Seventh Sunday of Easter
Psalm 103 begins with a twofold call to praise, but this summons points inward at the nefesh of the psalmist. Typically translated “soul,” this Hebrew word actually encompasses the whole person. (Our ancestors in faith did not recognize any separation between body and spirit.) The same word also means “throat” and so introduces the possibility of the soul “thirsting” (cf. Psalm 63).

The two lines of verse 1 give us a simple example of parallelism, which is typical of Hebrew poetry: “Bless the LORD, O my soul; and all my being, bless his holy name.” Notice that the second line reverses the order of the first; “My soul” and “all my being” correspond, as do “bless the LORD” and “bless his holy name.” “Lord” appears in small caps, signaling the use of Yahweh, the sacred and mysterious name of God.

Verses 1 and 2 together form a more complex parallel pair. In this case, the second begins as a simple repeat but takes a turn to expand the meaning presented in the first: “Bless the LORD, O my soul; and forget not all his benefits.” (In the psalms, memory motivates praise.) Verses 11 and 12 cite God’s kindness and forgiveness as benefits worth remembering.

In the final verses of Psalm 103, parallel calls broaden the opening summons to include angels, then hosts, then all creatures. (We sing only the first of these in today’s selection.) Once the psalmist finds the motivation to praise, it cannot be kept in!

Pentecost Sunday: Vigil
Through the generations of its formation, Psalm 104 developed into a masterpiece of praise celebrating God’s sovereignty over creation. Its finished form includes elements that predate Israel, indicating that our ancestors in faith adopted and adapted worthy material from other cultures, making it new for their own worship.

In an echo of Psalm 103 (see Seventh Sunday), Psalm 104 begins, “Bless the LORD, O my soul,” but this time the psalmist needs no prompting; the motivation for praise surrounds him. In the biblical text, a torrent of verses follow describing God’s mighty acts as creator and sustainer of the earth. The selections for tonight and tomorrow summarize and highlight but cannot possibly capture the breadth of this 35-verse tour de force. Take a few minutes now and read the entire text aloud.

Verses 29 and 30 make clear that the God who sustains creation reigns over death as well as life. Specifically, the breath of life belongs to God. It comes from God to animate the living and returns to God at the moment of death. In between, it is on loan.

Pentecost Sunday: Day
Mediterranean people of the ancient world stayed on the watch for malevolent spirits in the darkness of night, but the daytime, too, had its share of otherworldly visitations. Indeed, experiences of theophany (as scholars call such encounters with the divine) often mark turning points in the great covenant story of the Hebrew Testament (e.g., Moses’ burning bush, Abraham’s flaming brazier).

In today’s first reading, Saint Luke tells of a communal theophany. Extraordinary sounds and sights signal another great turning point in the covenant story: first, “a noise like a strong driving wind,” then “tongues as of fire”). We might imagine the tongues as colorful yellow and red slits or openings between the tangible, natural world and the supernatural realm of God. These tongues of flame might also point to glossolalia, the ecstatic speech that follows when all present are filled with the Holy Spirit.

And now, as we part, an old story…

Kneeling before the abbey spiritual director, a young novice opens her heart with expressive fervor: “Oh, Mother, I come to you having done all you have advised—saying my prayers, completing all the chores and the housekeeping, bending my mind to study and my will to obedience—and still I don’t feel fully a part of my Lord and my God.” Sitting in her accustomed and disciplined posture and embracing the young woman’s hands in her own, eyes focused on her protégée, the director leans ever closer and with equal intensity whispers, “Perhaps, my child, you have yet to become…a flame.”

© 2014 OCP. All rights reserved.

The Holy Family of Jesus, Mary and Joseph
Today’s Gospel features two local characters. Saint Luke describes Simeon as “righteous and devout, awaiting the consolation of Israel” and speaks of his familiarity with the Holy Spirit. This holy man of Jerusalem comes “in the Spirit” to the temple to greet the Holy Family. Taking Jesus in his arms, he praises God for allowing him to live long enough to see the promised salvation of the Lord. He blesses the parents and the child and gives Mary plenty to ponder in his prophetic words concerning her son.

Then we meet Anna, a one-of-a-kind ancient widow, whom Luke identifies as a “prophetess.” In a time when the average lifespan hovered around forty (reflecting extremely high infant mortality), this women reaches the venerable age of eighty-four, having spent over sixty years as a widow. She spends every day and night in the temple, fasting and praying. She too comes forward to praise God and offer a prophetic word.

Simeon responds to the call of the Spirit to visit the temple on this blessed day. This man of Jerusalem finds time in his busy life to pay attention to divine promptings and to act upon them. Old and eccentric Anna prays 24/7, keeping her heart open to the divine word at all times. She too responds in the moment and comes forward to praise and prophesy.

Imagine today’s selection from Psalm 105, coming forth from the psalm of Spirit-led Simeon or ancient Anna: “Rejoice, O hearts that seek the Lord!”

Solemnity of Mary, Holy Mother of God
The octave day (eight days later) of a feast is meant to encourage us to extend the celebration. It does not take a genius to see that after four weeks of Advent anticipation, one day of Christmas can hardly suffice. For us, Christmas stretches into a season (hence the song honoring the Twelve Days with various extravagant gifts).

Catholics of a certain age may remember that this octave day has borne different titles and emphases over time. It began as a fast day to buffer the effect of enduring pagan observances. By the seventh century, it became the earliest liturgical feast of Mary in the Church. The Circumcision landed on January 1 in the thirteenth century and remained until 1969, when a reconfiguration established the feast we celebrate today as the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God. (Its brief designation as World Day of Peace lingers, perhaps, in our musical choices.)

So Christmas continues…let’s celebrate!

After our recent stint of mandatory overtime, we may need a little push to get things going, so I suggest a gala gathering of the entire music ministry on New Year’s afternoon to celebrate Mary, Mother of Music. Stay with me now: New Year’s Eve has passed and the danger of over-indulgence is now slim to none. The parish hall is free. Leftover holiday treats beg to be shared. Carols have not graced the airways since Christmas Day. And the parish tree will probably stay up until Epiphany.

What are we waiting for?

The Epiphany of the Lord
In the earliest centuries, due to the missionary activity of itinerant evangelists and the small-scale migration of people, communities of Christians sprang up in different cities around the Mediterranean. Travel of any distance was complicated and not lightly attempted, so different customs of religious observance emerged where Christians lived.

A celebration marking the birth of Christ on December 25 began in the West and slowly spread east. Epiphany emerged first in the East, specifically in Alexandria, and spread west. (Egyptian Christians chose January 6, an existing holiday marking the birth of Aion, a god of eternal life—also, coincidently, born of a virgin mother—for the celebration of Epiphany.) Thus, over time, an exchange of gifts took place. The East received the feast of the Nativity from the West, and the West received the feast of the Epiphany from the East. Of course, this simple description fails to capture a complex process that took place over a few hundred years.

“Epiphany” means “making known,” or manifesting. Thus several stories of Christ being made manifest to the world became associated with the feast. In addition to the Nativity and the visit of the Magi, the changing of water into wine at Cana and the Baptism of Jesus in the Jordan came to be featured. By the fifth century the four great signs (Nativity, Magi, Cana, and Baptism) began to be sorted out. Today, we hear the stories on separate days, though Epiphany still bears the freight of their collective influence.

The Baptism of the Lord
There exists a general similarity of desert climate between Israel and Southern California. Our experience with severe droughts in parts of California reminds us of the fear that can rule those who reside in such arid regions. Our ancestors in faith lived with the constant threat of fatal dehydration. Thus, for Israel, water became a potent symbol, as well as a necessity for life.

For proof of this, we need only consult the stories: In the first plague on the Egyptians water turns to blood. Hail appears a bit later. A pillar of cloud guides the Israelites forth from Egypt. The escaped slaves pass through a divided sea to become the people of God, and the same sea flows back over their pursuers. In the desert, God brings forth water from the rock and turns bitter water sweet. And finally, the Jordan shrinks back to ensure safe passage for the Ark of the Covenant.

Israel depended on springs or wells under the ground and rain, which fell barely six months of the year. Some towns grew up near wells, while others stored the scarce rainwater in cisterns. And yet this people embraced the irony of being a nation obsessed by purity, while never seeming to have enough water to accomplish the purifying.

Today’s response comes from outside the Book of Psalms. In this biblical canticle from Isaiah 12, water symbolizes salvation. God’s saving love overflows as spring and fountain, from which the people shall draw abundant life.

Second Sunday in Ordinary Time
A happy coincidence took me to a university in the north where I was honored to do some part-time teaching in the religious studies department. The departmental offices were housed in the university chapel and according to long-time custom three young men who served the department as “chapel rats” resided on the premises. In addition to their classes, they maintained the guest quarters, picked up and delivered, and did guy-Friday office chores. At least one remained onsite 24/7.

When I think of Samuel, these “chapel rats” come to mind. Dedicated to the Lord by his grateful mother, Hannah, Samuel serves under Eli, the priest (nearly blind by this time). Though he sleeps within spitting distance of the Ark, he cannot imagine that it might be God who calls him in the night. His innocence and humility contrast with the corruption and hubris of Eli’s own sons.

Samuel also reminds me of dedicated cantors who approach liturgy with the same sort of innocence (or naiveté) regarding their vocation, and perhaps for the same reasons. In Samuel’s defense, revelation from the Lord was “uncommon” in his time, and he was not yet “familiar with the Lord.” Some of us can surely relate. Perhaps the verses of his story have been crafted to invite us to hear our own version of God’s call to familiarity and, I dare say, intimacy. Perhaps we too can answer, “Speak, for your servant is listening,” or better yet, sing the refrain of today’s Psalm 40.

Third Sunday in Ordinary Time
Today’s brief version of Jonah’s story tells us barely the tip of the tale. As we know from childhood, in a vain effort to avoid God’s order to “Set out for the great city of Nineveh,” Jonah turns and runs full gallop in the other direction, aiming to sail away from the presence of the Lord to the place where the sea ends.

His dramatic descent—down to the port, down to the ship, down into the hold of the ship, and into a deep sleep, and finally down into the depths of the sea—represents the experience of anyone attempting to escape the grasp of God (see Psalm 139:7–10). Facing the desperate sailors, Jonah offers his own life to save theirs, and from the belly of the great fish he prays a stunning lament. This turn toward God puts him back on the solid ground of relationship and the great fish delivers him to shore.

Today’s passage follows, though from the Bible it reads, “The word of the Lord came to Jonah a second time.” The Lectionary version leaves out the last three words, blotting out any reference to Jonah’s initial reluctance, his foolhardy escape, and the dramatic retrieval by the great sea monster, and leaving us with a straightforward tale of human repentance and divine mercy.

Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time
These days, the word “prophecy” typically refers to information about future events beyond our ken, but in the Bible it means something different. Biblical prophecy reveals God’s reliable judgment intended for a person, a place, or a group. It spells out the consequences for present actions that will surely occur in the foreseeable future if the receiver fails to change course. The prophet, then, becomes the whistle blower that no one wants to hear, much less heed.

“Why,” you ask, “doesn’t God speak directly to humankind, saying what is precisely on his mind?” The answer, my friend, is found in today’s first reading. Apparently, God tried that once before and it didn’t work out so well. The voice of God scared everyone half to death. So they begged God to back off a bit, saying in effect, “Please, if you don’t mind, when you have something to say, send someone we can recognize, who won’t be so scary.” So, being generous, hospitable, and loving, the Lord relented, and even commented, “This was well said.”

The refrain for Psalm 95 comes at the turn of verses 7 and 8 of the biblical text and features the word “today.” Repetition after each verse makes this word more and more prominent. I have a personal conviction about the word in this context. Instead of simply referring to the current day or present time, I believe it calls for an intensity of action. “Pay attention, act on this message now” sounds prophetic, doesn’t it?

Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time
In the following remarks, please note this cantor has a peculiar affinity for the connection between the psalm and first reading on this particular Sunday. The prose folk-style of the authors and characters in Job, with the mystery of God’s mighty deeds projected behind the scrim of human suffering, continues to confound an easy faith for me.

I embrace the Book of Job as it struggles with suffering. Although we have received the “finished” version, it bears the marks of evolution, having been supplemented by several authors. If you have not yet read it, by all means stop and read it now, aloud if possible. All right, 42 chapters might be a bit taxing—in stages then.

Job speaks of human integrity, suffering, the mystery of God (sometimes nearby, sometimes far off), and trust. It might be the original Why Bad Things Happen to Good People. I can imagine a scribe drafting this saga upon his return to a ruined Jerusalem, after spending most of his life in the splendor of Babylon.

In today’s short passage, look for signs of the parallelism we already associate with psalm composition, where an idea in one line is revisited and reinforced or further developed in the following line. Keep an eye and an ear out for metaphor and simile.

This Sunday’s selection from Psalm 147 strikes a subdued tone, hopeful and grateful, but with a concrete memory of suffering. It provides a fitting response to the existential angst of Job.

Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time
In today’s Gospel, Jesus encounters a leper, an individual separated from community life and worship because of a skin condition that marked him as unclean. Actually, any malady that manifested as scabby, flaky skin resulted in revulsion and expulsion.

The first reading explains this circumstance. In the purity laws of Leviticus 11–15, from which it comes, the human body functions as a metaphor for Jewish society and its boundaries symbolize those of the community. Thus, rules for the body replicate rules for the community. Whatever enters/exits the body affects the purity of the body, just as those who enter/exit the community affect its integrity. Firm boundaries for body/society are critical to preserving the purity/integrity of the Jewish community—as the chosen people of the covenant; blurred boundaries of body (flaky skin) or society (marriage outside of tribe/clan) put the covenant at risk.

To be fair, this obsession with boundaries came to the fore after the trauma of captivity in Babylon. In their efforts to rebuild Jewish society once Cyrus of Persia sent the people home, the priest-leaders called for a return to purity. Non-Jewish wives were dismissed, along with their children, to restore the purity and holiness of Israel.

In the Gospel, Jesus challenges the boundaries of his society. He heals outcasts and restores them to life in community. Thus, he embodies the saving love of God portrayed in Psalm 32. Not surprisingly, the leper-now-healed cannot contain his joy.

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