St. Anthony & Our Lady of Fatima

“When vintage time grew near, the landowner sent his servants to the tenants to obtain his produce.  But the tenants seized his servants and one they beat, another they killed and a third they stoned…”

Imagine that just before a soul begins his or her earthly journey, God takes the soul by the hand and points out a certain place on earth.  God then explains to the about-to-be conceived:

                “This is going to be your piece of the vineyard.  It will be yours to make of it whatever you can.  All I ask is that you work it as best you can and get the most out of the soil and the shoots that I give you.  If you produce grapes that become the choice wine of reconciliation and justice, great; if you only have enough water and nutrients to produce a few grapes that make a small amount of the sherry of humility and kindness, good; if you only have enough time to plant a few seeds or start a few vines that others can bring to a full harvest, you’ll have done well.”

But God cautions:  “Just don’t make the mistake that too many of my tenants make.  They get too caught up in the number of grapes that they can coax from the vines.  My vineyard is about harvesting good grapes, not amassing profits.

“Remember, too, that you are responsible for the part of the vineyard I give you.  Don’t exhaust the grapes you harvest for yourself alone and then leave nothing behind but a dried, hollow tangle of dead vines for the next grower.  I will demand a price for what you produce – and what you squander.

“Keep in mind,” God the vineyard owner continues, “that everyone has his or her own piece of the vineyard.  But there are no dividing lines, no fences, no property markers.  Your part of the vineyard is joined to your neighbor’s – so you can do neither good nor evil in your vineyard without affecting the folks next to you and the vines around you.”

Finally, God says, “One more thing, and I don’t mean to harp on this, but it is my vineyard. Not yours.  I’m giving you a piece of it because that’s what being God is all about.  An occasional thank you would be nice.  But the moment you think this vineyard is yours or that you deserve more or better, your vineyard will become a very unhappy and unproductive place.

“So, go to it!”

And then God breathes that soul into a human embryo, and another adventure begins.

From the Dialogue of Saint Catherine of Siena

Today’s parable of the wicked tenants is played out in our own time and place whenever an unjust business practice, a socially irresponsible decision or a morally indefensible act is called out.  Too often we view this “vineyard” God has given us as ours alone, and we will manipulate it, abuse it, exhaust it to satisfy our needs and pleasure, and like the tenants in today’s parable, we find some way to cut down whoever challenges us or calls us accountable.  Christ, the “vineyard owner’s son” comes with a new vision for the vineyard we only “lease” from his Father:  a vision of love rather than desire, of peace rather than hostility, of forgiveness rather than vengeance.

Have a blest week!  Fr. Glenn

 

“When John came to you in the way of righteousness, you did not believe him; but the tax collectors and prostitutes did.”

                The story of Sarah Gad is sadly all too familiar.

While a student in medical school, Sarah was seriously injured in an automobile accident.  She suffered several broken ribs, an ankle injury and a leg fracture.  To alleviate her pain, her doctors prescribed several medications, including oxycodone.  Both Sarah and her doctors assumed that being a medical student, Sarah could handle these highly addictive drugs.  But Sarah developed an addiction to opioids.  The next two years were a nightmare of arrests for non-violent drug offenses.  She was in and out of jail and rehab but kept going back to drugs as soon as she got out.  Her addiction forced her to drop out of medical school.  During one incarceration she was badly beaten and sexually assaulted.

In 2015, Sarah was hospitalized after overdosing on opioids at her parents’ home in Minnesota.  Doctors proposed a new approach to her care: medication-assisted treatment (MAT).  Slowly Sarah was able to wean herself off drugs and has been sober ever since.

Sarah sued Chicago’s Cook County Jail for the sexual assault she suffered during a 27-day stay in 2013.  The County settled with Sarah for $380,000.  Impressed by her courage and her determination, Sarah’s attorney Kathleen Zellner offered her a job to work with her on medical malpractice lawsuits.

Sarah found her life’s purpose in working with men and women who had been through what she experienced.  Sarah was inspired to go to law school.  It’s very difficult for convicted felons to get into law school, but Sarah cleared every hurdle with humility and integrity.  With the money from the Cook County settlement, she graduated from the University of Chicago Law School and passed the bar last year.

Sarah Gad has been working as an attorney in Minneapolis, specializing in criminal defense – including non-violent drug convictions – and civil rights violations.  So far none of her cases have gone to trial, as she works to get them dismissed or diverted before reaching that point.

While she never fulfilled her dream of becoming a doctor, Sarah now believes she was meant to be a lawyer and advocate.

“My personal story is what drives me to be the best possible advocate that I can,” Sarah Gad says.  “I don’t want my clients to have to live through what I lived through.”

(The Washington Post, August 16, 2023) 

We’re not defined by our mistakes and failings; the labels society slaps on us are often meaningless.  In today’s Gospel, Jesus articulates the hope of the kingdom of God: that, in the spirit of God, we can access the grace and wisdom of that Spirit to move beyond hopelessness and despair to realize the dignity everyone of us possesses as daughters and sons of God.  A Sarah discovered, every life is open to the “way of righteousness”: in realizing our failings and accepting responsibility for our sins, we can begin to transform our lives in God’s grace, wisdom and peace, recreating our Good Fridays into experiences of resurrection.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Or are you envious because I am generous?”  As I write this, the UAW is striking the Big Three over working conditions and benefits, and it seems to be either quite timely or coincidental to hear today’s Gospel with that in the background.  This parable isn’t about fair wage or recompense; it runs up against our ideas of justice and we find ourselves with the same feelings we have when we hear the story of the Prodigal Son.  Remember how incensed the older brother is over his father’s gestures of lavish welcome and forgiveness for his kid brother.  “How unfair,” we think it is to the elder son who does what he’s expected to do.  Not unlike what most feel about the landowner – that he treats the laborers equally despite the disproportionate hours they worked. 

What we learn from this parable is that the landowner begins by giving everyone in the story work.  Each is unemployed and each is given work with the promise of payment.  Each begins in the same situation but easily forget by the end of the day where they started.  Their energy moves from the fact that they got work for the day and a wage to the inequity they see.  Envy becomes more important than what they have received.  “Are you envious because I am generous?”

How about us?  Do we find ourselves envious of others’ gifts, talents, abilities, social status or possessions?  How often am I envious of another’s good fortune?  Recall that God is the source of every good gift, whether it’s ours or another’s.

This story is essentially about the generosity of God, not just labor practices; not about fair wages but about a gracious and undeserved gift.  God’s generosity often violates our own sense of right and wrong – the way things would be if we ran the world.  How often am I ungrateful for God’s mercy and graciousness?  How often do I deny God’s love and forgiveness in my own life?

Jesus leaves us with a question:  Can we learn to see through the eyes of God?  Our ideas of right and wrong, what is just and unjust, are not the ways of God all the time.  When we look for equity, we’re surprised to find generosity. Where are we in this story?  In it, we’re reminded that God is a lousy bookkeeper and invites us to transform our own pride, hardness and envy into joy at God’s generosity.

We’re challenged to turn from holding grudges because things didn’t go our way to letting go of the stuff of our lives that keeps us from being grateful.  Gratitude is at the heart of our faith.

Let’s be thankful for each other!  Fr. Glenn

 

Rev. Greg Boyle, a Jesuit priest in California, has been ministering to gang members in and around Los Angeles for many years and has written of the struggles his “parishioners” go through trying to escape the ever-present tentacles the culture uses to lure them back.  His most recent book is entitled FORGIVE EVERYBODY EVERYTHING, and contains this story on forgiveness.

                On a Saturday in 1996 I am set to baptize George at Camp Munz (a juvenile detention camp).  He has delayed doing this until he acquires his GED, seeing it as a twofer celebration.  I know both George (17) and his brother, Cisco (19), gang members from a barrio in the projects.  As a part-time chaplain, I have gotten to know George pretty well during his nine-month stint in the camp.  He has moves so gracefully from his hardened posturing to being a young man in possession of himself and his gifts.

The night before George’s baptism, Cisco is walking home before midnight when the quiet is shattered by gunshots.  Some rivals creep up and open fire, and Cisco falls half a block from his apartment, killed instantly.  His girlfriend, Annel, eight months pregnant with their first child, runs outside.  She cradles Cisco in her arms and lap, rocking him as if to sleep, screaming with every motion.

I don’t sleep much that night.  It occurs to me to cancel my presence at the Mass at Camp Munz to be with Cisco’s grieving family, but then I remember George and his baptism.  I arrive before Mass and there is George alone in the mess hall, holding his newly acquired GED certificate.  He heads toward me, waving his GED and beaming.  We hug each other.  He is in a borrowed, ironed, crisp white shirt and a thin black tie.  His pants are the regular camp-issue camouflage, green and brown.  I am desvelado, completely wiped out, but trying to keep pace with George’s excitement.  None of the residents have phones or any way to stay “connected” to the activities back in their barrios and I am quite certain George doesn’t know about Cisco.

The mess hall slowly fills up and is packed for the Mass and we begin as I ask George his name.  “George Martinez,” he says with an overflow of confidence.  “And George, what do you ask of God’s church?”  He replies, “Baptism,” with a steady, barely contained smile.

It’s the most difficult baptism of my life.  For as I pour water over George’s head: “Father….Son….Holy Spirit,” I know I will walk George outside alone after and tell him what happened.  As I do, I put my arm around him, and I whisper gently as we walk out across the baseball field, “George, your brother Cisco was killed last night.”

I can feel the air leave his body as he heaves a sigh that finds itself a sob in an instant.  We land on a bench.  His face seeks refuge in his open palms, and he sobs quietly.  Most notable is what isn’t present in his rocking and gentle wailing.  I’ve been in this place before many times.  There’s always flailing and rage and promises to avenge things.  There is none of this in George.  It is as if the commitment he has just made in water, oil and flame has taken hold and his grief is pure and true and more resembles the heartbreak of God.

                George seems to offer proof of what we say about sacraments…that they have operative or effective power; that sacramental power can change our human kneejerk reaction to life’s experiences if we let it.  George managed to hold all the complexity of his great sadness, right here, on this bench, in his tender weeping.  I had previously asked him in the baptismal rite, after reminding him of his commitment, “to live as though this truth was true.”  Then I asked, “Do you clearly understand what you are doing?”

I remember he paused, and then revs himself up in a gathering of self and soul and says, “Yes, I do.” 

And yes, he does.

In the traditions of the monastic religious orders, the highest form of sanctity is to live in hell and not lose hope.  George clings to his hope and his faith and his GED certificate and choses to march, resilient, into his future.

Forgive everybody everything!  Fr. Glenn