A SERMON FOR WHITSUNDAY
I was reading in this morning’s
lessons from Matins the commentary of St. Gregory the Great on today’s
Gospel. In noting the fact that the Holy
Ghost wishes to make his abode with us, he points out that so many of us do not
allow him to do that. Instead, we feel
merely a slight “pricking” of his presence in our soul, and at the first sign
of temptation, give ourselves up to our own pleasures and attachments, thereby
banishing him from our soul. This is not
what God wants. He doesn’t want to be a
visitor, coming and going. He wants to
dwell in our soul. To make it his
permanent dwelling place, his habitation, his temple.
Before Pentecost, the Apostles
were just regular folks, like most other people. Like us.
Like us they had experienced the occasional visits by the Holy Ghost,
inspiring them to virtue, protecting them in times of temptation. But also like us, they had allowed him to
come and go, as a visitor. They had
often failed in those times of temptation.
They had fallen into sin. Which
is a pity, because unlike us, they had
lived for three years in the presence of the Son of God. And if I were one of the Apostles sitting
there in that Upper Room that first Pentecost, in the hours before the descent
of the Holy Ghost, I would be feeling pretty bad about myself. Before that flame of divine love came down on
my head to dispel these memories of my own shortcomings, I would be weeping
over these memories with loathing.
Let’s try and put ourselves into
the minds of these men, and imagine their thoughts. “Here’s where my life has led me to this
point,” they’re probably thinking. “I’ve
been doing nothing for three years except putting all my trust in a man I
thought would re-establish the throne of Israel, who would be the Messiah,
delivering the Jewish nation from the hands of her enemies. But he never did. For all his talk he died a miserable death on
the cross. And now this man is
gone. Without lifting a finger against
the Roman occupiers of our holy land, he has now left us all alone. Sure, we saw him rise up into heaven, but
maybe that was just another of his miracles.
What’s the end result? He
promised he wouldn’t leave us orphans, but that was nine days ago now, and
there is still no sign of the Comforter he said would be coming. I’m not feeling comforted, that’s for sure.”
As usual, the Apostles, when put
to the test, manage to fail that test again.
And maybe they were somehow aware of their lack of faith, their failure
to be able to believe in that man they had been following for the past three
years. As they sat around in the Upper
Room, waiting and praying for that Comforter they hoped would one day come,
surely their minds kept remembering their past failures. If I were one of those Apostles, I would
remember seeing him just a few days ago rising up off the ground before me,
higher and higher until he disappeared beyond the clouds. What more could I want to prove to me beyond
a shadow of doubt that this man was truly God?
And yet, how had I treated him? I
spent three years questioning him, asking him for miracles, proofs of his
divinity, favors for myself, taking advantage of his popularity, pushing him to
make himself King of Israel. And then at
the first sign of trouble, when he needed me the most, I was nowhere to be
found. First, sleeping in the Garden of
Gethsemane. Then running away when the
soldiers came. When they asked me if I
knew him, I denied him, and the cock crew.
When he died, I doubted his divinity and went into hiding. When he rose from the dead, I still doubted
and demanded to see his wounds.
And now, on this Sunday morning,
a morning like any other, I’m just sitting here, preparing myself for yet
another long day of waiting. Waiting for
what? Is anything really going to
happen? Look at me, I’m still doubting. And why not!
Didn’t he say to us “Ye men of little faith?” So here I am, with the little faith I have
left. Depressed. Consumed with regret and bitter memories of
my own cowardly and faithless behavior.
Angry with myself, and yet sorry for myself. Wallowing in the self-pity of knowing that I
am the slime of the earth.
If at this moment I stood before
the judgment seat of God, I would not even wait for Christ’s sentence upon
me. I have already judged myself, and
would hurl myself freely and willingly into the eternal abyss, knowing in my
self-loathing that I deserved nothing better.
But then perhaps, I might
remember the fate of Judas. I would look around at the other Apostles, all
going through similar thoughts and self-doubt.
And then together, in one last forlorn act of hope, we would turn to
that other person in the room, to the one who had never doubted, never denied
her Son. She had had the courage to
stand at the foot of the Cross, the courage to watch him die, the courage to
keep him company in his hour of greatest need.
Surely his Mother must despise us now.
And so we hardly dare to turn to her.
And she sees our furtive glances of shame. But she doesn’t turn away. Instead, she bestows her sweet smile upon us,
and the thrill of renewed hope rushes into our heart and lungs and we dare to breathe
again. She knows what we’ve done. And she has forgiven us. And therefore will not the great God Almighty
forgive us, he whose Son could refuse his Mother nothing, this Mother whom he
gave to us while he was hanging from the nails, to be our Mother. Surely he would not make such an act of love
and confidence in us as to entrust to us his Mother and then forsake us.
Trembling with this renewed hope,
we feel the air around us tremble with us, and as we fall to our knees the
noise of a mighty wind fills the room.
Great tongues of fire appear and descend upon each of us. Fire that doesn’t burn our flesh. But a burning fire nevertheless, that enkindles
our hearts, setting them on fire with that transcendental love that will never
again go cold. We are touched with the same
love that unites God the Father with his Son.
The love they call the Holy Ghost, the third person of that Blessed
Trinity, the love that proceedeth from the Father and the Son, who together
with the Father and the Son is to be adored and glorified, qui cum Patre et Filio simul adoratur et conglorificatur! The love of a Father for his sinful prodigal
children that is so complete, so infinite in its capacity that he would send his only-begotten Son to
die for us. The love of that Son so
entire and perfect that he would shed his last drop of blood for us, and allow
his Sacred Heart to be opened so that his infinite graces may flow down upon
us.
This then is Pentecost. Not merely an event in history, but the
manifestation of God’s love in the most perfect way on us his children. The Apostles were from that moment different
men. Men who would never again waver in
their faith, never again show the least reluctance to live and die for such a
God who had loved and forgiven them so much.
This is Pentecost. The birthday of the Church. And like all our birthdays, it marks another
year past, and another year closer to the birthday that will be our last. When will be our last Pentecost? How many more Whitsundays remain before God
says “Enough”, and sends his Son again to judge both the quick and the
dead? I don’t know the answer to that of
course. It is for God alone to know the
hour and the moment. But I do know
this. That time is running its swift
course, and that which is prophesied must surely come. I was impressed once by a little handwritten
sign in a sacristy that reminded the priest as he vested for Mass to “offer
this Mass as though it were your first, and offer it as though it were your
last.” As we remember the first
Pentecost today, let us act as though it were our last. As though today is our last chance to ask the
Holy Ghost for his Sevenfold Gifts, our last chance to be enkindled, like the
Apostles, with that heavenly fire from God’s right hand. The last chance for him to come and not
merely visit us, but dwell within us, and never leave us again.
The Holy Ghost appeared in
tongues of fire, because fire burns. And
this fire of the Holy Ghost should make us burn with love for God. Burn with love for our neighbor. Are we truly on fire with that love? If not, all the gifts of the Holy Ghost
together will not be enough to save our souls.
“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels,” says St. Paul,
“and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling
cymbal. And though I have the gift of
prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have
all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am
nothing. And though I bestow all my
goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not
charity, it profiteth me nothing.”
The Holy Ghost brings us this
gift of charity, this love. Because he is love.
And he wants us to keep love in our hearts, not just as a visitor,
driven out every few days by a new sin, a new offence against God that expels
the Holy Ghost from our hearts. No, he
wants to abide in our hearts for ever, as an indwelling central focus of all
our thoughts, words and deeds, our hopes, the reason for which we do
anything. This is the only acceptable
response to God’s love for us. It’s a
response that is, essentially, the only thing God demands of us. If Christ had spoken only one thing to us in
his whole life surely it would have been these words, that: “Thou shalt love
the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and all thy soul, and all thy mind. And thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”
Do this and we will save your
souls. Do it not, and we will spend all eternity
regretting it most bitterly.
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