Moved by Compassion
Fifth Sunday of Lent (A) – Lectionary: 34
I want to preach about hope today.
Karen and I have been re-watching the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings, paying close attention to the theme of hope, and how Tolkien aligns events of his story with the life of the Church. This Saturday, we celebrated the Annunciation of the Lord. In the Lord of the Rings, March 25th is the day Frodo destroys the One Ring. The day upon which Christ is conceived marks the beginning of the final destruction of sin and death. When things seem darkest, hope shines brightest.
Our reading from Ezekiel comes from the story of the dry bones being raised to life again. In the account of our Lord raising Lazarus from the dead, we hear that Lazarus has already been in the grave for four days. In Jewish tradition, the soul stays near the body for three days, then departs on the fourth day. As in The Princess Bride, Lazarus is not just ‘mostly dead” – he is very dead. There is no hope remaining.
But the bones are raised to life, Lazarus comes forth from his grave. It is when all other lights go out that the hope of Christ is most precious.
So, I wanted to preach on hope today. But… “Jesus wept.”
“And Jesus wept” – The shortest verse in the Bible, presented here in one of the very longest gospel accounts proclaimed at the mass.
People often wonder why Jesus wept. Did he weep for his own loss? Did he weep because of people’s unbelief? Did he weep because he was going to bring Lazarus back to earth from paradise, where he was joyful in the bosom of Abraham? Did he weep because he shared the grief of his friends? There are probably several reasons, but I know Jesus wept out of compassion for his friends’ grief.
Three years ago this week, Karen and I were taking care of an errand at the church. At the time, we thought the disruptions of the pandemic were almost over, not realizing that even today we would still be dealing with the consequences. We saw a parishioner coming out the door after stopping by to pray for a few minutes.
This lady works with hospice, and shared with us how difficult it was for the families of those who died during the time of the pandemic. All of the things that usually gave comfort to the family were gone. There was no mass. Very few of the family could come. They couldn’t pray a vigil or a rosary the night before, and share their memories. They couldn’t even invite people to sign a guestbook. All the little things that brought people comfort were missing.
I felt bad at the time, because I hadn’t really thought much about how difficult it is for people to deal with the death of a loved one during the time of pandemic. And I realized this week that I have forgotten again, even though this is the only homily I pretty much recycle every year, because I want to remember. I forget about those who continue to suffer for the loss of their loved ones.
But I look at Jesus, and how moved he is… Jesus wept.
It is always difficult to understand and respond in a healthy way to the death of a loved one, and to offer comfort to the mourners. In the best of times, we have Rosaries with the opportunity to remember our loved one. We have a funeral for the repose of their soul. We have a graveside committal service to offer a sense of closure.
Many people in our communities, and many of us, were not able to have those comforts. Our civil and church authorities had to make difficult decisions. I believe they did the best they could with the information they had. But the consequences remain. Some of those consequences are strange little things, like forgetting someone is dead, and thinking you see them at the store, because somehow it isn’t real when we didn’t experience the normal routines of death and burial.
No matter what the circumstances or consequences, are we moved with compassion, as Jesus was… as Jesus is, when we suffer?
To bury the dead is a corporal work of mercy, and to pray for the living and the dead is a spiritual work of mercy. Part of how we “bury the dead” is not only to ensure their body is placed in the ground, but to comfort the family. That duty does not end when the grave is closed.
I would like to encourage each of us to take a few minutes this week to be moved with compassion. Not just feel compassion, but be moved by compassion. At the very least, remember in prayer those who died. Pray for the repose of their soul, and for consolation for their family.
But, perhaps you are able to do more – to be moved by compassion. We walk the Stations of the Cross again the next two Fridays. There is an indulgence attached to praying the Stations. A plenary indulgence is a grace granted by the Church through the merits of Jesus Christ to remove the punishment due to sin. They are not for the forgiveness of sin, we have the Sacrament of Penance and Reconciliation for that – but they are for the remission of the punishment due for sins already forgiven. An indulgence deals with the consequences of sin.
We can receive an indulgence for ourselves, and we can also receive an indulgence for the souls of the faithful departed who might be in Purgatory. I encourage you to walk the Stations of the Cross the next two weeks with the intention of receiving an indulgence for those who have died recently.
To do so, come to the church and pray the Stations with us with that intention. Our Stations are legit: they are properly erected, have all 14 stations with crosses, and consist of meditation on the Passion and Death of our Lord. We have the required movement from one station to the next by at least the leader, with others walking along or praying in place as they are able. So, the Stations are good.
For our part, we need to resolve to be detached from sin, pray for the intentions of the Holy Father, and go to confession and receive Holy Communion within about 20 days. We are obligated to receive Holy Communion during Easter anyway, making this a perfect time to get to confession and receive the Eucharist.
We are approaching the darkest days of Lent. This is the Sunday when the church traditionally covers statues. Passion Sunday, and the dark day of Good Friday and Holy Saturday are nearly upon us.
These dark days are an especially good time to memento mori – to remember death. But it is also a good time to love and to hope. It is a good time to be moved by compassion for the dead and for those who grieve.
May we be like Jesus – weeping with those who weep, moved by compassion, giving thanks in the midst of the darkness, and always living and sharing the hope that, in the end, the dead will rise, and we will see the glory of God.
