8/8/19 Upon this rock.
Reading for 8/8/19
Matthew 16:13-23
“Jesus went into the region of Caesarea Philippi
and he asked his disciples,
"Who do people say that the Son of Man is?"
They replied, "Some say John the Baptist, others Elijah,
still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets."
He said to them, "But who do you say that I am?"
Simon Peter said in reply,
"You are the Christ, the Son of the living God."
Jesus said to him in reply, "Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah.
For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my heavenly Father.
And so I say to you, you are Peter,
and upon this rock I will build my Church,
and the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it.
I will give you the keys to the Kingdom of heaven.
Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven;
and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven."
Then he strictly ordered his disciples
to tell no one that he was the Christ.
From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples
that he must go to Jerusalem and suffer greatly
from the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes,
and be killed and on the third day be raised.
Then Peter took Jesus aside and began to rebuke him,
"God forbid, Lord! No such thing shall ever happen to you."
He turned and said to Peter,
"Get behind me, Satan! You are an obstacle to me.
You are thinking not as God does, but as human beings do."
Pew Research released this week the results of a study of Catholic belief in Transubstantiation. The numbers confirm a dismaying trend: disbelief in the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist.
In 2015, I stood in public and confirmed my own belief in the real presence. It was humbling, and vulnerable, and foolish in that way that faith can be. My Protestant family, I suspect, can hardly credit my belief, perhaps reckoning instead that spiritual trauma at my childhood nondenominational megachurch hurtled me into the comfort and safety of liturgy and history and predictability.
I do find a sense of security in the Church that contrasts pleasantly with the chaos resulting from lack of spiritual direction in the Protestant churches of my youth. I do find that the rich history of the liturgy and prayer traditions--and their attending art forms--create a continued line of love from Christ to us, and on to future generations. These things are beautiful and a rich part of my spiritual life.
With hindsight, though, I can see my life long journey to the Catholic church--and teenaged disillusionment with Protestantism is a part of that journey but not its nexus. The call goes further back.
When I was little enough to be in Girl Scouts, several of our meetings were held in the Catholic church in our town. I still viscerally remember my experience in the narthex of that church. I can close my eyes and stand there in my mind. I remember the sound of a water fountain, a veritable mountain of green plants, a peaceful and mysterious statue, and an indescribable sense of something present that could not be seen.
I remember vacationing in St. Augustine and visiting a cathedral there. I remember standing in the bright Florida sun outside the sanctuary, looking in at a cool candlelit interior full of mystery and of something nearly palpable. I wanted to scoop it up with my hands and carry it away with me.
I remember being drawn to religious icons in college, and carrying with me on my key ring small plastic cards with images of Mary. In my dorm room, I collected small statues of Mary. I had no explanation except that the images comforted me, and I loved having them around me and in my hands.
In grad school one night I found myself standing in the parking lot of the local Catholic church, weeping because there was something I was drawn to and was desperately hungry for but could not access. I walked in circles, hoping someone would arrive and open a door for me so I could enter, ask questions, and find comfort.
I know what it was that was calling me all those years: Christ. Christ inside the small church in a small town in West Virginia. Christ in the old cathedral in Florida. Mary, surrounding me in college, pointing me to Christ every day.
Christ in the church’s chapel in Virginia, where the parish was holding perpetual adoration. I know now that on the other side of the chapel door that I was too afraid to open was the real presence of Christ drawing me close to Him.
Most of my life, I also believed that the Body and the Blood were powerful symbols. How could it possibly be otherwise? Wouldn’t consuming the Body and the Blood make us cannibals? Pagans? What could we possibly gain from it? It is absurd. It is dangerous. This is a hard saying.
Christ did not retract or explain away His words when He was alone with his closest disciples. There was no “meaning of the parable” discussion here. There was only, are you leaving too? Peter gave no certain, courageous answer. He gave a humble, tired, cautious assent. To whom shall we go?
In Peter’s response, I can see myself in that dark parking lot in the Shenandoah Valley. I am not leaving because I have no where else to go. I am not changing my mind because I could not possibly stop believing. I cannot deny my senses or the words of Christ. I confess Him as Lord and Savior, in full, and with it I accept the things that seem foolish in the eyes of men.
We must have the humility to think as God does, not as human beings do. Christ has the words of eternal life. To whom else should we go?
Matthew 16:13-23
“Jesus went into the region of Caesarea Philippi
and he asked his disciples,
"Who do people say that the Son of Man is?"
They replied, "Some say John the Baptist, others Elijah,
still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets."
He said to them, "But who do you say that I am?"
Simon Peter said in reply,
"You are the Christ, the Son of the living God."
Jesus said to him in reply, "Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah.
For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my heavenly Father.
And so I say to you, you are Peter,
and upon this rock I will build my Church,
and the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it.
I will give you the keys to the Kingdom of heaven.
Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven;
and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven."
Then he strictly ordered his disciples
to tell no one that he was the Christ.
From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples
that he must go to Jerusalem and suffer greatly
from the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes,
and be killed and on the third day be raised.
Then Peter took Jesus aside and began to rebuke him,
"God forbid, Lord! No such thing shall ever happen to you."
He turned and said to Peter,
"Get behind me, Satan! You are an obstacle to me.
You are thinking not as God does, but as human beings do."
Pew Research released this week the results of a study of Catholic belief in Transubstantiation. The numbers confirm a dismaying trend: disbelief in the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist.
In 2015, I stood in public and confirmed my own belief in the real presence. It was humbling, and vulnerable, and foolish in that way that faith can be. My Protestant family, I suspect, can hardly credit my belief, perhaps reckoning instead that spiritual trauma at my childhood nondenominational megachurch hurtled me into the comfort and safety of liturgy and history and predictability.
I do find a sense of security in the Church that contrasts pleasantly with the chaos resulting from lack of spiritual direction in the Protestant churches of my youth. I do find that the rich history of the liturgy and prayer traditions--and their attending art forms--create a continued line of love from Christ to us, and on to future generations. These things are beautiful and a rich part of my spiritual life.
With hindsight, though, I can see my life long journey to the Catholic church--and teenaged disillusionment with Protestantism is a part of that journey but not its nexus. The call goes further back.
When I was little enough to be in Girl Scouts, several of our meetings were held in the Catholic church in our town. I still viscerally remember my experience in the narthex of that church. I can close my eyes and stand there in my mind. I remember the sound of a water fountain, a veritable mountain of green plants, a peaceful and mysterious statue, and an indescribable sense of something present that could not be seen.
I remember vacationing in St. Augustine and visiting a cathedral there. I remember standing in the bright Florida sun outside the sanctuary, looking in at a cool candlelit interior full of mystery and of something nearly palpable. I wanted to scoop it up with my hands and carry it away with me.
I remember being drawn to religious icons in college, and carrying with me on my key ring small plastic cards with images of Mary. In my dorm room, I collected small statues of Mary. I had no explanation except that the images comforted me, and I loved having them around me and in my hands.
In grad school one night I found myself standing in the parking lot of the local Catholic church, weeping because there was something I was drawn to and was desperately hungry for but could not access. I walked in circles, hoping someone would arrive and open a door for me so I could enter, ask questions, and find comfort.
I know what it was that was calling me all those years: Christ. Christ inside the small church in a small town in West Virginia. Christ in the old cathedral in Florida. Mary, surrounding me in college, pointing me to Christ every day.
Christ in the church’s chapel in Virginia, where the parish was holding perpetual adoration. I know now that on the other side of the chapel door that I was too afraid to open was the real presence of Christ drawing me close to Him.
Most of my life, I also believed that the Body and the Blood were powerful symbols. How could it possibly be otherwise? Wouldn’t consuming the Body and the Blood make us cannibals? Pagans? What could we possibly gain from it? It is absurd. It is dangerous. This is a hard saying.
Christ did not retract or explain away His words when He was alone with his closest disciples. There was no “meaning of the parable” discussion here. There was only, are you leaving too? Peter gave no certain, courageous answer. He gave a humble, tired, cautious assent. To whom shall we go?
In Peter’s response, I can see myself in that dark parking lot in the Shenandoah Valley. I am not leaving because I have no where else to go. I am not changing my mind because I could not possibly stop believing. I cannot deny my senses or the words of Christ. I confess Him as Lord and Savior, in full, and with it I accept the things that seem foolish in the eyes of men.
We must have the humility to think as God does, not as human beings do. Christ has the words of eternal life. To whom else should we go?
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