Easter 2 (C) 28 iv 2019 Holy Rosary
|
T
|
he significance of today's Gospel—about doubting Thomas—came home to me in a
special way on 1 January 1975 when I was informed of the death of a good
friend. His name was Lynn Edwards, and he had died in his sleep the preceding
night. His death was not completely unexpected for, although he was only thirty
years old, he was a severe spastic. Fluid would collect in his lungs because of
the contortions of his body, and that is what caused his death that New Year’s
Eve. If I can claim to have known a saint, it would be Lynn. Consider his situation.
For his entire life he had been strapped arms and legs to a wheelchair. At
night he had to have the sheets tucked tightly around his body and to have
heavy woolen socks placed on his hands to prevent him from hurting himself by
the violent and uncontrollable spasms of his body. Despite these serious
handicaps, he was the most even-tempered, agreeable and witty person I have
ever known. Because of his condition he could not speak above a whisper, but
whenever I presented my ear to his mouth, I heard an amusing comment about
something odd or a grateful response to some simple kindness. He was a
Catholic, and his strong faith had much to do with his acceptance of his
plight. As a friend, I was asked by the family to preside at his funeral Mass,
which I accepted as an honour. In pondering what to say in my sermon, I thought
of today’s Gospel, and specifically of the fact that the body of the risen Lord
bore the marks of his passion. On his hands and feet, as well as his side, were
the wounds he had received in being crucified; but surely there were also the
lacerations caused by the scourging, the marks on his head from the crown of
thorns, and the bruises and scrapes from his having fallen and been beaten by
the soldiers. Things that should have been too horrible merely to look at were
rendered beautiful, even glorious, as tokens of the great love that had
inspired Jesus to undergo these torments for the sake of our redemption. The
disciples were enabled to regard the body of the risen Jesus, not with physical
sight but with a moral vision, and this insight into the perfection of Jesus’s
action made his mangled body supremely beautiful. A weak comparison would be the winkled and emaciated
face of Mother Teresa. It was highly attractive because we knew that every crease
on her visage had been put there by an act of love.
Hence, when the time for my homily
arrived at Lynn’s funeral I was prepared. I said that, at the resurrection of
the body, he would appear with his twisted body and distorted features,
strapped to his wheelchair, but also that we would recognize his true worth
because we would look on him and see through his body to the perfection of his
soul. What I mean to say is that we should perceive in his disabled body the
grace-filled means by which he had mirrored in his life the perfect sacrifice
of Jesus. It’s as if a body could become transparent, so that the soul of the
person would be manifest in its corporeal envelope. In contrast, mere physical
perfection—an ideal specimen of humanity—would be hideous if a sinful way of
life had corrupted that person’s inner being.
The fact is that our behaviour during
our time on earth will determine our eternal destiny. We should, therefore,
prepare ourselves for glory by honouring that mysterious union of spirit and
flesh that we call a human being. Thus, when the resurrection occurs, the body
will shine like the sun, as having been a vehicle of divine grace. It’s as if
each act of virtue were an opening through which the radiance of God’s love can
shine; and, correspondingly, every sin is a sort of closing off that will leave
the sinner in a horrible and repulsive darkness. Well, God’s grace is ever
abundant; he does his part. Our response to grace is what we contribute to, or subtract
from, the final stage of our existence.a
No comments:
Post a Comment