“Who can know God’s counsel, or who can conceive what the LORD intends? For the deliberations of mortals are timid, and unsure are our plans. For the corruptible body burdens the soul and the earthen shelter weighs down the mind that has many concerns. And scarce do we guess the things on earth, and what is within our grasp we find with difficulty; but when things are in heaven, who can search them out? Or who ever knew your counsel, except you had given wisdom and sent your holy spirit from on high? And thus were the paths of those on earth made straight.”—Wisdom 9: 13-18b
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I went to Mass with my youngest yesterday. This was first reading from the pulpit.
I was struggling to feel, struggling to connect. I didn’t sleep well the night before—I was bothered by a football game, watching my son’s team struggle and concerned far more on safety and understanding of a game than about a win that means little at ten if such is all that’s gleaned and taken from the game.
Unable to sleep, I read the readings. I tried other books. Nothing hit, and nothing settled unnerve within my spirit.
Same at Mass, I listened to the readings—we did our best to follow recital of the Psalm, that took a verse beyond structure of the rest of lines and left a ten-year old laughing and a forty-year old flipping pages in the Missal to find what was actually being said.
The Gospel Jesus’ proclamation that “If anyone comes to me without hating his father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, and even his own life, he cannot me by disciple…” which I must admit I don’t fully understand; though my best effort is that nothing is before God, nothing is more loved than God; but hate is strong word, and I don’t believe it is possible to simultaneously hate and love—but maybe my spirit is small and understanding incomplete (I’m sure it is, though I still believe).
For the homily, our father began in affirm of the gospel, “Just so you know, I hate you all.”
Maybe he struggles to make reason of the meaning, for as I in pew, he speaks on, “I love you…but I hate you…I mean I love you…but I hate you…” and, like me, unfinding of a settled answer, he moves away in direction of his speech.
I didn’t notice then (for my mind remained stuck on the Gospel), but he returned to the first reading in telling of stories from his childhood—his witness of elders alone and asking his mother what it was that they did wrong to be and live so alone.
His mother said no sin. Her answer, “They just got old…”
“Oh…” his answer to his mother—accepting though not fully understanding as a boy.
From vignettes of life-moments, he spoke of saints and that what makes a saint is the meld of word and action—but always action as greatest statement of one’s love and faith (hate’s primacy in Gospel reduced away and focus returned to love and service—charity of the classic Catholic verbiage.
He spoke, “Holiness and saintliness do not come in the books we read, the thoughts we think, but the actions that we do.” He spoke to the epistle of Saint James, how we will be known by our works, and that “faith without works is dead…”
“…Who ever knew your counsel, except you had given wisdom and sent your holy spirit from on high? And thus were the paths of those on earth made straight.”
Sitting in the pew, beside my son, that’s when I felt the Holy Spirit—the reason for soul’s unsettle, disturbance that would not let me sleep.
I was searching for answers in a book, some kind of passive receive of wisdom and resolution to why it was that I was bothered; but, like father said, answer wasn’t in the book.
Answer was in action.
Bothered by a game, watching boys and a team struggle—answer was in an action: not complaining, not passively critiquing and watching with a criticism. Answer was in an action: HELP.
I know that soon I will be in harvest, that I will not be everyday at practice and field—but I can be there some days, and when I am: I can HELP.
I can teach the teachers to help coaches scheme and find little ways to make holes and plays that have not been there—but will be—if we adjust and adapt and refine a few small things.
Things are never as good or bad as they seem—our team is better than we’ve shown the last two games. Without works our faith is dead. I believe in the team. I believe in the boys and coaches. I will prove it by my works.
Holy Spirit speaks another piece.
“What did they do wrong? Why are they being punished?”
“They just got old…”
I think of my grandfather. He is ninety-two, and only this spring did he actually begin to appear such, and mortal, in the eyes of us who love him.
This spring, for a time, he was sick. Resting, time and age caught up.
I don’t see him as I used to. He was always at the farm. I would see him every day.
Ninety-two, he still drove and helped when we needed shuttled from fields and equipment; and when at the farm and unable to help with kids’ events in evenings, he helped us too in picking up and dropping off our sons and daughter to practices in town.
I don’t see him as I used to. I bring him food—tomatoes and watermelon from the garden; and meals my wife has cooked.
Often, he is resting—time, age, and body still catching up from spring—and I don’t wake him and, aside from food and meals left behind, would never know that I was there.
“What did he do wrong…”
Yesterday, I sat with him. I brought food, but then we shared presence and time as we have so much of life, and far more often than, before the spring.
We spoke of the farm—harvest’s start, if as planned, we hope to begin today. I shared stories and pictures of a fishing trip last weekend with my son. He spoke of old ones we ourselves had shared and of future ones to plan.
We will be known by our works. I give my presence. I give my time—message of Mass and given wisdom from holy spirit sent on high—doing as God asked and I know I should.
After, I go home. I return to our kitchen table. I cover it with hand-drawn plays tailored to our team; write and print notes of small adjustments that will help with what they are already trying to do.
I act. I do—message of Mass and given wisdom from holy spirit sent on high—as I know I should.
Without works, faith is dead: same with love, care, compassion, encouragement—so much of what we vocal-preach but only has meaning when we do.
“When things are in heaven, who can search them out? Or who ever knew your counsel, except you had given wisdom and sent your holy spirit from on high? And thus were the paths of those on earth made straight.”
My path on earth, at least for the day—by given wisdom and holy spirit sent—was made straight for the day.
I followed the Way, did as I should, and from unsettle and bother that kept me awake receive the peace absent in my inaction.
“Who can know God’s counsel, or who can conceive what the LORD intends? For the deliberations of mortals are timid, and unsure are our plans. For the corruptible body burdens the soul and the earthen shelter weighs down the mind that has many concerns. And scarce do we guess the things on earth, and what is within our grasp we find with difficulty; but when things are in heaven, who can search them out? Or who ever knew your counsel, except you had given wisdom and sent your holy spirit from on high? And thus were the paths of those on earth made straight.”
So, Word and Wisdom lived for me. Amen.