If you’ve ever dipped into Greek mythology, you know the story of
Sisyphus. Sisyphus was the King of Corinth, a shrewd and clever
fellow, but he offended the gods so egregiously that he was
consigned to spend eternity in Hades, pushing a huge boulder up a
hillside. And each time Sisyphus would succeed in getting the
boulder within inches of the summit, the slope of the hill was such
that the stone would roll back and fall to the bottom, and he would
have to start all over again. Forever.
The ancient myth speaks to the futility of human endeavors and the
ultimate meaninglessness of life. There is only effort, endless
effort. And success is endlessly elusive.
Standing over and against such cynicism is the Christian gospel of
hope that views life as a purposeful mission, a journey with an end
point, a journey to glory. And gospel hope is more than shallow
optimism. Far more. Gospel hope is rooted in the Easter mystery we
are celebrating during these fifty days, the mystery that took Jesus
to the very pinnacle of glory but only through the dark valley of
death.
Gospel hope is powerfully pictured in the new heavens and new earth
of today’s reading from the Book of Revelation: the new Jerusalem,
the heavenly city where God delights to dwell among mere mortals
like us, and where God wipes away the tears from every eye, and
allows no more death or mourning, crying out or pain. A glorious
picture of hope that is, to be sure.
But, my friends, what about this city? What about Seattle or
Shoreline, Renton or Redmond? What about these cities of ours that
seem so far removed from the heavenly Jerusalem? Is there any
connection between our cities and the City of God?
The gospel makes it clear that there most certainly is: that there
is a vital link between what we do in our earthly cities and the
City of God, and that we make that link in every hungry mouth we
feed, every homeless person we shelter, every prisoner we
rehabilitate, every defenseless life we champion, every refugee we
welcome, every injustice we refuse to tolerate. When we do these
things out of love and in the name of Jesus Christ, we are building
a bridge between the two cities, putting in place the building
blocks of the City of God. And we are also turning the myth of
Sisyphus – pointless labor leading nowhere – on its head because, in
the Christian gospel there is no giant boulder endlessly rolling
back on itself. There are steep hills to be climbed, for sure,
sometimes exceedingly steep (think of the hill called Calvary), but
the boulders we push are really building blocks, and the building
blocks are love.
"I give you a new commandment," we heard Jesus say in today’s
gospel. "Love one another as I have loved you. This is how all will
know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."
It would be hard to find in all the gospels words more important
than those words of Jesus - or a challenge greater for us as his
followers. We are to love, and by our love, people will not only
come to know that we are his disciples – we will also be laying the
foundations, raising the walls, building, stone by stone, the
dwelling places of the City of God.
But we have a long way to go, don’t we! We are daily surrounded with
painful reminders of just how far. The homeless and hungry, the
victims of random violence, the elderly with no security, the
addicted, the sick without proper health care, abused children and
oppressed minorities, the untreated mentally ill – all these people,
sisters and brothers every one of them – are like the mythical
Sisyphus: endlessly pushing great boulders that keep falling back on
them.
My friends, our call – and it’s a holy call - is to be at their
side: to lend our hands, our hearts, our time, our treasure, our
voice, to help turn their burdens, their boulders into building
blocks for the heavenly city.
And this holy calling takes us right in the footsteps of Jesus who
was not content merely to preach the coming of the Reign of God; no,
he actually brought it about by his compassionate ministry to people
on the margins: the poor, the downtrodden, the neglected or, as
someone has put it, ‘the least, the last, and the lost.’
Not long ago, Pope Francis gave an address to the clergy of Rome in
which he challenged them over and over again to “listen to the
city.” I like that expression. Listening to the city, he told them,
means seeking out those whom the city is inclined to avoid, or
ignore, or leave behind - seeking them out and accompanying them.
And I think it has another meaning, too. Those of you who
participated in our parish’s synodal process over these past weeks
got a taste of this listening. In prayerful, patient, and
compassionate conversations you heard fellow parishioners share some
of the secrets of their souls – their pains and struggles, their
hopes and dreams for this Church which we love. In these holy
conversations where currents of sadness, anger, disappointment,
love, joy, and gratitude flowed together, you modeled a listening
Church, a welcoming Church, an all-embracing, accompanying Church
that – with the guidance of the Holy Spirit – is making its way
through the streets and alleys of this earthly city to the City of
God.
My friends in Christ, we can’t build the City of God unless we
listen to the city, and listening to the city means embracing the
city with all its pain, its chaos, its brokenness. And it means
listening to each other, too - reaching across our many divides:
theological, political, personal – divides that deny who we are. And
who are we? Today’s reading from the Book of Revelation reminded us:
we are a family, we are God’s family. God dwells among us, God, who
can heal all our divisions, God who “makes all things new!”
Father Michael G. Ryan
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