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 after passing 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 are vital
links between what we do in our earthly cities and the City of God, and
that we forge those links 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 climb, 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’s hard to find
in all the gospels words more important than those - 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
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 neglected 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 and treasure, our voice, to help turn their
burdens, their boulders into building blocks for the heavenly city. And
a tedious, time-consuming, seemingly endless task it can be (not unlike
the time it has taken to build those two leaning high-rise towers over
there across the street!)
But
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.’
Some
years 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. It has to do with a slightly awkward word
that is still somewhat strange to our ears: the word, synodality, a
concept and a vision that Pope Francis worked so hard to bring to life
in the Church and which Pope Leo warmly embraced in his very first
message from the balcony of St. Peter’s. The idea of synodality is far
from new: it has its roots in the Church’s earliest days. A synodal
Church is a listening Church, a Church in which everyone - not just the
clergy and hierarchy – has a voice. In prayerful, patient conversations
people learn to listen to each other, sharing their hopes and fears and
dreams for themselves, their families, the Church, the world. A synodal
Church is a Church where all are welcome and all feel welcome: a Church
that walks alongside and never casts aside, a Church that, with the
Spirit’s guidance, makes 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 pains, 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 in us – both as individuals and as a community of
believers - God, who transcends all our divisions and heals all our
wounds, God who “makes all things new.” All things. And who does it
through the likes of you and me!
Father Michael G. Ryan
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