Of course, what St. Paul has to say about the death and resurrection of Christ is where our first attention should fall. We Christians have almost gotten used to the idea of resurrection. We so count on it that we nearly take it for granted. Yes, death is still the enemy, maybe our most feared enemy. But we console ourselves with our confidence that there is “life-after-death.” We say things like “Uncle Ed is ‘in a better place.’” Nothing wrong with that, I guess; except that it’s like saying that Beth can carry a tune. There’s no wonder in it. And not much joy.

When St. Paul first preached the death of the Lord for love of us, and the resurrection which gives us confidence in God’s power over all that could destroy us: it was news to his hearers—incredible nonsense to some for whom it was impossible to believe; incredibly good news for those who discovered in it the hope they longed for. The greatest reason for joy.

But how did “Saul,” who was headed for Damascus “breathing murderous threats” against the followers of Jesus, get the great Good News? You remember: he and a few companions are on their way, intending to round up the Jesus-followers in the synagogue in Damascus and get them to recant. Suddenly, a bright flash of light; then utter darkness. And a voice that says: “Saul, Saul! Why are you persecuting me?” “Who are you, Sir?” “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting.” Saul continues on his way to Damascus with the help of his friends, and for three days he remains unable to see. He fasts and, presumably, prays. And God sends him a disciple of Jesus to lay hands on him. He regains his sight, is baptized, and recovers his strength.

He speaks of his overwhelming encounter with Christ in today’s reading from 1st Corinthians, comparing himself to the other “apostles,” the ones who were with Jesus from the beginning of his ministry. Paul writes that, after the resurrection,

“[Christ] appeared to Cephas (Peter), then to the Twelve. After that, [he] appeared to more than five hundred brothers at once, most of whom are still living, though some have fallen asleep. After that, he appeared to James, then to all the apostles.

“Last of all, as to one born abnormally, he appeared to me.”

In the vision of God’s holiness which Isaiah describes, and in the call of Peter and Andrew, James and John which Luke recounts in today’s readings, we heard the vocation stories—and I would say, therefore, the “conversion” stories—of Simon the fisherman, and of the great prophet, Isaiah. St. Paul’s conversion is suggested in the passage from 1 Corinthians. In these stories, Isaiah, and Peter and Paul are overwhelmed by the presence of God, by the presence of Christ.

Having witnessed the vision of God and heard the choirs of angels praising God, Isaiah is confronted with his own unworthiness: “Woe is me!” Now I’m a goner! And Simon, experiencing the catch of his fishing life, finds himself too puny and lost to be with Jesus: “Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.”

In each case, what is incompatible—in their life, their way of living, and thinking, and speaking, in their actions or in their point of view—whatever is incompatible with God’s holiness or goodness or guidance seems to them to disconnect them or distance them from God, and to disqualify them from God’s service, even from God’s presence.

But God accepts them, and begins to free them from that incompatibility, begins to transform them so that their life, too, can call others to holiness and goodness.

The image of the angel touching the lips of Isaiah with a red-hot coal suggests a painful intervention on God’s part. The word of Jesus to Simon might have felt searing, too; I don’t know. But God, at least, was not put off by their unworthiness. And God is not put off by ours, either.

The goal of God’s saving work—whether through the prophecy of Isaiah or by the preaching of Peter and Paul or in the ministries of this parish—is our communion with God. Beginning now, God assures us that our sins are not too great, our way of life not too entrenched or deeply rooted for us to give them up. “Don’t be afraid,” Jesus says to Peter. Fear is useless; what is needed is trust.

In this Eucharist, this great prayer of thanksgiving for God’s saving work, we will echo, we will join in, the song of those angels from Isaiah’s vision. And in the preface to that song and prayer of thanks, we will note that it is our duty to praise God, acknowledging Christ as the Lord of our life. It is our duty to allow Christ’s presence to sear our conscience, take away our old way of living (however it expresses itself: our controlling ways, our meanness, our unwillingness to forgive, our fear of asking forgiveness).

It is our duty and it is our salvation to do so. The very lifting up of our hearts and voices in praise of God’s goodness and the power of God’s selfless love; the very acknowledgment of our sins; the very presenting ourselves before God with the confidence that God can make of us a useful tool for extending salvation and life to the hurting world: this saves us, or rather enables the healing power of Christ to touch our heart and life.

I want to mention here the Sacrament of Penance. I suppose our natural reaction to thinking about “going to confession” is like Isaiah’s “Woe is me,” or like Simon’s “Get away from me!” But God’s desire for us is in those words of Jesus: “Don’t be afraid.” The power of forgiveness is already at work. All we need to do is allow ourselves to be with Christ, to allow Christ to irradiate us with his goodness. We don’t have to eat the burning coal; just let the angel get close to us. :o) During Lent this year, Fr. Anthony and I will be offering extra times for celebrating the Sacrament of Penance. They’ll be published in next week’s bulletin.

We’re 10 days from Ash Wednesday. We may think of Lent as a time to make ourselves uncomfortable. I will say it’s a time for us to turn our hearts and our lives once more to accept the transforming love of God for us, however uncomfortable that may seem to begin with. But a Lent that finds us unafraid of God’s goodness and power-to-make-us-good will also leave us singing.

I’d like to share this song of gratitude with you.

My Song is Love Unknown
By Samuel Grossman, c. 1624-1683

My song is love unknown,
My Savior’s love for me,
Love to the loveless shown
That they might lovely be.
O who am I
That for my sake
My Lord should take frail flesh, and die.

He came from his blest throne,
Salvation to bestow;
But all made strange, and none
The longed-for Christ would know.
But O my Friend,
My Friend indeed,
Who at my need his life did spend.

Here might I stay and sing,
No story so divine:
Never was love, dear King,
Never was grief like thine.
This is my Friend,
In whose sweet praise
I all my days could gladly spend.

En la Iglesia de Holy Angels, Sturgis, MI

Las lecturas—la primera y la del evangelio—nos presentan relatos de la experiencia de un profeta y de un apóstol.  En la primera lectura oímos de una visión que tiene el profeta Isaías mientras ora en el templo de Jerusalén.  Isaías es un joven (digamos de 20 o 25 años).  Está consciente de lo que amenaza al país, un espíritu mentiroso e infiel.  Isaías está rezando en el templo.  De repente, comienza a “ver”—cosas inimaginables: el Señor Dios sentado en su trono en el cielo, rodeado de ángeles de varios coros o clases.  Durante su visión oye a los coros celestiales cantar el himno a la gloria de Dios.  “Santo, santo, santo es el Señor, Dios del universo; llenos están el cielo y la tierra de su gloria”.  Isaías siente el poder y la grandeza de Dios y grita “¡Ay de mí!, estoy perdido, porque soy un hombre de labios impuros, que habito en medio de un pueblo [entero] de labios impuros.  He visto con mis ojos al Rey y Señor de los ejércitos”.  En presencia de Dios, el hombre siente que está del todo desplazado.

Algo semejante le pasa al pescador Simón el día en que conoce a Jesús.  Después de una noche sin pescar nada, está acabando la tarea de dejar las redes listas para otro turno.  Viene Jesús, rodeado por una muchedumbre y Jesús le pide a Simón el uso de su barca para plataforma.  Mientras Simón lava las redes, escucha a Jesús, y así lo comienza a conocer.  Luego, cuando Jesús acaba de hablar, dice a Simón que lleve la barca mar adentro para pescar de nuevo.  Simón confía en la palabra de Cristo, y se asombra al ver la gran pesca—dos barcas llenas de pescados, casi al punto de hundirse.  Simón, así como el joven Isaías, se siente indigno de estar en presencia de tal poder.  Simón se arroja ante Jesús y le dice “¡Apártate de mí, Señor, porque soy un pecador!”

Lo que podemos entender desde estos dos acontecimientos es que es riesgoso acercarnos al Dios santo y poderoso, que la grandeza de Dios manifestará nuestra pequeñez, su santidad iluminará nuestra impureza.  Por eso Isaías se sentía tan incómodo en presencia de Dios.  Por eso, Simón quiso apartarse de Jesús, el Hijo del Dios todopoderoso. 

Pero la primera reacción de Isaías y de Simón, turbados con miedo, se enfoca demasiado en su propia indignidad.  Cierto que son pecadores Isaías y Simón, junto con todos nosotros.  Cierto que el pecado no es compatible con la pura bondad de Dios.  Pero el apartarse de Dios, el sólo lamentar la condición de ser pecador no cambia nada en sí mismo.  No hay ninguna salvación en nuestros pecados.

Pero en la Palabra de Dios, sí, se ofrece la salvación.  En la visión de Isaías, uno de los serafines, ángel enviado por Dios, le toca la boca al joven, simbólicamente purificándolo.  Y Jesús en el relato del evangelio le asegura a Simón que su pecado del pasado no es un obstáculo a la vocación que Dios le ofrece al pescador.  “No temas”, dice Jesús.  No temas. 

La verdad es que es necesario correr el riesgo de acercarnos al Dios santísimo, aunque el contraste nos haga sentir desplazados.  No debemos de temer a Dios, que su deseo su plan es nuestra salvación.  El riesgo aun más grande es el no acercarnos a Dios, el concentrar nuestro enfoque en nuestra nada, en lo que no podemos nosotros conquistar.  Porque no existe ninguna salvación allí en nuestros pecados, en nuestros errores, en nuestra impureza, en la indignidad nuestra.  Sólo Dios nos puede purificar, perdonar, renovar.  Y no lo puede hacer sin que se nos arrimemos, sea que sea la incomodidad que sintamos. 

En unos diez días es el miércoles de ceniza.  Muchos se presentarán para tener marcada la frente con la ceniza, señal del arrepentimiento.  Así como la brasa que el Señor envió para purificar los labios a Isaías, la ceniza es símbolo de nuestra purificación, comenzando con el reconocimiento de nuestra mortalidad.  Pero la ceniza, símbolo de la debilidad nuestra, debe de manifestar la confianza nuestra de que el Dios de la Santidad nos puede santificar, no dejándonos en nuestra condición pequeña e impura, sino sacándonos de ella y restaurándonos a la vocación nuestra de ser sus hijos según la imagen de Jesucristo. 

Quisiera recomendarles que durante la cuaresma se aprovechen de la oportunidad de celebrar el sacramento de la penitencia o sea la confesión.  No debemos temer presentarnos como pecadores.  Que el padre confesor, por su parte, es un ser humano también, y su meta es ofrecernos, en nombre santo del Padre, del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo, el sacramento del amor purificador de Dios.  No debemos temer presentarnos como pecadores, que ante todo Dios tiene en plan que, así como el joven Isaías y Simón el pescador, seamos ministros de su salvación, de su Palabra, Jesucristo, en el mundo actual.