Third Sunday of Lent

“For the hurt of my poor people I am hurt,
    I mourn, and dismay has taken hold of me.
Is there no balm in Gilead?
    Is there no physician there?
Why then has the health of my poor people
    not been restored?
O that my head were a spring of water,
    and my eyes a fountain of tears,
so that I might weep day and night
    for the slain of my poor people!” (Jer 8:21-23)
 
Our times of suffering and anxiety call for deep seeking, because our thirst for meaning is insatiable.  In the desert, the people thirst for water, but they find none.  Beneath the surface of harsh reality lies a source of living water.  If we believe this, how can we reach it?  We have no bucket and the well is deep.  Jesus sits at the mouth of the well.  He is tired and thirsty, and he says to us: Give me a drink.  He has chosen this part in our human lot; he has taken our tiredness and thirst upon himself.  Now he draws us to seek springs of water that will never fail.  But we have no bucket and the well is deep.  Jesus sits at the mouth of the well like a stone waiting to be rolled away, like a rock waiting to be struck with the staff of faith, so that water can gush forth for the people to drink.  The well of his heart is deep, and in it is to be found the meaning of all suffering.
 
What could be the meaning of the fact that combatting the spread of disease requires the abandonment of one crucial element of our worship after another?  Our religious practice is steeped in the sacramental worldview of our faith.  God became a human being in Christ, taking on himself every aspect of our human experience but sin.  So, our humanity becomes doubly sacred – sacred by creation, marked as we are by the fingerprints of our Creator, and sacred by redemption through the chosen path of our Redeemer, who bore our flesh to the cross, the tomb and into newness of life.  Because of this our bodies are central to our worship.  Not only eyes and ears but taste and touch and smell play a crucial part in the holistic experience of God with us.
 
Now, because disease is afflicting the body of humanity, a fast has been imposed on us.  Our lips may no longer touch the common cup, our tongues no longer receive the host, our hands no longer greet the neighbor with peace, our fingers no longer be dipped in holy water for blessing.  Our very coming together to break bread and hear the word as God’s family is limited or called off altogether because of the risk of contagion.  The Sacrament cannot be given from a distance of six feet.  This is not a fast we would ever have chosen.  It is a grave penance and a heavy yoke.  But to name this deprivation as a fast is predicated on the hope that it, too, will have its way in us according to God’s plan.  To fast is to eat the bread of adversity and drink the water affliction, so that our Teacher may no longer hide from us (Isa 30:20).  It is a recognition of our weakness and contingency, and a cultivation of desire for the One who alone can make us whole.  Surely, we can never again take for granted the full participation of our bodies in worship.
 
The sight of the empty guest chapel on the other side of our altar has something in common with the Good Friday ache of the empty Tabernacle.  The exclusion of the faithful pains us as well as them.  But perhaps we can find in the sacramental absence of guests a void calling out to be filled by the great suffering body of humanity, a cloud of witnesses unseen, but deeply felt.  As Teilhard de Chardin puts it:
“I love you Lord Jesus, because of the multitude who shelter within you and whom, if one clings closely to you, one can hear with all the other beings murmuring, praying weeping.” (Teilhard de Chardin, Pensees)
 
Though we grieve over what has befallen our world, now is not the time to feel guilty that we have what others do not, much less to feel sad over what we must now do without.  Now is the time to make good use of the gifts God continues to give us, as long as we have them: health, food and work, continued access to the sacraments of Eucharist and Confession, to the Divine Office and the Scriptures, community life and the possibility of serving one another in love.  What we have is less an unmerited privilege than a responsibility, a mission, and an urgent one at that.  More than ever, we must dig deep into the liturgy and the word of God and seek there the wellsprings of prayer.  More than ever, we must make of our life together a true sacrament of communion, as we offer one another the sacrificial love and practical help we desire to see given to all.  In a word, we must strike the rock of hardship with faith that it will yield the water of God’s mercy.