Reflecting on this Sunday's Gospel, one monk recounts the following:
I am
reminded of scene from my childhood. It’s the morning of my birthday, and I
have just come in with the mail, anxious to open my birthday cards. I’m tearing
them open. There is one from my Aunt Florence, recently widowed; two crisp dollar
bills fall to the table. Spoiled brat that I am; I pay little attention. My mom
is there in a flash, “Who sent you that card?” “Aunty Flo,” I say. “Oh, God.
Call to thank her now, please.” “Hi, Aunt Florence, thank you for the birthday
gift.” My mother snatches the receiver from my hand, “Flo, you know you
shouldn’t have done that. You can’t afford it.” Florence was living on a wing
and a prayer; she had worked in a little hat shop; her husband my Uncle Ralph had projected
movies at the local theater. They had educated two kids. She had nothing. The
gift was huge. My mother understood. Like my mom, Jesus really understands as he watches the widow this morning.
Compassionate mercy is enfleshed in Christ Jesus. It is he alone who really
truly understands each of us, our context, our stories, our own need to be
mercied by him. Jesus is gazing on us with mercy and compassion right now. He understands and he calls us blessed.
Photograph by Brother Brian.
