My God, Look What You Have Done Series

Seventh Sunday in Course

The hot-shot sales representative had enjoyed his best year ever. The pinnacle case of the year was a year in the making, and involved a score of attorneys and technicians and endless hours stolen from his family, but in the end, the $50,000 commission brought them a maxed-out pension contribution, a brand-new swimming pool, and now, a great, month-long vacation through the American west. Like a little kid with a newly-built Lego castle he stood before those who loved him and said “look what I’ve done.”

And then, for the first time, he gazed wide-eyed at the colors and columns of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, the vast, dark beauty of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, the towering and moving wonders of Yosemite, the pure deep waters of Tahoe and Crater Lake. His senses were overwhelmed. Humbled at last, he fell on his knees and looked in awe at the clear sky filled with myriads of stars and said “My God, look what You have done.”

The words of Isaiah today find an echo in the writings of our late Holy Father, John Paul. In the masterful encyclical Truth’s Splendor, he tells us that “man, made in the image of the Creator, redeemed by the blood of Christ and made holy by the presence of the Holy Spirit, has as the ultimate purpose of life to live for the praise of God’s glory.” Over and over in Scripture we see the words “Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel.” “Praise God in His holy temple, praise Him in the firmament of His might!” we sing.

Is it all too much? Is God revealing Himself as the ultimate egomaniac? Surely there must be more to human life? Are we supposed to go around singing “alleluia, praise the Lord” every minute?

God’s invitation to us today is to look carefully at the actions of Jesus that led up to the wild rejoicing in Capernaum, “we have never seen anything like this.” It will help us to understand first of all why Paul calls Jesus the “Yes” of God, and what we must do to respond today to the call of Christ. Our journey of inquiry takes us back to the beginning, to the way God made the world.

The message of Genesis 1 and 2 is simple: God made everything, and set it in perfect order. Man and woman were made the pinnacle of creation, and were put in an idyllic state to make lots of babies and fill the world with God’s image. God wanted us to be in union with Himself, to be perfectly happy forever. We, however, in the persons of our first parents, rebelled and went our own way. Instead of acknowledging our dependence on God and giving Him the praise and honor He was due as our Father, we rebelled. It was the ultimate act of ingratitude.

Shakespeare once wrote that no winter wind, no matter how cold, is so unkind as the ingratitude of man. Our awareness of ingratitude encompasses the small slights–the unacknowledged birthday present or ignored RSVP. It expands to resent, for instance, European nations that take action against us even though Americans rescued them during and after two world wars.

Whatever be our ingratitude toward others, or theirs toward us, the worst ingratitude of all is that which mars our relationship with God. We were made for the praise of God’s glory, and we are happiest when we acknowledge His greatness and our dependence on Him. But we have become weary of God. We are the spiritual descendants of the people rescued from Egypt, chosen as a special people, redeemed by the death and resurrection of God’s Son. But we grow tired of daily prayer, bored with weekly church services, and, yes, even sick of the constant demands on our time, talent and treasure. Instead of grateful offerings, we bring God a burden of sin.

If any of us were God, and that was the response to our gracious, infinite gift, wouldn’t we get slightly irritated? Well, that is exactly God’s situation. He did everything for us, and we whine and bring Him nothing but ingratitude and sin and injustice. He would be justified in writing us off as a bad experiment.

But that is exactly what God does not do. Although we burden Him with our sins, and weary Him with our transgressions, he blots out those transgressions and forgives those sins. That is exactly what He does in the sacraments of reconciliation and Eucharist. Like little children with skinned knees–brought on by our own stupid and rebellious conduct–we come to Him and, like a gentle and loving Father, He pours antiseptic on our wounds and forgives and nourishes us with His own self.

But there’s something more remarkable yet to His love. He always respects our freedom, because in that freedom we are truly images of Himself. He never forces us to believe in Him or to give Him the honor He is due. He could, of course, reveal Himself so overwhelmingly that there would be no other response possible. And when we finally do die in His grace, He will reveal Himself clearly and unmistakably. But not now, not in this life.