Epiphany 2010
The O-my-God Moment
January 10, 2010
I’m not a big fan of reality TV. I don’t really know who Simon Cowell is and generally think that the Oprahization of entertainment has been a move in the wrong direction. But I do catch a couple of moments each week of that show where they blow up houses and build new ones. The one that is exactly the same every time starts up with the formulaic moving of a bus and then the new homeowners’ eyes get all big and they say in unison, “O-my-God.” Some of them say “omigosh” but the meaning is the same. It’s an Epiphany, a physical manifestation of the enormity of someone’s love for them.
Now the phrase “O my God” has been trivialized, texted and twittered down into what amounts to blasphemous profanity in many cases. When someone realizes he or she has that habit and asks me for advice on how to break it, I suggest that when they catch themselves misusing the Lord’s name like that, especially when they say “Jesus Christ,” they can turn it into a prayer by adding words like “have mercy” or “give me strength.” But the real issue here is that there are moments in life in which the love of another is so strongly apparent that our minds and hearts turn instinctively to a power not in ourselves, a reality that transcends the humdrumness of our daily life. An O-my-God moment.
The Church gives us three such moments in the life of Jesus that she celebrates in this Epiphany season. The first is last week’s feast of the Magi. The second is today’s celebration of the Lord’s Baptism. And the third is the wedding feast at Cana–the Lord’s first miracle and the beginning of the road to Calvary.
Today’s O-my-God moment begins with John the Baptist. Called from before his birth by God, John seems to have been taught about repentance and cleansing oneself for worship by baptism by the ascetic cult of Essenes. Day by day he preaches repentance and getting ready for the coming of God, and he baptizes those who want that renewal as they walk down into the ankle or knee-deep waters of the Jordan and accept the bath poured over their heads. They leave prepared to renounce their habits of extortion or abuse of themselves or others.
And then the unthinkable happens. John sees his distant cousin Yeshua–we call Him Iesus or Jesus–in the baptism line. John knows the history. His mother had told him that in his sixth month of life, when cousin Mary visited, carrying the two-week old tiny two millimeter Jesus in her womb, John sensed the holiness of Mary and Jesus and did a half-gainer inside mom. John knows that Jesus is mightier than anyone else, that He is the son of righteousness, definitely not a repentant sinner. When they meet, face-to-face, he tells his cousin, “Look, you ought to be baptizing me.” And Jesus transforms the meaning of baptism by saying, “this is how we are going to fulfill all righteousness.” So John lifted the gourd full of water and began to pour it over Jesus’ head.
Then came the sound, and the dove. It lasted but a moment. It was confusing to some of the onlookers. A few thought it to be thunder from the cloudy sky, even though the sun had broken through to shine directly on the pair of men. But Jesus and John heard the words distinctly–Thou art my beloved son; I am well pleased with thee. John and his disciples didn’t know what it all meant, but they knew that what they had witnessed would change everything. It reminded them of Noah’s dove and the end of the destructive flood, of the voice of God on Moses’s mountain, and of the original Yeshua–Joshua–who crossed the Jordan at that very spot and began the transformation of Palestine into Holy Land. Little John rushed up to the newly-baptized Jesus and–flustered–asked where are you staying? Jesus simply said, come and see.
Epiphanies don’t come every day, but they do come. James Lowell wrote in 1845: Once to every man and nation, comes the moment to decide,
In the strife of truth with falsehood, for the good or evil side;
Some great cause, some great decision, offering each the bloom or blight,
And the choice goes by forever, ’twixt that darkness and that light.
But in this communication with God, this prayer of listening for the quiet divine voice, the precondition is a silent mind, a quiet heart, an openness to the Word. The monks of old found that time in their work. As they labored with their hands, doing work they had done for years, their minds and hearts could be attentive to God. Chant in the church; listen in the garden.
When I was younger, I would mow the lawn with ear mufflers on. It was a time to be with God and my own thoughts. Quiet time with lawnmower accompaniment. Once–just once and barely for a minute–I had a very quiet Epiphany. I remember it as if it were yesterday. I had turned a corner on the front lawn and all of a sudden everything made sense. Everything seemed to fit together–the existence of God, his infinite love, the passion and death and resurrection of Christ, the trustworthiness of the Church, my own weakness and sin and God’s healing and forgiveness. It was as if the Nicene Creed we are about to recite fell like a little seed into my heart and grew into a fully blooming certainty. It was amazing.
And it was utterly unprovable to anyone else. The two Saint Johns and Jesus and a few others left the Jordan that day totally convinced of the Epiphany they had witnessed. Most of the others went away wondering why it thundered with no lightning. Those who exercised the divine gift of faith experienced God’s awesome presence. Those who did not felt cheated because it hadn’t rained and the crops were going to wither.
I pray that every human being get the opportunity we have had to experience the presence of the Lord–in a retreat, a homily, a conversation, even turning the corner behind a lawn mower. But the precondition is a listening heart, a mind alert, a conscience not seared by sin. I grieve each day when I see most students, instead of listening in conversation with each other, or in silence to the voice of God, get off the school bus with earbuds dangling from their heads. I don’t think they are listening to Scott Hahn MP3's. Their lives are filled with noise and distraction. Our young need to be taught to listen to the voice of God, first by seeing us do that, and then by having the opportunity to do so.
A couple of months ago, my daughter, who has four children, two of whom are in Catholic school, asked me “Dad, why are my children in Catholic school?” I know it’s a struggle, even with a doctor’s income. She faces an incredible tuition when two are in Catholic high schools and two in grade school. So we are committed to helping that family. Why? Not because the Catholic school labs are better than the one I teach in at Johnson. My lab is incredible. Not because the textbooks are better, or even the teachers are better. The difference is that the core mission of every Catholic school is the revelation of Jesus Christ to the students, and the core skill taught is listening to the voice of God speaking to each of those children: You are my beloved child. If I tried to do that in a public school, I would be extending the mission of the school into an area that the Supreme Court has found intolerable. The most important lessons in human life are, despite their value, illegal to teach in a public school.
So what can you do to spread the Epiphany to new hearts, minds and souls? Search your resources. Help a family keep their children or put their children into an authentically Catholic learning environment. Make certain that the school you are helping has at least four human contact hours a week in religious and moral instruction. Maybe you have no money–you can pray and you can volunteer your work. If you do have resources, send them to the school for hardship scholarships. You can even tax-deduct the contribution. In line with the theme of Catholic Schools Week, I can testify that Catholic schools pay dividends even when all the other companies on earth are bankrupt.
What was Mary doing when she had her angelic epiphany, the one that changed the world forever? Was she deep in meditation, as the medieval paintings suggest? Maybe not. She surely wasn’t mowing the lawn, but I like to imagine her kneading bread, chanting a psalm and listening for the divine voice. That Divine Word would become the living bread growing inside her. By her listening, and by her “yes,” that Word became the transforming power that brings hope in every age to a lost world.
