Restoration of the Ultimate “Type-A”

In this Extraordinary Jubilee Year of Mercy, here’s a reminder that Jesus loves to give us a pass.

Peter had no idea what he would do or say when he reached the shore. As soon as he realized it was Jesus, he had thrown off his shirt and jumped out of the boat. Once again, he acted without thinking.

Peter had been despondent since Jesus was executed. Not even Jesus’ resurrection – a dead man came back to life! – had lifted his debilitating depression. In some ways, it made it worse.

A statue of St. Peter holding the keys to heaven
stands in front of St. Peter's Basilica at the Vatican.

It was Peter, the leader of the apostles, who had most grievously wounded Jesus by his denials. Peter denied more than his rabbi, he now realized. He denied the God of the Universe, the intimate friend who trusted him with the gates of heaven. This brash, proud, powerful Type A personality was traumatized by a guilt and humiliation even deeper than Judas felt. If this was the 21^st century, Peter might be diagnosed as suffering from clinical depression and put on meds.

As he slogged toward the beach, he saw Jesus tending a charcoal fire – much like the fire Peter used to warm himself on that long, cold, terrible night. The night he denied his friend. Three times. Just as Jesus predicted. Only a few hours earlier, Peter had insisted he would never deny Jesus; his love was so much greater than the other apostles, he boasted. But when it really counted, Peter was nothing more than a blustering, foolish coward.

He’d been lost in a fog ever since, looking for an escape, first hiding in Jerusalem, then stumbling back home to Galilee. The others followed him, partly because they didn’t want to leave Peter alone – especially after what Judas did to himself – and partly because they, too, were lost.

Peter sought refuge in his fishing boat, but could not
escape his own sense of guilt.

Several hours before, looking at yet another sleepless night, Peter sought escape in the familiar – his boat. Deep down, Peter knew he couldn’t escape what he was really running from – himself. Neither could he escape from the others. When he mumbled that he was going fishing, they stole worried glances at each other. Sure, they said, we’ll go, too. They didn’t want to leave him alone on the water. 

They ignored the net. Fishermen not fishing, just drifting – literally and figuratively. At daybreak, a stranger on shore saw their net empty and suggested, almost mockingly, to drop it on the other side of the boat. We’ll show him, they thought belligerently, grouchy and in no mood for abuse, especially from a stranger. But when the net filled to overflowing, they knew the figure was no stranger. The man chuckling at them from the shore was Jesus. Typical, they thought, Jesus tweaking their noses just like he used to.

Breakfast was awkward. How could it be otherwise? The cook was their dead friend come back to life – he was God, really God, for God’s sake! Peter was mostly silent, jumping to get the fish for the fire but otherwise laying low. The mood was set by the elephant in the room – or, more appropriately, the whale on shore – Peter’s denials. Finally, Jesus put Peter out of his misery. 

“Simon, son of John,” Jesus said. “Do you love me more than these?”

Peter was stung. Jesus used his fisherman’s name. He had been demoted back to Simon, no longer first among equals. And the others were listening intently. Saying “yes” would be a slap in the face to them. 

But there was a something else. Jesus had used the term agape for the word “love.” Agape love is the deepest love, a devotion that implies a decision to love, a commitment. Once a braggart, now broken, Peter loved Jesus deeply, but he was not about to risk overstating anything. He couldn’t say “yes,” but he couldn’t say “no,” either. His answer was a “yes, but.”

“Yes Lord,” Peter replied, “you know that I love you.”

Jesus recognized the “but.” So did the others. Instead of saying agape, Peter used the term phileo for love – a deep love from the heart, but not a commitment. Better to say less, Peter thought, not wanting to repeat previous mistakes.

Statue of St. Peter by Pierre-Etienne Monnot in
the Basilica of St. John Lateran, the cathedral
church of Rome.

“Simon, son of John,” Jesus repeated. “Do you love (agape) me more than these?”

This surprised Peter. Why did he ask again? Is he that disappointed with “phileo?” Unsure, Peter repeated his answer.

“Yes Lord,” Peter replied, “you know that I love (phileo) you.”

Peter didn’t know how else to answer. As Thomas Aquinas put it, “(Peter) is saying in effect: I do love you; at least I think I do. But you know all things, and perhaps you know of something else that will happen.”

Jesus, of course, did know something else and, as Peter professed, Jesus also knew how much Peter loved him. Jesus also knew how guilt was crushing Peter. He wanted to give Peter the opportunity to say “yes” without the “but.”

“Simon, son of John,” Jesus said for a third time. “Do you love (phileo) me more than these?”

Peter was hurt and confused. Why did he ask me yet again? Peter thought. Why ask phileo this time? What does he want? I don’t know what else to say!

“Yes Lord,” Peter replied urgently, “you know that I love (phileo) you.”

Peter’s voice was almost pleading, as if to admit, “Phileo is the best I can do right now.”  

Jesus smiled at him. And then Peter understood. He got it. All of it. Jesus had just allowed him to erase his three denials with three professions of love. By humbling himself, he made things right with the other apostles. And, by switching to phileo, Peter was able to answer with an unqualified “yes.” It was Jesus’ way of saying, “I love you. I accept you as you are.”

Peter was Jesus’ closest friend. Nothing could disappoint Jesus more, hurt him more, than Peter abandoning him during those last, horrible hours of his life. But Peter was deeply sorry. Jesus not only forgave him but entrusted him with his Church, giving him the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven.

If Jesus could forgive Peter and accept him unconditionally, flaws and all, he can forgive us and accept us, too. We don’t even have to jump out of a boat. We just have to ask.

Coloring outside the lines with “radical inclusiveness”

I love my church. St. Joseph’s is a large, suburban parish in Jacksonville, Fla. It’s warm and welcoming, and has been my home for nearly 32 years. Over the past several years, the church has become more “liturgically correct” by paying greater attention to the small details of the Mass. Being part of an ancient rite is “comfortable.” I like it.

Doing things the “correct” way, though, isn’t always the “right” way. Sometimes, as Jesus did, it’s necessary to color outside the lines.

St. Lucy’s Church in Syracuse, N.Y., colors outside the lines.

St. Lucy’s Church is a focal
point for the Near West Side
neighborhood of Syracuse, NY.

I attend St. Lucy’s whenever I visit my hometown. The pastor, Fr. Jim Mathews, was the associate pastor at my home parish when I was in high school. His words and actions helped me begin to see the real meaning and beauty of the Church.

In many ways, St. Lucy’s is the reverse image of St. Joe’s. St. Lucy’s is in a poor, inner city neighborhood. A week before my latest visit, two people had been shot – one killed – in a gang-related gun battle with police. A poster on a utility pole urged drug abusers to not leave their dirty needles on the sidewalks.

St. Lucy’s is in the center of the neighborhood. It fits perfectly. The church is missing one of its two steeples – demolished in 1998 by a violent storm that also devastated other sections of the century-old Gothic structure. A banner draping the front entrance proclaims “Sinners Welcome.” It has a food bank, women’s clothing store, and feeds the homeless in the winter. St. Lucy’s embraces the community much like an old, one-armed soldier hugs his grandchildren.

The “Homeless Jesus” statue, installed in front of
St. Lucy’s Church in May 2016, reflects the church’s
mission to its neighborhood.

During a recent visit, my wife, Helen, and I see on the front sidewalk a new, three-foot bronze-plated statue of a cloaked, hooded beggar. Its hand is outstretched; its palm wounded. Homeless Jesus. Then on the steps of the church, we see a five-foot tall woman in a shabby sweatshirt. Her hand is timidly open; her eyes distant. Homeless parishioner. “Thank you,” she says. “God bless you.”

Later, during the Mass, I notice we are sharing a pew.

In many parishes, this might be an anomaly. Not at St. Lucy’s, where each Mass draws a cross-section of faithful. There are families who have followed Fr. Jim from his previous postings in the suburbs. There are handicapped people – physically, emotionally, mentally. A few past and present city leaders. People who grew up in the neighborhood and moved away before it turned, but still return on Sundays. Successful business owners. Retirees. And the poor – people in a struggling neighborhood trying to survive one day at a time.

Fr. Jim Mathews prefers to celebrate Mass in the center
of the sanctuary of St. Lucy’s Church.

The sanctuary is traditional – soaring ceilings, beautiful stained glass windows, an ornate altar. But the enhancements reveal this church is not traditional. A banner reads, “The Holy Spirit is loose and she is wild.” Between the stained glass windows of saints and angels are photos of modern-day saints and angels of social justice – Mother Teresa, Dorothy Day, Cesar Chavez, Rosa Parks, hometown peace activists Frs. Daniel and Phillip Berrigan. The altar itself is covered with plants; Mass is celebrated around a simple, wooden altar in the center of the church. There is no presider’s chair. Fr. Jim and other celebrants sit with the congregation.  

In his homily, Fr. Jim noted that Jesus ministered to the poor, people at the margins of society. “Radical inclusiveness,” he called it. Who would Jesus include today, Fr. Jim asked. Muslims? “Yes!” the congregation responded. The prostitutes downtown? “Yes!” The neighborhood drug dealers? “Yes!”  

The message is clear, and well within Catholic doctrine – the CEOs and the homeless are equal.

Fr. Jim Mathews presents the First Holy Communion
class to St. Lucy’s parish during Mass, May 2015.

Fr. Jim’s radical inclusiveness is – well, radical to traditional Catholics. Several women wear t-shirts reading “Ordain Women,” which Fr. Jim advocates. In place of a homily by a priest, he allows laypeople to deliver “reflections” – usually captivating, insightful and spiritually challenging. The Rite of Peace, usually a quick handshake or hug between adjacent worshippers, is transformed into a roving, raucous, joyous, 10 to 15-minute celebration. He invites non-Catholics to receive communion.

At this particular Mass, Fr. Jim said the Holy Trinity should actually be the “Holy Quartet.”

“Who’s the fourth?” he asked?

“Us!” replied the congregation.

Fr. Jim calls it “empowerment.” Society has told the dispossessed that they don’t matter. But in this sanctuary they matter dearly. They matter to their fellow parishioners. To Fr. Jim. And especially to Jesus. It is a powerful affirmation of their inherent value as human beings. Yes, empowering.

This approach has attracted some Catholics who were ready to leave the Church. But it has also drawn intense criticism from traditional Catholics. One gets the sense that Syracuse’s conservative bishop turns a blind eye to St. Lucy’s because any discipline would cause too much of an uproar in both the civic and Catholic communities. St. Lucy’s is an indispensable neighborhood resource, and Fr. Jim himself is a driving force behind with city’s Near West Side Initiative, a public-private partnership attempting to revitalize the area.    

His community activism has earned Fr. Jim recognition from social justice organizations. But his primary focus remains making Jesus a reality in the lives of his parishioners. His success is evident during the highest point of the Mass. During the Preparation for Communion prayer, the celebrant elevates the Body and Blood. At St. Lucy’s, though, it is not Fr. Jim who does this.

On this day, Fr. Jim surprised me by handing me the beautiful crystal wineglass. He then passed to someone else the ciborium containing the Eucharist. As I elevated the cup, I sensed worshippers crowding behind me with arms outstretched.

“Behold the Lamb of God,” Fr. Jim intoned. “Behold him who takes away the

sin of the world. Blessed are those who are called to the supper of the Lamb.”

I hardly ever look at the body or blood at any point in the Mass. My sense of unworthiness doesn’t allow it. Yet, there I stood in absolute awe, holding high the cup, gazing at the precious blood of the Savior of the Universe. I couldn’t breathe, much less voice the response with the rest of the congregation.

            “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof,” the congregation

answered. “Only say the word and my soul shall be healed.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the rest of the congregation. They were at the center of the church, kneeling in a tight circle around the Eucharist, heads bowed in humility and worship. I have never witnessed such a powerful display of pure adoration.

Some Catholics who have given up on Mass say it’s because they “don’t get anything out of it.” What they fail to realize is that, at its root, the purpose of the Mass is to give – to give homage to God. St. Lucy’s – led by a priest who colors outside the lines – gets that.  

I love going to St. Lucy’s. It’s warm and welcoming, and is my home away from home. Mass there is not “liturgically correct,” instead paying greater attention to larger message of Jesus’ ministry. Being part of this unconventional love fest is not “comfortable.” But I like it. A lot.