HOMILY FOR MASS OF THURSDAY OF THE THIRTY-SECOND WEEK OF ORDINARY TIME, YEAR 2
CATHEDRAL HOUSE CHAPEL, 14 NOVEMBER 2024
As a genre, prison literature comes in many forms: narrative, poetry, journal entries, spiritual meditations, philosophical dialogue, just to name a few. Its popularity is understandable given the raw emotions that the thought of imprisonment evokes. Whether just or unjust, to be deprived of liberty and spend extended periods of time caged, perhaps in isolation or harsh conditions, whilst wrestling with humiliation, anger, fear, even impending execution, lends itself to a type of reflection that is not only fascinating but, in many cases, inspiring.
Some of the great classics were born from the pen of the imprisoned. We think of the Consolation of Philosophy written by the Roman statesman and Christian saint Boethius in the sixth century; Rustichello da Pisa’s 13th century travelogue of Marco Polo; the 15th century chronicle of the Arthurian legend by Sir Thomas Malory; John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress; Martin Luther King’s Letter from Birmingham Jail; Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom; and, most recently, the three-volume Prison Journal of our own Cardinal George Pell. Not all prison literature is equally edifying: the perverse musings of the Marquis de Sade were composed whilst locked up in the Bastille, and Hitler famously drafted Mein Kampf whilst serving time in Landsberg for treason.
But by far the most influential gaol-house writing was that of St Paul. Whilst incarcerated he composed his epistles to the Ephesians, Philippians, Colossians, and Philemon, which we heard today (Philem 7-20). Amidst his own great suffering, Paul wrote words of profound encouragement to his fellow Christians, counselling them on the need to trust in God,[1] to hang on to the hope of transformation from life to death to new life in Christ,[2] to treasure their unity in Christ and reject division;[3] and to practise humility[4] and right conduct.[5]
Yet Paul was not immune to the emotional toll of his prison stints. Today we sense his dejection, loneliness and fear. As an old man facing execution, he reaches out to his old mate Philemon, interceding for the fugitive slave Onesimus whom Paul had met in prison and baptised. At the end of the epistle Paul asks to Philemon, “put a new heart into me”, as if to say, “I could really use some of your faith and courage right now,” or “Help me see Christ’s light amidst this darkness.” For someone so steadfast, Paul was being very vulnerable.
In times of such darkness, Paul is suggesting something practical: lean on your friends and recharge your resolve through others. Our common faith and fraternity affect our personal faith. Jesus, too, is in a somewhat introspective mood in our Gospel today. He knows that “the Son of Man must suffer grievously and be rejected by this generation”. He leans on his closest friends, telling them His Passion is drawing nigh, that they will miss Him when He’s gone, that He too will experience the darkness before the ‘lightning’ comes at the end. He warns them against spiritual pollsters and their phoney predictions of the day and the hour. Indeed, the Pharisees’ question about when the kingdom of God was to come was a category error: the Kingdom is already here, if also still to come; and it is not out there somewhere but rather “among you” (Lk 17:21). It is Jesus Himself!
The great Swiss Protestant theologian, Karl Barth, was asked towards the end of his life whether he had ever changed his mind on an important theological matter. He was a sufficiently stubborn Calvinist to have answered “No”. But he answered in the affirmative, explaining that he had long thought and taught that Jesus came to preach the Kingdom of God, and only later came to realise that Jesus is God’s kingdom come. Such an idea was of course not new. As early as the third century, Origen referred to Christ as Autobasileia (= Himself the kingdom) in his Commentary on Matthew’s Gospel.[6] He asked: if Jesus is truth itself, wisdom itself, goodness itself, is He not also the kingdom itself?[7]
But to conceive of Jesus not just as a preacher or inaugurator of God’s kingdom, or as the king of that kingdom to come, but rather (or also) as the kingdom itself, has some important implications. It means that whenever we bring Christ to other people, through word, sacrament, ministry or witness, we bring people the very Kingdom of God. By God’s grace we offer them the new heart and strength they need: a heart pierced through with the mercy of a God who loves them unconditionally, and the strength that liberates people from those most egregious prisons—despair, sin and death.
And so, friends, as my closest collaborators in bringing the heart of Christ to Sydney and the heart of Sydney to Christ, we pray for the wisdom and perseverance to draw all to Christ the King and Christ the Kingdom.
[1] Phil 1:6; 2:12-13;3: 3-6,15-16;
[2] Eph 2:1-10; 4:17-25 Col 1:15-22; 2:6-15; 3:1-18;
[3] Eph 2:11-22; 4:1-7,
[4] Phil 2:1-11;
[5] Eph 4:25-32; 5 – 6; Col 3:12-17; 4:18-25; 5:1-5.
[6] This term is found in Origen’s commentary on the Gospel of Matthew, ch. 18. See also Benedict XVI, Verbum Domini, 93.
[7] See Fred Sanders, ‘The Kingdom in Person,’ The Scriptorium Daily, 28 July 2015.