Stinkweeds and Thistles: Homily for the Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Thistle in Wheat

Thistle in Wheat

Today we’re asked to use our imaginations
and picture ourselves as wheat.
“The kingdom of heaven
may be likened to a man who sowed good seed in his field.”
Imagine us first as good seed, held in the hand of the Farmer.
As he runs us through his fingers,
he feels the potential for growth we carry within us.

Just at the right time of the year,
he carries us into the field,
then scoops us up with his hands
and scatters us onto the ground.

We lay there helpless, unable to move.
The sun comes up, the sun goes down.
It rains, and we soak in the cool, clear water.
Soon roots emerge, and we draw nutrients into ourselves.
We’ve sprouted, and we’re getting taller each day.
We’re doing exactly what wheat is supposed to do:
We’re basking in the sun, drinking in water, growing up toward the sky.
We’re growing.

This is what it means to be the Farmer’s good seed,
to be children of the kingdom.

The single defining characteristic of the kingdom of heaven
that we can see clearly in today’s three parables
is growth.

The kingdom of heaven is like a man who sowed good seed.
The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed.
The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that raises the whole loaf of bread.

In each parable,
growth is happening.
Love is always about growth, about fruitfulness.

Our vocation in this life is to grow,
to reach up to the sun.
Jesus came and planted divine life in each of us,
and like the field of wheat
we take in water—the water of grace at baptism.
We take in nourishment—the nourishment of the Eucharist.
We absorb the rays of the sun—the Son of God.

But then one night,
while everyone is sleeping,
the Farmer’s enemy sneaks into the field and sows weeds.

Soon stinkweed and thistle begin to grow,
and it becomes harder to get to the water,
and the nutrients, and the sunlight.

Jesus says the weeds
are all those who cause others to sin
and all evildoers.

Maybe we know a few stinkweeds or thistles,
and we’d like to pull them up and toss them away.

Maybe we’d like to get them out of our lives,
get rid of them, cast them aside.

But that’s not how the kingdom of heaven works.
“No,” the Farmer says,
“if you pull up the weeds you might uproot the wheat along with them.”
“Let them grow together until harvest,” he says.

In other words,
we risk losing our lives
if the stinkweeds and thistles are simply pulled up and cast aside.

Our lives are intimately bound up with everyone we meet,
stinkweed or not.
What happens to one affects us all.
Who is it that we would cast away?
And who are we to recognize what’s a weed and what’s wheat?

Because the truth is, there’s a little stinkweed in each of us,
a little thistle, isn’t there?
So let’s not be so hasty to yank up the weeds, you know?

Jesus was patient and merciful with the weeds in his life.

He came across plenty of thistles in the wheat field of his ministry:
the woman caught in adultery,
Zacchaeus the tax collector,
the disciples who abandoned him in his darkest hour,
the centurions who executed him.

Jesus didn’t yank them up from the ground.
He showed patience and mercy:
“Go and sin no more.”
“Father forgive them, they don’t know what they’re doing.”

His ministry was not harvest time.
It wasn’t the time for weeding,
it was a time for sowing and growing.

Our time is not a time for weeding.
Our time is a time for sowing and growing.
The harvest will come some day,
but not today.

If the Farmer’s not worried about the weeds
then we don’t need to worry about them either.

The Farmer has chosen to leave the weeds among the wheat,
knowing that we’re strong enough to withstand them.
They won’t overshadow us,
they won’t strangle us,
they won’t steal our nourishment.

Yes, we have to struggle now for our water,
we have to fight for sunlight and nutrients.
We have to deal with stinkweeds and thistles.

But a miraculous thing happens when we stop worrying about the weeds
and instead focus on the wheat.

When we concentrate on growing in faith, hope, and love,
when we spend our time drinking in the waters of grace,
absorbing the light of Christ,
feeding on the nourishment of the Eucharist,
then we have an effect on the stinkweeds and the thistles.

If, instead of cutting them down to be burned in the fiery furnace,
we continue to live with them and beside them,
then they have the opportunity to become wheat.

I have been a stinkweed and a thistle myself
more than once in my life.
It’s only because of the patience of significant people in my life
and the grace of God
that I find myself here in this wheat field now
striving to reach the sun.

How many of us have been stinkweeds and thistles to others,
only to have been met with patience, mercy,
and forgiveness?

On any given Sunday, this church is filled with both weeds and wheat,
entangled and entwined together.

And our vocation is not to root out the weeds and cast them aside,
but to grow right beside them.

To know Jesus more and more through daily reading of Scripture
and through personal prayer.
To serve Jesus more and more
by being a blessing to the people in our lives:
our families, our coworkers, our neighbors,
the poor and outcast,
and especially the stinkweeds and thistles.

This is what it means to be a child of the kingdom,
this is what it means to be wheat and not weeds:
to continually work at growing in intimacy with God,
to work every day at lifting our souls up and up and up,
like wheat.

Anyone who’s ever received an email from me has seen at the bottom
my signature, which includes a quote
by a woman named Elisabeth Leseur.

The quote goes like this:
“Every soul that uplifts itself uplifts the world.”

This is another way of describing what it means
to live as wheat among the weeds.
It means that if we can forget about the thistles
and concentrate on growing up to God
then we can help others become wheat.

And if anyone knew what that was like, it was Elisabeth Leseur.
Elisabeth lived around the turn of the last century,
and was married to Dr. Felix Leseur, a determined atheist.
In fact, he was the editor of an anti-Catholic newspaper
and constantly worked at trying to shake Elisabeth’s faith.

You can imagine the tension that caused in their marriage.

But rather than casting off this thistle she had married,
Elisabeth used his efforts as motivation
to study and deepen her faith.
She came to believe that her mission in life
was the salvation of her husband’s soul.
At one point she even told Felix that she firmly believed
that after her death he would become a priest.

He laughed at her, of course.
But two years later, as she was dying of breast cancer,
he became increasingly impressed by her courage and composure,
and he began to realize that she drew this strength from her faith.

After she died in 1914,
Felix was overcome to discover a note in Elisabeth’s spiritual diary
in which she offered her sufferings and her life for his conversion.
He went on to publish her spiritual writings,
and in 1923 he was ordained a Dominican priest.

Elisabeth lived as wheat among the weeds.
Her tiny mustard seed became the largest of the plants.
She was the yeast that leavened her little corner of the world.
She didn’t worry about the stinkweeds or thistles in her life.
Elisabeth concentrated on lifting up her soul.

We, too, are called to have patience and mercy
with the stinkweeds and thistles.
Especially because, at different times, they are us.
The kingdom of heaven is about growth,
not about weeding out.
And “Every soul that uplifts itself uplifts the world.”

Note: Information about Servant of God Elisabeth Leseur was adapted from a profile by Robert Ellsburg in the May 2012 issue of Give Us This Day.

Solid and Liquid: Homily for the Solemnity of Saint Peter and Saint Paul

Saint Peter and Saint Paul

Saint Peter and Saint Paul

We have kind of an unusual circumstance this year.

Instead of celebrating the 13th Sunday in Ordinary Time,
we’re celebrating the Solemnity of Saint Peter and Saint Paul,
which always occurs on June 29.

Usually when a feast falls on a Sunday, the feast gets skipped.
It’s rare that a saint’s feast would take precedence over a Sunday.
And when a feast does supersede a Sunday
it’s usually a feast of Jesus, or Mary, or Joseph.
But today the 13th Sunday in Ordinary Time gives way
to our remembrance of Saint Peter and Saint Paul.

It’s also unusual that we celebrate two saints on the same day,
especially since those two saints already have other days during the year
on which they’re commemorated.

And so here we have two saints,
who already have other feast days,
being celebrated together,
and replacing the 13th Sunday in Ordinary Time.

That says something.
By giving this feast such prominence
the Church is telling us something about these two people Peter and Paul
and their importance in our lives and in the lives of the entire Church.

The Scriptures give us an insight into what that importance is,
and they also help us to see how the lives of Peter and Paul
make a difference in our own lives.

First we see that Peter and Paul have several things in common.
They were both leaders in the early Church.
Peter was the leader in Jerusalem and ultimately the leader in Rome.
Paul was a leader among the different church communities he established throughout his travels:
Corinth, Galatia, Philippi, Ephesus,
and all of those places he established churches and then later wrote to.

Both Peter and Paul were so influential that they were arrested and jailed.
And so in many ways they led similar lives.

And yet there were some differences in their lives as well.
We can see this in the ways they are described.

Peter is called by Jesus in the gospel today as “the rock.”
“You are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church.”
And Paul calls himself a libation, he says he’s being “poured out like a libation.”
So you could say that Peter is solid and Paul is liquid.

And I think that’s important.
I think that’s really the key to understanding the meaning
of these two men being celebrated on the same day.
Because they illustrate two important aspects of the Church
that we don’t want to lose sight of.
That the Church itself is at the same time solid and liquid.
Here’s what I mean:

First, Peter was solid, the firm foundation.
He was confident and bold.
He was the spokesperson for the apostles
and he’s the one who was bold enough to declare,
“You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God.”

But this is also the same Peter who is going to say, just a few verses later,
“No, you’re not going to suffer and be killed, Lord.”
And at the Last Supper when Jesus was washing the disciples’ feet,
he is going to say,
“You’ll never wash my feet, Lord.”
And Peter is the one who said,
“I will never deny you.”
You know, Peter wasn’t always on target.
In all of those moments his confidence and passion were clearly visible,
and yet he occasionally misunderstood the message.
Jesus had to correct Peter.
He had to tell Peter, “Get behind me, Satan! You are an obstacle to me.
You are thinking not as God does, but as human beings do.”
“I will go to Jerusalem, I will suffer, I will be killed.”

And at the Last Supper Jesus had to say to Peter,
“Unless I wash you, you will have no inheritance with me.”
And bold Peter says: “Then Lord, wash not only my feet, but my head and hands as well.”
And after Peter’s three-time denial he asks Peter three times,
“Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me.”

But despite all of Peter’s misunderstandings,
Jesus saw in him what the Church needed.
He saw in him a firm foundation.
Peter was that solid rock upon whom Christ would build his Church.

While Peter is the solid rock, Paul is the libation.
A libation is a drink that is poured out as an offering to God.
Before taking a drink, the Greeks would pour some on the ground
to honor a god or goddess.
Paul thinks of himself here as a libation as he writes from prison.
He is about to die, his life is about to be poured out
for the sake of God.

Peter is the rock, Paul is the libation.
Peter is solid, Paul is liquid.

A rock is solid and firm, but it stays in place.
That is its virtue, that is its strength, but it is also its limitation.

You know, the very remains of Peter are under Vatican Hill,
and the church, St. Peter’s Basilica, rests right on top of his bones.
He is literally and figuratively the rock upon which the church is built.
But the Church was never meant to stay in Rome.

Paul is like a libation pouring out of that rock and flowing through the world,
coursing out among all the peoples.

It’s like the story of Moses striking the rock in the desert
for the Israelites.
Moses struck the rock and water came from it.
Peter is like the rock, and Paul is like the flowing water.

Paul carries the message
to the Corinthians, to the Galatians, to the Philippians,
to the Thessalonians,
and on from there to the ends of the earth.

And yet, he too, recognizes the need to have the rock that is Peter.
In his letter to the Galatians, Paul writes about the times that he met Peter.
Paul tells how he described to Peter
the gospel he had been preaching to the Gentiles.
Paul says he wants to make sure what he was doing is true to the gospel.
Paul understands the importance of having that solid foundation,
and he recognizes Peter as that Rock.

And so Peter and Paul remind us this weekend
through their lives and through the images that describe them
that we as a Church are to be both a solid foundation for the world
and a life-giving libation poured out as an offering to God.

Peter and Paul are different and yet one.

In our own lives we may identify with one more than the other.
We may identify with that solid foundation that never changes,
and the security that comes with that.

We may also identify with the fluidity of our faith,
a fluidity that sees it lived differently in different places at different times.

The world needs the comfort of the solid rock of the Church,
especially in these sometimes chaotic and unsure times.
It’s good to have solid rock under our feet.

At the same time, the world needs to know
that the Church is not some cold edifice of granite, uncaring and unmoving.
The Church is also a libation, a sacrificial offering to God
that cares for the poor, the widow, the orphan,
that stands up for the marginalized and the weak.

And what is true of the Church is only true
because it also true of God.

The Solemnity of Peter and Paul takes precedence today
because of how these two apostles reveal God to us.

It is God who is the rock, and it is God who is the libation.

When the winds of chaos, tragedy, and doubt swirl around us,
it is God who anchors us, who keeps us safe, who gives us a firm footing.
And when we are thirsting for life, for a full life,
it is God who pours out his own Son as an offering
so that we might have life
and have it to the full.

And so today Peter is a reminder of the rock solid foundation of God’s love for us,
never fading, always faithful, ever present.
And Paul is a reminder of how God poured himself out for us,
sacrificing himself until blood and water flowed from his side.

We gather here around this altar to receive that
solid foundation and that life-giving offering,
so that we can be a rock and a libation for the world.

The Lure of the Will-O’-The-Wisp: Homily for the Fifth Sunday of Easter – Year A

Dark Forest

In Scottish and English folklore,
people tell of the will-o’-the-wisp,
mischievous lights in the bogs and swamps
carried by fairies and goblins
that lead lost travelers to their doom.
As the travelers follow those elusive and fickle lights,
they leave the path behind,
and when the lights are extinguished
the travelers are even more lost than when they began.

On our journey of faith we sometimes lose our way,
following will-o’-the-wisps.

We get lost, like those travelers in the woods
who wander off the path, following the goblin lights.
We’re looking for fulfillment, for happiness, for peace.
But so many of the things we chase after only bring us
the illusion of fulfillment,
the illusion of happiness,
the illusion of peace.

And when the illusion fades we feel lost.
We open our eyes one day and wonder, Where am I?
What am I doing with my life?
How did I get myself into this situation?
We don’t know how we got here, and we don’t know how to get back.
We feel the panic rise in our throats, and our hearts beat faster.

Panic is starting to set in for the disciples in today’s gospel.
It’s the Last Supper and the meal has turned bleak.

First, the disciples have heard that there’s a traitor in their midst.
Next, Jesus tells them that he’s leaving and they can’t follow him.
And finally, he says that Peter will deny him three times.

Jesus sees the looks on their faces — the doubts, the fears, the panic.
He understands that the disciples are on the verge of losing their way.
He knows that when he’s arrested they will scatter.

In their panic and in our panic, Jesus speaks the words we need to hear.
Just as the forest seems to close in on us
when the lights of the will-o’-the-wisp vanish,
Just as our hearts begin to pound,
Jesus gives us words of consolation and strength.
“Do not let your hearts be troubled,” he says.
“You have faith in God; have faith also in me.”
“I’m going away, but I’m coming back for you. You know the way.”

But Thomas speaks aloud what’s on everyone’s mind:
“We don’t know where you’re going; how can we know the way?”

Like a lost traveler, we want a map, some sort of clue or hint.
Maybe if we had a compass, or a flashlight, or a GPS,
then we could find a way out ourselves.

But what is the first rule of being lost?
What does every parent tell their child to do if they get lost?
What does every experienced hiker, skier, hunter, and fisherman
know to do if they get separated from the group and lose their way?

Stop!
Stay put!
Call for help.
Stay where you are;
wait for Mom or Dad or the search party to come find you.

Whenever we went camping with the kids
we would remind them:
if you wander off and get lost
just stay where you are.
We will look for you and find you.
If you keep moving you’re harder to find,
and it will take us longer.
Stop, stay where you are, and call for help.
Don’t go chasing after things that aren’t there.

When we feel lost we often go chasing after will-o’-the-wisps.
We chase after illusions that seem to be real,
that seem to promise a way through life:
Pleasure, power, money, success.
Like the lights of the will-o’-the-wisp,
these seem to lead us toward home,
but they so often lead us deeper into the dark woods,
and then they disappear.

If we pause right now, I’m sure we can think of the will-o’-the-wisp
that’s been beckoning us on most recently.

When we find ourselves lost in the woods
of sin, doubt, confusion, or fear,
our best bet is stop and stay put.

But we stay put when we’re spiritually lost
for a different reason than when we’re lost in the woods.
When we’re lost in the forest,
we remain where we are so people can find us.
But when we’re spiritually lost
we stay put so we can find Jesus.

We stop what we’re doing so we can look and listen
for his presence among us.
We find Jesus in the still moments,
in the quiet moments.

We stay put so we have a chance to discern what to do next.

We call for help and ask God to be with us.

And Emmanuel, “God with us,” is present.
In the midst of our sin, doubt, confusion, and fear,
Jesus is always with us.

We can be spiritually lost, but we are never alone.
Once we realize we are lost, the best thing to do is
stop, stay put, and call for help:
A pause for a moment of prayer in the middle of the day,
A visit to the Blessed Sacrament chapel,
A phone call to a friend for advice,
A walk outside with a husband or wife.

Stopping and staying put
gives us time and attention to notice God’s presence
in the midst of our anxiety.

God always comes to find us.
He always seeks us,
and no matter how lost we are,
He will find us.
Because he is already with us.

He is the Way, the Truth, and the Life.
He says to us,
“I will come back again and take you to myself,
so that where I am you also may be.”

Jesus is the way out of the dark forest.
If we come here today feeling lost, feeling alone,
Then this is exactly the place to be.
Jesus waits for us here especially,
at the table of this Eucharist.
Here we stop.
Here we stay put.
Here we call for help.

And if we aren’t feeling especially lost or alone today,
then we come here to thank God for making us aware of his presence,
for coming to rescue us from the dark forest.
And we witness to everyone here that God does come back for us.

That Jesus, the Way, shows us where to go.
That Jesus, the Truth, breaks through our will-o’-the-wisp illusions.
That Jesus, the Life, nourishes us with his Body and Blood.
So that where he is, we also will be,
And we will never be lost again.

To Dance in our Woundedness: Homily for the Second Sunday of Easter – Year A

The Incredulity of Saint Thomas by Caravaggio

“These signs have been written that you may believe.”

In today’s gospel, Thomas needs help in order to believe.
He needs a sign.

Who can blame him?
His friends were making a pretty far-fetched claim.
Jesus is risen from the dead?
Thomas had seen Jesus crucified.
“Prove it to me,” he says. “Show me the wounds.”

And Jesus does prove it to Thomas.
In his mercy, Jesus appears a week later.
Thomas sees the wounds.
He also sees the living Christ.
And he responds,
“My Lord and my God.”

Thomas needed to see both the wounds and the living Christ.

In our time, too, we look for signs.
We want to know that after the crucifixion comes the resurrection.

We’re all wounded in one way or another,
and we want to know that there is a life beyond our wounds.

All Thomas could think about were the wounds that Jesus had received.

Sometimes that’s all we can think about: our own wounds.
They’re so overwhelming
that we can’t see past them to new life.

If we want examples of the overwhelming power of woundedness
we only have to look at the lives of Angelo, Karl, and Amy.

Angelo was the son of a sharecropper in a small country village.
He lost his mother, a brother, and four sisters to cancer.
In fact, when his mother was close to death
his work duties prevented him from being there in her final hours.
Cancer was also to claim Angelo’s life–
stomach cancer.
It came in midst of a an monumental project he had started,
a project that he hoped would change the world.
He did not live to see that project completed.

Karl had his wounds to deal with too.
He once said,
“I was not at my mother’s death, I was not at my brother’s death,
I was not at my father’s death.
At twenty, I had already lost all the people I loved.”
Things got worse for Karl before they got better.
He had to hide from the Nazis,
He survived bullet wounds that perforated his colon and small intestines,
and in his old age he ended up struggling with Parkinson’s Disease.

And then there’s Amy.
Amy was only 19 years old when she was hospitalized with meningitis.
The meningitis affected her circulatory system, and within 24 hours,
the infection went into septic shock.
Doctors gave Amy less than a 2% chance of survival.
She lost both of her kidneys, her spleen, the hearing in her left ear,
and both of her legs had to be amputated below the knees.

Angelo, Karl, and Amy are signs of the woundedness of the world.

But we all walk through this life wounded.
Some of us are physically wounded,
others are emotionally or psychologically wounded,
and still others are spiritually wounded.

But in our woundedness
Jesus calls us to new life
so that we can be signs of faith to the world.

To be a Christian is to let our woundedness transform us.
That’s what Jesus shows Thomas, and that’s what he shows us.

“Put your finger here and see my hands,
and bring your hand and put it into my side,
and do not be unbelieving, but believe.”

The wounded Body of Christ is all around us, here in this church.
But the resurrected Christ is here, too.

Through his wounds, through our wounds,
we come to belief.

Easter is a call to be a sign of faith,
to show the world that our wounds do not get the final say.

This is what the disciples did.
They, too, were wounded.
They were hurt by the loss of their Lord.
As they gathered in the upper room
they felt the humiliation of having seen their savior
crucified by the Romans.
They were paralyzed by fear for their own lives.

When they huddled together in their woundedness
Jesus appeared in their midst
and showed them how to move from wounds to resurrection.

Out of the woundedness of Christ,
and out of their own woundedness,
the early Church came to new life.
And they drew people to Jesus.

How?

By devoting themselves to the teachings of the apostles,
to the communal life,
and to the breaking of the bread.

And that’s how we find new life in the face of our wounds.
Because we can arise out of our woundedness.
As a matter of fact, it is only through our wounds
that we can be resurrected.

If, in our woundedness,
we devote ourselves to the teachings of the apostles,
to the communal life,
and to the breaking of the bread,
then we are born into new life,
and we become signs of faith for the community.

People see us devoted, first, to the teachings of the apostles
when we acknowledge the truths of our faith,
even if they’re contrary to what we see in today’s culture.
When we hold fast to all that the apostles have handed on to us
in the midst of our pain and suffering
then the community understands the life that Christ offers.

We see this kind of devotion in Karl’s life.
Karl, in spite of an attempt on his life,
in spite of his struggles with Parkinson’s,
spent the majority of his life making the teachings of the apostles
clear and accessible to the Church,
and encouraging people to live those teachings to the full.

The second way to move from woundedness to life
is to be devoted to the communal life.
We are devoted to the communal life
when we help the poor,
taking care of those who need help
in the midst of our own woundedness.
When we share what we have,
even if it is only a little,
when we give of our time,
even when we are incredibly busy,
or lonely, or tired,
then the community sees the resurrected Christ
in our actions,
and we become signs of faith in our woundedness.

Amy’s life demonstrates how to live the communal life.
Amy,
in her struggles to get used to living without feet,
went on to found a non-profit organization for people with physical disabilities,
and she worked with another charity to bring shoes to children in developing countries.
In her woundedness
she found a way to help.

And finally, we are devoted to the breaking of the bread
when we gather here for Eucharist,
when we could just as easily be sleeping in
or going on a hike
or watching TV.
When we choose to spend our time in thanksgiving
with our parish community
we become like Christ showing his wounds to Thomas.
We come here broken, wounded,
and yet still grateful for our lives
and the graces we have received.

We see devotion to the breaking of the bread in Angelo’s life.
Angelo’s monumental project was to call the Second Vatican Council,
to gather all the bishops of the world
and renew the Church and her liturgy.

The world knows Angelo Roncalli as Pope John XXIII,
just as it knows Karl as Karol Wotyla, Pope John Paul II.

In spite of their wounds,
and even because of their wounds,
they became signs of faith to the world.

This weekend the world celebrates
as these two wounded men
are canonized as saints.

Millions of people gather in Rome
because they have seen the signs of faith
in the lives of St. John XXIII
and St. John Paul II.

But what about Amy?

Well, sometimes the signs of faith come from within the Church,
and sometimes they come from
someplace else.

Amy’s story doesn’t end with the loss of her kidneys, spleen or amputated feet.
It doesn’t even end with the non-profit she founded.

Amy became a snowboarder, winning back to back world cup gold medals.
But that’s not how I heard about her.
I first saw Amy while I was flipping through TV channels last week
looking for something to watch while I was grading papers for school.

I stumbled across the show “Dancing with the Stars,”
and there was Amy Purdy in a beautiful white dress,
dancing on her artificial feet.

She and her dance partner were leaping and twirling around the stage
to the song “Shout” by the Isley Brothers,
dancing a jive,
which, according to the judges, is the most difficult dance.
There she was with artificial feet strapped to the bottoms of her legs,
kicking and swinging and leaping with joy
while the Isley brothers sang,
“You know you make me want to shout.”

It made me want to shout
when I saw that woman dancing on prosthetic feet.
It was amazing to see a young woman with that kind of disability
performing with such life and joy and exhilaration.

Now, I don’t know Amy’s religious background,
but that’s the kind of joy and life and exhilaration
that can inspire people to come to Christ,
that can strengthen the faith of those of us who already know Christ.

Amy dances in her woundedness.
And isn’t that the very definition of resurrection?
To dance in our woundedness?

When we see people who are wounded,
dancing with life, dancing with exhilaration and joy
there’s something compelling in that,
something attractive and amazingly hopeful.

What a great image for us on this Divine Mercy Sunday.
In our woundedness we are to dance, we are to shout with joy
because the Lord is risen.
And it is through his wounds
That he has healed us.

“These signs have been written that you may believe.”

May we, like Angelo, Karl, and Amy,
use our wounds to be signs of faith
and bring Easter joy to the world.