Hungry, but for what?

"Hunger, that gnawing ache in the pit of your stomach,
"A constant reminder of the most cruel sign of poverty:
"Life longing to be nourished and fed.

"But where do I go when I hunger for justice?
"Is there enough food to fill the hungry heart,
"A feast where all are fed?

"Then I hear the invitation to sit down
"Around the table --
"A table with enough chairs for all.

"It is just a simple meal,
"A sacred meal of bread and wine,
"Blessed and consecrated as a sign of love.

"As one body we receive you,
"This bread that is broken and shared,
"Can break the boundaries of an unjust world.

"In the Eucharist we are formed,
"On mission we are sent to live justly."

-- Catholic Relief Services

I am writing this on Good Friday. I waited until today to write on this topic because I knew I would be experiencing a small degree of hunger today, the physical kind of hunger. Yesterday I attended Holy Thursday Mass, and so my own body and spirit are well-nourished. Today I fast, partially.

I awoke hungry and felt that gnawing ache. I ate a small meal of bread and eggs, with a few blueberries sprinkled in. I am allowed to do this, by virtue of age and a medical condition. I am fortunate to live in the United States, where, at least for now, I have access to necessities like food, water and basic medical care for as long as I have money to pay for them.

On Sunday, Easter Sunday, my family is coming for dinner. We will enjoy roasted chickens, vegetables and more. We are sharing with family. But I try to share with more than just family. I don't always do well at sharing, but I do try.

Last Saturday I spent the morning with some of my colleagues sorting frozen meats at our local food bank. It was heartbreaking to throw some of the food away, but for safety reasons, we had to. What good is food that, instead of nourishing a body, will make it ill?

We sorted about 8,000 pounds of frozen meat that morning. I was told it would be gone before week's end. People rely on this donated food to maintain their very lives. Many of them, most of them, are working poor. People who work as many hour as I do, or  more, yet cannot afford to feed their families. And that's right here in the United States, right here on the Shore where I live.

But as vital as the need for daily bread, there is a deeper hunger, one that is not so easily recognized. A hunger for God, for meaning, for love and peace. None of that can be readily found here on Earth. Yet all of it can be found here on Earth, if we but look in the right places.

Who teaches us to love? Who models the kind of love we yearn to experience? Where do we go to gain an understanding of true peace, and where does it begin?

The truth is, we yearn for things we have never experienced, never seen or heard or touched. Yet we know they exist. Some are convinced they are capable of grasping these gold rings on the carousel of life, on their own -- but can we even recognize them when we see them, much less reach out and pluck them off the tree of life?

As Catholics, we fast so that we might come to a better understanding of hunger -- not so much the physical variety, but the hunger for things this world cannot give us. We ponder how we might help others who are far away from our reach. We consider how even the greatest love we experience here on Earth -- perhaps the love of our parents, or the love we feel for our own children, or the deep and satisfying love of a spouse, the love we call friendship -- is but a pale shadow of the real thing. And we meditate on the promise that those who hunger and thirst for righteousness will be filled.

No one of us can solve all the world's problems, can fill all the need or make all the sacrifices necessary. That is the realm of God alone. God could easily right every wrong, fill every need, level every mountain that stands in the way of our happiness and fulfillment, fill every valley of despair until no one would experience hunger, ever again, in any form.

But that's not what we actually need. We are struggling to learn how we can help each other, because that's what really matters. It can be friends and family, neighbors and strangers, doesn't matter. But until we learn to love one another, to share what we have with those in need -- joyfully and freely -- we will not experience that for which we hunger.

It's a hard lesson to grasp. We do the best we can.

And on Sunday, we will celebrate with great joy the resurrection of our Lord and Savior, who did  make the requisite sacrifices so that we can begin to understand what is required of us.

Imagine That!

S

At the beginning of Jesus' public ministry, he announced to his hometown synagogue that these words had been fulfilled in their hearing:

God’s Spirit is on me;

    he’s chosen me to preach the Message of good news to the poor,

Sent me to announce pardon to prisoners and

    recovery of sight to the blind,

To set the burdened and battered free,

    to announce, “This is God’s year to act!”

For the last forty days, I have been reflecting how I have been called to act, as well.  How am I to preach the message--using words only when necessary--to the poor?  It's a question that has challenged me to stretch my imagination.  What more can I give?  What am I willing to sacrifice so that I can give?  Jesus gave up his life.  Am I willing to do the same?

I leave you with this poem as a reflection on what it might be like if all of us asked ourselves these questions.  Would this be God's year to act?   

Imagine the Angels of Bread

This is the year that squatters evict landlords,

gazing like admirals from the rail

of the roof deck

or levitating hands in praise

of steam in the shower;

this is the year

that shawled refugees deport judges

who stare at the floor

and their swollen feet

as files are stamped

with their destination;

this is the year that police revolvers,

stove-hot, blister the fingers

of raging cops,

and nightsticks splinter

in their palms;

this is the year

that darkskinned men

lynched a century ago

return to sip coffee quietly

with the apologizing descendants

of their executioners.

This is the year that those

who swim the border's undertow

and shiver in boxcars

are greeted with trumpets and drums

at the first railroad crossing

on the other side;

this is the year that the hands

pulling tomatoes from the vine

uproot the deed to the earth that sprouts the vine,

the hands canning tomatoes

are named in the will

that owns the bedlam of the cannery;

this is the year that the eyes

stinging from the poison that purifies toilets

awaken at last to the sight

of a rooster-loud hillside,

pilgrimage of immigrant birth;

this is the year that cockroaches

become extinct, that no doctor

finds a roach embedded

in the ear of an infant;

this is the year that the food stamps

of adolescent mothers

are auctioned like gold doubloons,

and no coin is given to buy machetes

for the next bouquet of severed heads

in coffee plantation country.

If the abolition of slave-manacles

began as a vision of hands without manacles,

then this is the year;

if the shutdown of extermination camps

began as imagination of a land

without barbed wire or the crematorium,

then this is the year;

if every rebellion begins with the idea

that conquerors on horseback

are not many-legged gods, that they too drown

if plunged in the river,

then this is the year.

So may every humiliated mouth,

teeth like desecrated headstones,

fill with the angels of bread. 

Martin Espada

Where have I experienced the darkness of injustice in my life?

If one member suffers, all suffer together...  I Cor. 12:26

How does injustice keep people in the shadows?

Soon another Feast came around and Jesus was back in Jerusalem. Near the Sheep Gate in Jerusalem there was a pool, in Hebrew called Bethesda, with five alcoves. Hundreds of sick people—blind, crippled, paralyzed—were in these alcoves. One man had been an invalid there for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him stretched out by the pool and knew how long he had been there, he said, “Do you want to get well?”

The sick man said, “Sir, when the water is stirred, I don’t have anybody to put me in the pool. By the time I get there, somebody else is already in.”

How am I called to live in solidarity with my global brothers and sisters?

He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?  MIcah 6:8

The Spirit of the Lord is upon you.  How will you respond?

The Spirit of the Lord is Upon Me