8th Sunday in Ordinary Time C

There is a great line in the Gospel of John.  “[Jesus] did not need anyone to testify about human nature. He himself understood it well.” (John 2:25)  Stories as in today’s Gospel today prove it.  Isn’t it remarkable that Jesus could speak in a time so long ago in a culture so different from ours and the words still ring true and describe us so well?  Like a great piece of art, his insight his timeless.

This is apparent in that snippet of a parable of the man with a wooden beam in his eye who attempts to remove a small splinter in the eye of his brother.  Now this is understandably hyperbole, for no one walks around with a whole wooden beam in his eye.  But in another sense, we know that guy.  We know the gravely injured person who walks around with his hurt on the outside, but never seems to fix it.  The pain is so embedded it feels there is nothing you can do about it.  You meet him on the street, and after you leave you might say to a companion, that guy should really so something about that big wooden beam in his eye.

You wonder why he doesn’t.  But after a while, one gets used to a hurt and lives around it.  What is odd becomes normative.  He has adjusted as best as he can.  There is a resistance to change in all of us and what we are “used to” is more valued than what might be best.  What if the wooden beam comes out?  Would there be too much light? Would I see too much?  What would I be without this thing that has defined me for so long?

So on he goes with the wooden beam and somehow he notices the splinter in the eye of another.  He wants to take it out, but the guy with the splinter, says, “Whoa, I am letting wooden beam guy perform this delicate operation.”  A decision has to be made.  He must change to help his brother.  He removes the wooden beam.

I find it fascinating that so one so impaired could spot something as small as that sliver of wood in the eye of another.  Maybe, despite his deficit, he just know something about wood in an eye and he could find it in another.  Once he removes the wooden beam, his brother most likely think he is the best person to take out the splinter.  After all, he has already done something far more complicated and dangerous.  What’s more, they share a bond in their common pain.  They are connected.  The man who had endured the wooden beam for so long is, in Henri Nouwen’s famous phrase, a wounded healer.  The hurt he has endured has made space in the life of another for healing.

Perfect people drive me mad.  Always being right takes all the fun and need out of a relationship.  You are so lucky you do not have a perfect pastor.  There is a mysterious line in the Letter to the Hebrews that Jesus was made “perfect through suffering.” (Hebrews 2:10)  He could not be like us in sin, but he could be like us in suffering.  As we are about to embark on our Lenten journey, we recognize Jesus as prime wounded healer, whose cross ensured we knew that he faced our every fear and shed our every tear.  As we determine what we will give up this Lent, let us remember that our every sacrifice, our every want and our every hurt allows us to welcome people into our lives.  Let us dare to be make perfect through suffering.

 

 

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