(no subject)
As I sit down tonight to read Romans, I am trying to picture Paul sitting in Greece, some 20 years after his conversion, dictating his letter to a scribe. Though by that time well versed in his ministry, I imagine him not as confident as he sounds filtered through 2000 years of human history. The St. Paul I envision writing his epistles has no crown of glory yet. He is weary, perhaps, and uncertain of the future. His life is constantly in danger. He has big hopes for the future, but does not yet know what God has in store for him. He is humbled, even still, by the magnitude of forgiveness bestowed upon him.
I want to be that humbled. I want to be that aware of the Lord's forgiveness. It is my own stubbornness and pride that gets in the way. What I seek out the most in Paul is his profound humility - his ability to stare down his own demons, as it were, and throw his entire life into his ministry.
The St. Paul in my head is running his fingers through his beard as he sits in a borrowed home in Corinth, his prayer turning toward the Christian community in Rome. He has not met them; he understands they are of mixed Jewish and Gentile origin, and he does not know how his letter and desire to visit will be received. There is much cause for him to be anxious - there are persecutions, of course, and he as a former persecutor has the uniquely humbling viewpoint of turning from persecutor to persecuted. But there are more worries: the young Church is still divided, still trying to figure itself out. There are small communities forming, and not in a vacuum - but all are in need of a shepherd. Paul writes 25 years after the death and resurrection of Jesus - he writes to people who knew the Lord on earth and people who did not, to Jews and Gentiles, to slaves, men, women, children. To the educated and the illiterate, the rich and the poor alike. Paul, from his own experience, knew that the salvation of Christ Jesus was open to all who believed in Him - after all, if the Lord had forgiven Saul of Tarsus, to whom would He withhold forgiveness?
So the St. Paul in my head, aware of his successes and failures, clears his throat and begins to speak. It is not all sunshine and roses, of course: Paul is quick to condemn hypocrites and reprimand those who claim to know the heart of God because they know the Law (Rom 2:18). But all, of course, are wicked. All have sinned. None deserve grace, none deserve forgiveness, but by faith, all receive it.
At Mass today, we heard a homily on forgiveness. The question was asked, "have you ever done something of such magnitude that you were certain God would not forgive you? Have you asked for forgiveness?" The question made me think. I hate asking for forgiveness. I hate asking for anything, actually. I tend to take the "ignore it 'til it goes away" method of reconciliation. But don't we need that experience of grace in order to be better vessels of grace? Apart from the obvious need to ask for forgiveness for my own sake, think of how much more Paul understood as an apostle because of all he was given (and all he was forgiven). We do not know love unless we know forgiveness, and if we shield ourselves from that forgiveness, we shield ourselves from the greatest depths of the love God has for us.
I want to be that humbled. I want to be that aware of the Lord's forgiveness. It is my own stubbornness and pride that gets in the way. What I seek out the most in Paul is his profound humility - his ability to stare down his own demons, as it were, and throw his entire life into his ministry.
The St. Paul in my head is running his fingers through his beard as he sits in a borrowed home in Corinth, his prayer turning toward the Christian community in Rome. He has not met them; he understands they are of mixed Jewish and Gentile origin, and he does not know how his letter and desire to visit will be received. There is much cause for him to be anxious - there are persecutions, of course, and he as a former persecutor has the uniquely humbling viewpoint of turning from persecutor to persecuted. But there are more worries: the young Church is still divided, still trying to figure itself out. There are small communities forming, and not in a vacuum - but all are in need of a shepherd. Paul writes 25 years after the death and resurrection of Jesus - he writes to people who knew the Lord on earth and people who did not, to Jews and Gentiles, to slaves, men, women, children. To the educated and the illiterate, the rich and the poor alike. Paul, from his own experience, knew that the salvation of Christ Jesus was open to all who believed in Him - after all, if the Lord had forgiven Saul of Tarsus, to whom would He withhold forgiveness?
So the St. Paul in my head, aware of his successes and failures, clears his throat and begins to speak. It is not all sunshine and roses, of course: Paul is quick to condemn hypocrites and reprimand those who claim to know the heart of God because they know the Law (Rom 2:18). But all, of course, are wicked. All have sinned. None deserve grace, none deserve forgiveness, but by faith, all receive it.
At Mass today, we heard a homily on forgiveness. The question was asked, "have you ever done something of such magnitude that you were certain God would not forgive you? Have you asked for forgiveness?" The question made me think. I hate asking for forgiveness. I hate asking for anything, actually. I tend to take the "ignore it 'til it goes away" method of reconciliation. But don't we need that experience of grace in order to be better vessels of grace? Apart from the obvious need to ask for forgiveness for my own sake, think of how much more Paul understood as an apostle because of all he was given (and all he was forgiven). We do not know love unless we know forgiveness, and if we shield ourselves from that forgiveness, we shield ourselves from the greatest depths of the love God has for us.