The Lord appeared to Abraham by the terebinth of Mamre.
A terebinth was a large tree, and Mamre was a sacred shrine about fifteen miles south of Jerusalem. It was there the Lord came to dinner, accompanied by two angels. Abraham told them to rest under the tree and brought them food so they might refresh themselves before continuing on.
Centuries later, about two miles east of Jerusalem, the Lord came to dinner again, accompanied by disciples. At the first dinner party, the angels told Abraham that he and his elderly wife would have a baby. At the second dinner party, Martha of “Martha and Mary” fame, acted like a baby.
Christ gently lectured Martha that Mary’s contemplation at His feet was the better part that would not be taken from her. Note that He did not say it was the only part, but the better one.
Living in a fallen world, we have to be active. We have to earn our bread by the sweat of our brow, like Christ did with His rough, calloused hands all those years in Nazareth. But being body-soul composites, our activity has to be balanced with quiet meditation. Just as God rested on the seventh day, the God-Man instructed us to “come away and rest a while” (Mk. 6:31). Christ did so to give us an opportunity to contemplate on the better part, which God-willing will be ours someday.
Unfortunately, most parishes today should be re-named St. Martha’s because at Sunday Mass it’s difficult to find much contemplation at all within them. Instead, Mass is all too full of noise and physical activity, with people working under bright lights and in front of loud microphones. And what is the result of this typical liturgical experience? Does the average worshipper afterward go on his way feeling rested? Or does he depart anxious and worried about many things?
It’s interesting about bright lights: I remember years ago eating lunch in the seminary refectory. We were eating in silence when an old monk at the table blurted out: “The worst invention in the history of mankind was the electric light bulb.” We all laughed. But the monk had an argument. He explained how the light bulb has destroyed man’s natural rhythm with the sun and the moon and the turning of the earth. The light bulb, he said, has kept man up way past his bedtime—a time when he invariably gets into trouble.
I keep the lights dimmed here in my parish church, especially before Mass. I do that to calm people down and put them at ease, so they can quietly sit or kneel and meditate on heavenly things.
Do you ever notice that if you go out for a meal at a nice restaurant the lights are dimmed? Why is that? It’s to put the diners at ease, so they can be relaxed and refreshed. Wouldn’t it be odd if at one point during your dinner the restaurant flooded every corner and crevice with artificial light? And wouldn’t it be even more odd if the people sitting at the table next to you got up, went to the kitchen, and started bringing your food to you?
Of course, I just described what takes place at Mass at the typical parish today. The lights are bright, the microphone is loud, and your fellow worshippers, since the 1970s, enter the sanctuary, like Martha entering the kitchen, to go to work feeding people.
Someone once compared the modern Mass to a WPA project from the 1930s. The WPA, the Works Progress Administration, was a big government program during the Great Depression that created jobs so people had something to do. And that has seemed to be the idea at modern Mass; giving people various jobs so they can “actively participate” instead of silently remain in their pews.
But is sitting still and remaining silent such a bad thing? A priest on Catholic Radio did a word search on the General Instruction of the Roman Missal, the big red book we use for Mass. He found the word “silence” in the instructions 22 times. Traditionally, silence, along with beauty, was an essential part of Mass. It helped the faithful enter into the sacred mystery.
Now, you notice when I recite the Roman Canon (since 1970 Eucharistic Prayer I), which is the oldest and most essential part of Mass, that I recite it in a bit of lower tone. And what do people sometimes say to me after Mass? They say, “I couldn’t hear you!” How do I answer them? I gently say, “It’s okay. I wasn’t talking to you.” I say that not as a wisecrack but to teach an important lesson, a lesson lost on most Catholics today.
The lesson is this: I am up here in the sanctuary weighed down with heavy vestments that feature a big cross on my back. For I am standing in for Christ, who is the priest at Mass. It can be no other way. Only Christ can turn bread and wine into His Body and Blood. No mere man can do such a thing. So, at that point of Mass, Christ is having a conversation with His Father on your behalf. Christ is interceding for you, a sinner. And He is doing so while nailed to a cross.
That is what Christ is doing during the Eucharistic Prayer. What are you doing? Are you sitting there as a “silent spectator” bored out of your skull, waiting for it to be over? If so, ask yourself: Was Mary of “Martha and Mary” fame bored while she silently sat at Christ’s feet? Was she sitting there as just a silent spectator, daydreaming, waiting for Christ to stop talking and Martha to finish cooking? No, Mary was actively participating in the process as her heart, soul, and mind were dialed in like a laser beam on her Lord.
My friends, the Lord is coming to dinner. But here’s the thing; He’s not the guest—He’s the host. This is His production, not ours. He prepares the meal, not us. And He does so not at a kitchen table, but on an altar in a sanctuary. Yes, Christ quietly works, carrying a cross with His rough, calloused hands up Calvary. Only after that sacrifice does the Divine dinner host feed His guests with His own Body and Blood. What dinner host ever did something like that?
Contemplate that great mystery in the silence. Meditate on the fact that at Mass you can rest under the sacred tree of the cross where Christ will bring you a little food not only to refresh you, but to save you. Do that, and you will no longer be anxious and worried about many things. Instead, you will be focused like a laser beam on the better part, and the one thing that will not be taken from you.
Image from Wikimedia Commons
