Excommunication

There’s a powerful and dramatic scene in the movie, “Becket”, in which Thomas, the Archbishop of Canterbury, surrounded by his monks, solemnly declares his friend and king, Henry, excommunicate.
For most people today this is the kind of image “excommunication” calls to mind. The word seems to have a sort of antique ring to it.
That’s curious since, whether we realize it or not, we ourselves tend rather frequently to excommunicate others.
“Excommunication” means literally “out of communion or union.”
Anytime we leave or break our union with any group of persons we belong to — not just our religious community — we’re excommunicating ourselves.
Anytime we see that another person has chosen to leave or break union with us, we have a right to consider him or her as excommunicate — out of communion by his or her personal choice.
But, anytime we treat or classify another person as lacking any solidarity or union with ourselves through no fault of his or her own — any time we set arbitrary boundaries and place another outside them — we may be excommunicating someone else.
When Pope John Paul II addressed the General Assembly of the United Nations in New York last month, he referred to our fear of difference as we confront one another.
Sometime we’re afraid of others only because they look different from us or speak differently than we do.
Sometimes we fear them because their religion or ways are different from ours.
Sometimes we’re uneasy with them because they are from a different country.

When we’re afraid of someone, we don’t include them within the boundaries of our friends or acquaintances; we don’t feel any solidarity with them; they remain always part of “them” or “those” and never are considered one of “us”.
A lot of people believe this is a good and practical policy to follow.
In a song from the musical, “West Side Story,” one of the young lovers is urged to “stick to your own kind.”
This contradicts the teachings of Jesus.
The entire, evolving Judeo-Christian tradition challenges us to accept every other human person as our sister or brother.
The Gospel urges us to extend our solidarity, concern, and love to include everyone in the whole world.
The mission of Jesus, in which all his disciples share, is to make the whole human race one family.
One way of measuring our maturity and spiritual growth is by how much we expand the boundaries that determine with whom we have relationships and solidarity. When they reach out as far as they can go, there is no one we place outside of communion. There is no one we will excommunicate.
Alas, however, there are people who choose to reject union with God and with others. It’s hard to understand how there still can be people who choose to excommunicate themselves.


(Published in
Catholic Near East, 21:6, November 1995)

In the Middle of the Night

An almost unbelievable scene takes place in the Israeli-occupied territories.
The young Palestinian Arab walks solemnly up to the lectern. Right in front of him, the Israeli military commander of the West Bank is seated in camouflage fatigues. The youth boldly delivers a carefully prepared proclamation:

The people who walked in darkness
have seen a great light;
Upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom
a light has shone.
You have brought them abundant joy
and great rejoicing . . .
For the yoke that burdened them,
the pole on their shoulder,
And the rod of their taskmaster
you have smashed . . .

The time — Christmas eve, just past midnight. The place — Bethlehem. The author of the bold proclamation — the prophet Isaiah.
Every year it’s my happy privilege to join the Latin Patriarch of Jerusalem in the celebration of the Masses of Christmas. Following my predecessors’ tradition, I’m there representing the membership of our Association and praying for the intentions of each of our members.
I’m seated on the altar at the right of Patriarch Michel Sabbah, a native of Nazareth. We’re flanked by priests from around the world. The congregation has a few local folk, hundreds of foreign visitors and local civic officials. The Greek Orthodox mayor of Bethlehem, Elias Freij is there; so is the Jewish mayor of Jerusalem, Teddy Kollek.

Isaiah’s words have a curiously contemporary ring. Originally they were meant to console his afflicted Jewish brethren, oppressed by the Assyrians, and yearning for the coming of the Messianic King and Kingdom.
Enshrined in the Latin liturgy, his words soar to embrace the whole world, yearning for its redemption. But, proclaimed in Bethlehem in our day, they sound almost like a call to insurrection.
But what a betrayal that would be, of all that the followers of Jesus believe about Him. “My kingdom does not belong to this world,” he said.
The smasher of every yolk, the ultimate liberator from all oppression is Almighty God.
Isaiah’s are powerful words, holy words, hope-filled words. Isaiah’s words are the surest grounds for peace:

For a child is born to us, a son is given us;
upon his shoulder dominion rests.
They name him Wonder-Counselor, God-Hero,
Father-Forever, Prince of Peace.
His dominion is vast
and forever peaceful,
From David’s throne, and over his kingdom,
which he confirms and sustains
By judgment and justice,
both now and forever.


(Published in
Catholic Near East, 19:1, January 1993)

Seventy-Seven Times

The beginning of the book of Genesis explains why God’s creation is marred by evil. In simple stories, it gives a profound message. God’s work is good. If there is evil, it comes from our misuse of our God-given freedom.
After the shocking story of Cain’s killing his brother, the litany of his descendants culminates with Lamech. Lamech’s evil boast is that his revenge against his enemies knows no bounds: “I have killed a man for wounding me, a boy for bruising me. If Cain is avenged sevenfold, then Lamech seventy-sevenfold.”
There is a beautiful, contrary story in the Gospel according to Matthew. When Peter asks Jesus, “Lord, if my brother sins against me, how often must I forgive him? As many as seven times?”
Jesus answers, “I say to you, not seven times but seventy-seven times.” Not only must we renounce our right to revenge, we must pardon those who injure us and our pardon must know no bounds!
Gustave Flaubert wrote a very moving short story, The Legend of Saint Julian the Hospitaller. It’s a variation of the Saint Christopher theme, about recognizing the Lord in one of His least ones.
Julian, living a life of austerity and penance for his many and great sins, is visited by a hideous, leprous beggar. First he needs shelter; Julian shares his hut. Then he asks him food and drink; Julian gives away his meager meal. Next he asks rest; Julian shares his pallet. Finally he asks him warmth; Julian, overcoming his instinctive loathing, takes him in his arms.
The happy ending of the tale: Julian finds himself in the embrace of Christ and caught up into eternal life.

In my life story — maybe yours too — I want to ask Jesus, “Lord, if someone asks my help, how often must I respond to him? As many as seven times?”
“No,” his answer will be, “I say to you, not seven times but seventy-seven times.” Your concern, your charity, your love must know no bounds.
I guess we all know the answer. It’s living the answer that is so hard.
What do I do Lord, if his needs seem to have no end?
What do I do Lord, if he never stops asking me?
What do I do Lord, if helping him consumes all that I have?
What do I do Lord, if he takes not only my money but my time?
What do I do Lord, if response to his needs take my blood, my sweat, and my tears?

This is my commandment: love one another as I love you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.

There are no limits to the human needs the media spread before our eyes. There are no limits to the appeals to our charity. May there be no limits to our love.


(Published in
Catholic Near East, 18:4, October 1992)