Reflection by Fr. Mike Ignaszak on his visit to Sabana Yegua (Dominican Republic)
Father Mike Ignaszak, pastor of Saint John Paul II in Milwaukee, visited the La Sagrada Familia Parish in Sabana Yegua, Dominican Republic a few months ago, and here we share a reflection based on his homily in the small chapel at Kilometer 8 on his last day in the parish. It is based on the Gospel reading of the day.
The story of Lazarus and the rich man always makes me take stock of my life. It makes me admit something that makes me uncomfortable: in many ways, I am rich. When I was a child I didn´t think that my family was poor, but we definitely were not rich. My dad worked hard to provide for us and sometimes my mother worked too. I knew there were people that had much more than we did. Now I know that I have always been one of the richest people in the world. Even though there are many people who have far more things and much more money than I, I have never known hunger and never been without. Even after my father died when I was eleven years old, my mother went to work and provided for us. Compared with much of the world who has far less than me, I was still rich. It is difficult to be in that position, to be rich, and read this Gospel.
When I pray with the readings it challenges me to redefine what makes one truly rich. Having the chance to preach on this reading while visiting your beautiful parish, you have taught me to see riches in a new way. Your community has been greatly blessed, and you are a blessing to me and to all who visit. During this week and a half, I witnessed true riches in the what I used to think of as the poorest of situations. People who live day to day off the land have shared generously with me. People who have none of the conveniences that I as an American take for granted each day, have shown me a joy. Too often when we have more, we want more. Too often when we are lucky, we want more luck. Too often when we take things for granted, we feel entitled. You have taught me that true riches come from being blessed. Your community is blessed and is a blessing for others. I give thanks to God and to you for the time I have spent with you for it has changed me.
I am now proud to be rich, but not in things. I am proud to be rich in the blessings God has showered upon me – in all of you. You have taught me that the heart of true riches is when you recognize that you have been blessed. Material wealth has nothing to do with it. It is simply that joy of life, knowing God is with you, that makes us all truly rich. For this insight I thank you. I thank you also for your hospitality, warmth and generosity. I thank you for your patience with my Spanish in conversations and for the warm greetings as I have passed you in the streets.
Contrary to the great divide that separates Lazarus and the rich man, I get to cross the great divide between Sabana Yegua and Milwaukee. I am allowed to return and tell my brothers and sisters at St. John Paul II parish that I have discovered how beautiful and blessed our brothers and sisters in La Sagrada Familia are.
This pilgrimage has served me to visit friends and make new ones, to meet you and to learn about your wonderful country and the strength of your faith. These riches can never be counted in a bank account, but they worth far more than any gold. In this sense, you have helped this poor man to be richly blessed by you.
Today, the fifth Sunday of Lent, we will read the well-known account of the resurrection of Lazarus. It is a passage in which something quite singular takes place: in it we find two faces—two different dimensions—of Jesus. Both of them can help us to live the current situation, the Covi19 pandemic, with faith and hope.
On the one hand, we see Jesus who fully trusts his Father, who does not flinch, who does not collapse in the face of adversity, in the face of the loss of his dear friend: it is the Jesus who says to his disciples: «This sickness is for God’s Glory», and the one who later says to Martha: «If you believe, you will see the Glory of God». This Jesus assures us that the most painful situations, those when we experience death, can also be occasions when the tenderness of God may shine.
On the other hand, we see Jesus moved, crying over the death of the friend, an image to which we are not at all accustomed. It is an even more shocking image, in fact, since we find it in the John’s Gospel, the one that usually presents a more imperturbable Jesus; more in control of everything, more divine (and, sometimes, less human) than the one portrayed in the synoptic Gospels.
The first face of Jesus is today more necessary than ever: it assures us that every painful situation, even the current pandemic, is an occasion for the tenderness of God to be manifested. It is a dimension of Jesus that invites us to ask ourselves: and how can I help so that this global crisis may also be an occasion for the tenderness of God to shine? We know how: practicing a «plus» of solidarity, showing our closeness to those who are hurting the worst, with calls, with messages, praying for them and those who care for them, collaborating from home in everything possible (knitting masks , donating so that there is no lack of sanitary material, or food, in the most vulnerable sectors and countries).
And what about the second face of Jesus? This Jesus who cries, so human, for the death of the friend, is an image that today can be —paradoxically— quite comforting: it shows us that we have a God who shares our pain, who does not turn his back on us, who understands what it means to mourn the loss of a loved one, a God who has experienced exactly what thousands of people around the world are experiencing today. It is, of course, an invitation to unite ourselves—at least in prayer—with all those who suffer, like Martha and Maria, the loss of loved ones.
This, of course, is also the story of dying and raising from the death. It seems to me that it contains yet another message for us, in the current situation. Beyond the physical death of people due to Covid19, which is, of course, the greatest drama of this crisis, in these weeks many people are experiencing other types of «deaths»: our routines, our customs, our habits, our normal rhythms of life have all died. Everything has been radically changed by the pandemic. How do we want to resurrect from this? Even now, when in many countries the end of the crisis is not yet in sight, when in many others it is only just beginning, it is good that we begin already to think about how we want to get out of it. How do we want to «come out of the sepulcher» in which now we are, so to speak, buried? What things do we want to leave there? How do we envision the pandemic making us better?
Maybe we should think about «coming back to life», at the end of this crisis, more concerned about people and less about things? Or more focused on God and others, less than on ourselves? Or more concerned with the essentials of life (friendship, health, affection), and less concerned with countless issues than now, suddenly, we have seen they were not as fundamental or important as we thought they were just a few weeks ago?
