These days, a general assembly of the synod on synodality is taking place in Rome. The leadership of the three-day retreat, which preceded the actual meetings, was entrusted to the English Dominican P. Timothy Radcliffe. We offer you a working translation of his introductory meditation - as encouragement to take more interest in the synod and pray for it.
When the Holy Father asked me to give these retreats, I felt immensely honored but nervous. After all, I know my personal limitations well. I am an old, white resident of the West, and moreover, a man. It's hard to say which is worse. Each of these aspects of my identity somehow limits my understanding. I apologize if I cannot express myself properly.
We are all radically incomplete and need one another. The prominent Protestant theologian Karl Barth (1886-1968) wrote about the Catholic “not only, but also.” For example, scripture and tradition, or faith and works. It is said that he called it "the damned Catholic and." So, as we listen to one another in the coming weeks and do not agree, I advocate that rather than saying "no," we say "yes and." That is the synodal path! Though that "no" is sometimes necessary as well.
In today’s second reading, Saint Paul tells the Philippians: “Complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind.” (Phil 2:2). We have gathered precisely because we are not one heart and one soul. The vast majority of the participants in the synodal process were pleasantly surprised. For many, this is the first time the Church has invited them to speak about their hopes and faith. Some of us are fearful: fear of this journey and what lies ahead. Some hope that the Church will change dramatically, that we will make radical decisions, particularly regarding the role of women. Others dread these changes and fear they will only lead to division, if not schism. And some of you would rather not be here at all… (One bishop told me that he prayed not to be selected – and his prayer was answered). Perhaps you are like the son in today’s gospel, who initially did not want to go to the vineyard but later went.
In key moments of the gospels, we always hear the words “do not be afraid.” Saint John reassures us that “perfect love casts out fear.” So let us begin with a prayer, asking the Lord to free our hearts from fear. For some, it is fear of change, for others fear that nothing will change at all. But the only thing we need to fear is fear itself (1).
Naturally, we all have fears, but according to the teachings of Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274), courage consists in not allowing ourselves to be enslaved by fear. Let us always be attentive to the fears of others, especially those with whom we disagree. As Abraham did, we leave something behind without knowing where we are going (cf. Heb 11:8). However, if we free our hearts from fear, it will be a wonder that surpasses all our imaginations.
Our retreat, our collective seclusion will be guided by meditation on the Transfiguration of the Lord. Such a retreat is offered by Jesus to his closest disciples just before they embark on the first synod in the life of the Church, that is, before they together go (syn-hodos) to Jerusalem. The retreat was necessary because the journey caused anxiety among the disciples. Until now, they had traveled through northern Israel. But after Peter's confession in Caesarea Philippi, Jesus urged them to go with him to Jerusalem, where he would suffer, die, and rise from the dead. Such a thing they cannot accept. And when Peter tries to prevent Jesus, he is called a Satan, an enemy. The small community is paralyzed. So Jesus takes them with him up the mountain. Let us listen to how Saint Mark recounts it:
“After six days Jesus took with him Peter, James, and John, and led them up a high mountain by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his clothes became radiant, intensely white, as no one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, and they were talking with Jesus. And Peter said to Jesus, ‘Rabbi, it is good that we are here. Let us make three tents, one for you and one for Moses and one for Elijah.’ For he did not know what to say, for they were terrified. And a cloud overshadowed them, and a voice came out of the cloud: ‘This is my beloved Son; listen to him.’ And suddenly, looking around, they no longer saw anyone with them but Jesus only.”
The retreat on the Mountain gives them the courage and hope to embark on the journey. A journey that often proves difficult for them. They are unable to free the boy possessed by an unclean spirit. They argue over who is the greatest among them. They do not understand the Lord. But they are on the way, with fragile hope.
We too prepare for the synod by withdrawing into solitude and learning to listen to the Lord as disciples. When we set out on our journey in three days, we will often be like them: not understanding one another, arguing as they did. But the Lord will lead us forward: to death and resurrection of the Church. And let us also ask the Lord for hope: hope that this synod will lead to the renewal of the Church and not to its division; hope that we will grow closer together as brothers and sisters. In this lies our hope not just for the Catholic Church but for all our baptized brothers and sisters. People speak of an “ecumenical winter.” We hope for an ecumenical spring.
Our hope should ultimately be a hope for all humanity. The future of the planet does not look good. Our common home is threatened by ecological disasters. This summer, devastating fires and floods hit the land. Small islands are disappearing beneath the rising sea. Millions of people have fled poverty and violence. Hundreds of them drowned in the Mediterranean Sea, just a stone's throw away. Many parents do not even want to bring their children into a world that seems doomed to destruction. Young people are already wearing t-shirts with the slogan “we are the last generation” even in China. Therefore, let us offer hope to all of humanity, especially to the young.
I do not know how many parents we have at the synod, but I thank you for caring for our future. After a challenging time in the border area between South Sudan and Congo, I sat on a flight to Britain next to a child who cried for eight hours straight. I am ashamed to admit it, but I wanted to strangle him. Can there be any more wonderful priestly ministry than raising children and trying to open their minds and hearts to the promises of life? Parents and teachers are ambassadors of hope.
And so we gather here in hope for the Church and for all humanity. How to overcome the difficulty that our hopes are so contradictory? How can we hope together? We are no different from the disciples: the mother of James and John hoped that her sons would displace Peter and would sit in glory at the right and left hand of the Lord. As we can see, rivalry exists even among Jesus's closest friends. Judas probably hoped for a rebellion that would drive the Romans away. Some disciples probably hoped that at least they would not be killed. But they go. They go together. What common hope can we have?
During the Last Supper, the disciples received a hope that lies beyond the boundaries of imagination: the Body and Blood of Christ, the new covenant, eternal life. Compared to this eucharistic hope, all their conflicting hopes must have seemed utterly insignificant (only Judas despaired). This is what Saint Paul calls hoping against all hope (Romans 4:18). This is a hope that transcends all our hopes.
We too have gathered as disciples for the Last Supper. We are not a political arena debating and competing for victory. Our hope is eucharistic. I first became more aware of this in 1993 in Rwanda, at the very beginning of the genocide. We wanted to visit our Dominican sisters in the north of the country, but the Belgian ambassador advised us to stay home. The country was in flames, yet I was young and foolish. (Now I'm old and foolish). That day we saw horrific things: a hospital ward filled with tiny children whose limbs had been torn off by mines and bombs. One child had lost both legs, an arm, and an eye. His father sat helplessly beside him, crying. I went off to cry in the bushes, accompanied by two children, each hopping on one leg.
When we arrived at the sisters, I could not get a word out. Faced with such senseless violence, words fail. Then I remembered what the Lord says: “Do this in remembrance of me.” We have indeed been given something to do. At the Last Supper, it seemed that everything was ending. The only future was failure, suffering, and death. And in this darkest moment, Jesus made the most hopeful gesture in the history of the world: “This is my body, given for you. This is my blood, poured out for you…”. This is the hope that elevates us beyond every division.
One of my confreres was preparing to serve a Mass for sisters who had to evacuate in Eastern Ukraine. They had everything packed already. The only thing they could offer as a paten was a red plastic plate. My confrere wrote: “In this way God has shown us that he is with us. You may be sitting in a damp, moldy cellar, but I am with you. I am not with you on a golden paten. I am with you on a red children's plate...”. This is the eucharistic hope for our synodal journey. The Lord is with us.
The hope flowing from the Eucharist is a hope for what transcends our imagination, which the book of Revelation speaks of: “Behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands and crying out with a loud voice, ‘Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!’” (Rev 7:9-10).
This is the hope that the disciples sensed on the mountain in the Transfigured Lord. A hope that makes the conflicts between our own hopes seem negligible, almost absurd. If we are truly on the way to the Kingdom, is it really so essential whether we categorize ourselves as so-called traditionalists or progressives? (Even the differences between Dominicans and Jesuits are boringly unimportant!) Let us listen to Him, therefore, descend from the mountain, and with confidence continue on the journey. The greatest gifts will come from those with whom we disagree – if we dare to listen to them.
During our synodal journey, we may be struck by the fear of whether we will achieve anything at all. The media will likely conclude that it was all just a waste of time, empty words. They will be looking only for whether “bold” decisions were made in four or five contentious areas. But it seems that the disciples at that first synod, on their way to Jerusalem, also achieved nothing. They even tried to prevent the healing of blind Bartimaeus. It seemed that they were unnecessary. When a huge hungry crowd gathers around Jesus, the disciples ask, “Can one feed so many people with bread here in the wilderness?” Jesus asks what they have. It is only seven loaves and a few fish (Mark 8:1-10). That is more than enough. If at this synod we generously give everything we have, it will be more than enough. The Lord of the Harvest will take care of it.
Next to our priory in Baghdad, the sisters of Mother Teresa run a home for abandoned children. They welcome all without distinction of faith. I will never forget the little girl Nuru, about eight years old, who was born without arms and legs, feeding younger kids with a spoon in her mouth. We can doubt what the meaning of tiny acts of goodness in a war zone is. Is it even worth anything? Are they just band-aids on a decaying body? We too perform small good deeds. Let the Lord of the harvest bring forth the fruits He desires. We gather today on the feast of Saint Therese of Lisieux. She was born one hundred and fifty years ago. She invites us to follow her “little way,” which leads to the Kingdom. She says: “Remember that there is nothing small in the eyes of God.”
Primo Levi (1919-1987), an Italian Jew, received a piece of bread daily from his fellow prisoner Lorenzo in Auschwitz. He recalls him in his diary (2): “I believe it is truly thanks to him that I am alive today; and not so much for that material help, but for his continual reminder - by his presence, natural and simple goodness - that outside our world there still exists another world, that there is something and someone who is still pure and whole, not corrupted, not brutal... something that is hard to name, perhaps a distant possibility of good, for which it is worth surviving. Thanks to Lorenzo, I was able to remember that I too am a human being.” That tiny piece of bread saved his soul.
Saint David, the patron of Wales, said in his last words: “Do good ordinary things.” It is our hope that the smallest act we do at this synod will bear fruit beyond our imagination. That final night, Jesus gave himself to his disciples. “I give you myself.” During the synod, let us share not only our words and beliefs but ourselves. Let us do so with eucharistic generosity. When we open our hearts to one another, miracles happen. The disciples gathered up all the broken pieces of bread and fish that were left over after feeding the five thousand. Nothing was wasted.
Allow me one final note. Peter tries to dissuade Jesus from going to Jerusalem because it makes no sense to him. It is absurd to go where they will kill you. Despair is not pessimism. Despair is the horror that nothing will ever make sense again. And hope is not optimism, but trust that everything we live through, all our pains and confusions, will one day reveal their meaning. We believe, as Saint Paul says, that “now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.” (1 Cor 13:12).
Senseless violence destroys all meaning and kills our souls. When Saint Oscar Romero (1917-1980), Archbishop of San Salvador, visited the site of the massacre perpetrated by the Salvadoran army, he came across the body of a small boy in a ditch: “It was a little boy, at the bottom of the ditch, with his face turned upwards. There were bullet holes, bruises from beating, and dried blood. His eyes were wide open, as if asking the reason for his death and not understanding” (3). It was at that very moment that Romero discovered the meaning of his life, and at the same time the invitation to lose his life. Yes, he was afraid until the end. His dead body was drenched in sweat as he looked at the man about to shoot him. But he was no longer a slave to fear. (I hope there will be no violence at this synod!)
We may often doubt whether this has any meaning, but if we listen to Him and one another, we will understand which way to go. This is our Christian witness to a world that often loses faith in the meaning of human existence. Shakespeare's Macbeth claims that life is “a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” (4). Through our shared reflection and prayer on the fundamental issues facing the Church and the world, we testify to our hope in the Lord who gives meaning to every human life.
Every Christian school is a testimony of our hope in “the light that shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5). “No questions are forbidden here” – this is the motto of the academy founded by the Dominican brothers in Baghdad. In the midst of a war zone, the school bears witness to our hope that senseless aggression will not have the last word. A significant part of the Syrian city of Homs has also been reduced to rubble through senseless violence. Among the ruins, we found a Catholic school. Dutch Jesuit Frans van der Lugt (1938-2014) refused to leave despite death threats. He was shot while sitting in the garden. We found there his old Egyptian confrere who was still teaching. He was educating another generation of children for a meaningful life. This is what hope looks like.
So, my brothers and sisters, various hopes may divide us. But if we listen to the Lord and to one another, if we strive to understand His will for the Church and for the world, we will be united in a hope that transcends all our disagreements, and we will allow ourselves to be touched by Him whom Saint Augustine called “the beauty so old and so new... I tasted you, and now I hunger and thirst for you; you touched me, and I burned for your peace.” (5) At our next meeting, we will look at another issue that might divide us, namely what it means for us that the Church is our home.
(1) Franklin D. Roosevelt
(2) ‘Survival in Auschwitz’
(3) Scott Wright Oscar Romero and the Communion of Saints
(4) Macbeth 5,5; translated by Martin Hilský
(5) Confessions
