A homily for the Thirty-Second Sunday in Ordinary Time
Wis 6:12-16, 1 Thes 4:13-18, Mt 25:1-13
We recently needed to have some work done around the house.
The kitchen faucet leaked, so it needed replacing. The water that leaked made the laminate floor buckle, so it needed replacing.
Which meant we had to make appointments with skilled tradesmen.
We’re all familiar with these appointments. The dispatcher calls us the night before the date we’ve agreed upon and gives us a “window” of time when the tech(s) will arrive.
Sometimes we get lucky: The window is between 8 and 10 a.m. for a half-hour job, meaning we can do something with the rest of our day.
Most of the time, though, the window is 7:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. or later, and there’s not much else we can do besides folding laundry and watching Westerns on MeTV. The uncertainty holds us hostage.
Also, regardless of the time frame, we have to prep for whatever work is about to be done. The plumber needs access under the sink, so we relocate the trash bags and dish detergent and finally toss out the paper bags we’ve been keeping under there just in case we ever might need them. Which we never do and never will.
All of the furniture must be moved for the flooring guys, which means the bookcases must be emptied and the dusty books and tchotchkes hauled … somewhere.
Yes, life throws plenty of minor uncertainties at us.
Which is why today’s parable is so highly relatable, even if it’s a bit jarring. None of us loves thinking about the end of our palpable Earthly lives — the lives we know through our senses — and the beginning of our eternal lives, which we know only through our faith.
But there’s a real value in memento mori, remembering our mortality. Ours individually, ours collectively.
Some of the best advice I ever received counseled that, when we say goodbye to someone as we’re leaving them or they’re heading home from our place, we should part their company with near-grief, that we should say goodbye as if it were the last time … because it could be. And when we see them again, our hello should be as joyous as when Lazarus exited the tomb.
Put another way: We must cherish the time we have together and always seek more of it.
And that call to relationship and interaction covers not only family and friends but also the sisters and brothers we haven’t met yet, especially those in troubled or disadvantaged circumstances. Yes, we should seek to spend more time with each other, but what we do when we’re together is doubly important. Life offers us a range of options, from the gift of simple presence through the gifts of rebuilding houses, rebuilding homes, rebuilding lives.
To be sure, the overall messiness of life and the imperfection of humans mean that no matter how well we may try to stay prepared for the day and the hour, we’re going to leave some work undone. That’s true of everyone who ever lived or ever will. It shouldn’t keep us awake worrying.
The God who dispatches the angels to guide us to Paradise doesn’t call the night before to give us a window. Scripture is full of reminders about this. We can’t let ourselves be held hostage to life’s ultimate uncertainty, be paralyzed by fear or indecision, as if we’re waiting for the cable guy.
God wants us to live our lives to the fullest, for ourselves and all humankind. God wants us to show our gratitude for all of our skills and talents and imaginations and abilities, and for all the gifts of Creation, by using them and caring for them, every day of our all-too-brief lives.
The reminder about being prepared is not to listen for footsteps behind us but to look ahead for the next way to connect with every other child of God in the best way possible.
So, to put all of today’s Scripture passages into a bumper sticker-size summary:
Memento mori and carpe diem.
