If you think about it, the Gospel passage we hear today is a rather one-sided narrative. We never hear any dialogue between Jesus and the Apostles and their reactions to what Jesus says to them. I’ll bet there was a lot more to that story! Can you imagine the scene:
Jesus, reclining at table, takes a piece of bread, dips it in some olive oil, and announces to the Apostles, “So… I am sending you out, in pairs by yourselves, to preach and minister to the surrounding villages, cast out unclean spirits, and heal people.” (Dramatic pause while he takes a bite of the bread...) The Apostles look at him and then nervously at each other. No one says anything. Then Jesus, while dipping his piece of bread again in the oil, knowing what they are thinking, says, “Oh yeah, and by the way, you are to take no money, no sack, no food. You can wear sandals but only one tunic.” I can imagine, upon hearing this, it's just too much, it's just too uncomfortable; they become anxious…. and agitated. Peter ‒ the impetuous Peter ‒ blurts out what they are all thinking: “Master, no food and no money? One tunic? How are we supposed to wash the one tunic? We’ll be naked! And how do we know who we are supposed to be going to see where you're sending us, let alone what we are to say to them? How do we heal them? How do we cast out unclean spirits? We’ve seen you do it, but we've never practiced it in your presence, let alone done it on our own! How do we know we’ll get it right, that it’ll work, that the unclean spirits will listen to us?" Jesus looks at Peter and says, “Peter ‒ so many questions, so little faith. Take a deep breath: I’ve got your back, you have my authority.”
Our challenge is to put ourselves in the Apostles’ place and reflect and recognize our own summons by Christ. The essence of the scene I described is familiar to me; I recall when I was in formation to become a deacon, we were, over the course of two consecutive summers, sent out on two practicums; two missions, as it were. One of them was a months-long ministry of presence at Catholic Charities housing units. There were no “short courses” offered in preparation for the practicums; no pre-flight briefing ‒ “Here’s what to expect”; no “Frequently Asked Questions” guide we were given. I remember getting ready to go out on my first visit to the Catholic Charities housing unit I was assigned, asking the supervisor of the practicum, “What am I supposed to be doing when I get there?” The answer was something like, “This isn’t about 'doing' anything in particular; it's about being present to the residents.” And I recall mentally pushing back ‒ like the Apostles in the little scene I just described ‒ thinking, “But I should be doing something to serve these people. Washing, cleaning, cooking, facilitating ‒ anything ‒ but doing something to serve them.” Again I asked the question, “So what am I supposed to be ‘doing’?” The answer: “Just show up at the house and talk with the residents.”
I remember entering into one of my first conversations. I sat down in the living room area and started a conversation with one of the residents. I recall the conversation beginning with who I was and why I was there, and I began to share a little bit about the diaconate formation process I was in. I recall that the resident I was with, a man, abruptly and pointedly cut me off minutes into the conversation and began to tell me about abuse trauma from his childhood. I remember sitting there, somewhat stunned, not having expected to hear what I heard from what was essentially a stranger, and not knowing how to respond. I also remember sitting there stunned because, in the manner with which he cut me off so abruptly and pointedly, the message was clear: “This isn’t about your story; it's about mine.” I remember in those first few moments of sacred space as I entered into listening to his story, the thought came into my mind ‒ almost a command ‒ crystal clear: “Shut up; just listen”. For the next two hours I just listened to his story. There were no prompts necessary. It was just an outpouring ‒ some of it trauma, some of it pain, some of it a litany of personal achievements. I recall somewhere in the midst of listening to his story, thinking that it was beginning to sound a bit incredulous. Did this really all happen? Had he really done all this? And once again, almost immediately the thought came into my mind, crystal clear: “It's not your place to judge his truth; just listen.” And so I did, that night and many other nights and days, for many, many hours.
In that experience and many others, I had to learn, like the Apostles, like all of us, to trust God, and to go where I was sent, despite my apprehension and feelings of inadequacy. To learn that it's not about what I have to offer or do, but about what God is going to do with and through me. We are just vessels, instruments in God’s hands. I don’t ultimately know how and for what ends God used me in this man’s life, but I believe that it had something to do with healing and reconciling. Perhaps reconciling with others; perhaps with himself; maybe with God. It's not my place to know, or even to ask. My place is just to respond to God’s call, and go where I am sent. To trust that God will provide all that I need to do God’s work, and to respond obediently, generously, humbly.
There is one last thing related to the Gospel passage today and the story I have told you. And it's about healing and the ministry of healing. The sacredness of healing. We are all called to a ministry of healing ‒ all of us, in the most fundamental of ways. How do I know this? Because we have all been given the fundamental instruments of healing: ears. Healing happens ‒ and I venture, even begins ‒ when we give voice to our suffering…and are heard. So much healing can happen in the sacred space of giving voice to our suffering and having it heard. Often answers and understanding are made apparent by God in the hearing of ourselves recounting aloud the ways in which we are suffering and struggling. Listening to each other is perhaps the most simple and most profound act of service and love we can offer each other. For in it and through it we offer each other nothing less than the Ear of God.
Go, all of us. Be present to one another. Each of us, One to the Other. Two by Two. And Just Listen.