We live in the tension between an indulgence that dulls our receptivity and a sacrifice that sharpens our receptivity
Dear brothers and sisters in Christ,
The Book of Daniel starts out with ancient Israel in exile. A group of young men are chosen to be trained for service to the king of Babylon. As part of the training, these young men are allotted a portion of food and wine from the king’s own table — the best food and wine, to strengthen them for their work.
Daniel leads a group who arrange to receive vegetables and water instead. Rather than sapping their strength, this sacrifice of luxuries seems to deepen their receptivity to God’s grace in their studies. At the end of three years of training, no one is equal to Daniel and his companions: the text says they were “10 times better” than anyone else when it came to any question of knowledge or wisdom.
A simple but intentional sacrifice led to deeper receptivity in study, which led to deeper wisdom in life and work. It’s a simple pattern. It comes up often in the Bible. And it offers a model for our own lives.
A little closer to home, this week we celebrate the feast of the first U.S. citizen to be canonized, St. Francis Xavier Cabrini, on Nov. 13. Mother Cabrini’s life was a great example of this biblical pattern: Hers was a life of sacrifice, her sacrifice led to a deeper receptivity to God’s grace, her receptivity to grace meant she had more to offer, and because she had more to offer she lived a life of astonishingly fruitful ministry.
Sacrifice, receptivity, fruitfulness. We need not limit our diet to vegetables and water like Daniel, nor travel the world caring for orphans and the poor like Mother Cabrini. But we can all apply a little bit of this same lesson to our lives.
In the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve were meant to learn this lesson. They failed. We inherit the consequences of their failure. In the Garden of Gethsemane, Christ was put to the same test. He succeeded. We have access, by faith, to His victory.
We live in the tension between an indulgence that dulls our receptivity, which leaves us with less to offer, and a sacrifice that sharpens our receptivity, giving us more to offer. We are pulled in both directions. Which will we choose?
At the beginning of the Gospel of John, Jesus cleanses the Temple — He empties it out, removing what doesn’t belong. Interesting parallel — since His body is the true temple, and He emptied Himself out, both in His Incarnation and in His Passion and Death. But then, as St. Paul says: “You are God’s building.” So the question becomes: How does Jesus cleanse the temple that is us?
First, He invites. On our best days, His invitation is enough. Sometimes, however, He has to drive the money-changers out of our hearts! Sometimes we humbly accept the cleansing; sometimes we proudly reject it. So, as a last resort, He sacrifices Himself — not for His own cleansing, but for ours: “Jesus Christ, who gave Himself for us to deliver us from all lawlessness and to cleanse for Himself a people as His own” (Titus 2). The question is, will we claim the gift He offers?
God’s own life is offered to us. A little sacrifice in our lives deepens our receptivity to that gift. A deeper receptivity means we have more to offer the world. And — wow — could the world use a greater taste of God’s love! What are we willing to sacrifice to have that taste ourselves, and offer it to others?
