32nd Sunday 2020
Wisdom 6:12-16; 1Thess 4:13-18; Matthew 25:1-13
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us.”
Many of you will recognise the opening words of Charles Dickens’ “A Tale of Two Cities”; and, if you think about it, you may also recognise the situation today—which was exactly Dickens’ point: that every age, when it comes down to hey lads hey, is very similar to, if not identical with, every other.
Our present age is a very puzzling one, admittedly. Few people, I suspect, would describe it as the best of times, even if, in the West, we enjoy a level of comfort previously undreamed of. Can we claim that it is the worst of times? Surely not: there is a great deal of suffering, and even more of inconvenience, but we can at least retire to bed without the fear of air raid sirens heralding the fall of bombs, and whilst many people are anxious for the well-being of their loved ones, at least we are not in a situation where, for the majority of families, the man of the house is overseas, confronting death on a daily basis.
Yet these times may remind us of our own mortality, as death rates rise again, and movements are restricted with a view to saving lives, as other lives are lost through suicide or missed opportunities for early diagnosis of illness, as a result of these same restrictions. In addition to “A Tale of Two Cities” we may detect elements of a more recent novel, Joseph Heller’s “Catch 22”.
If there is one word which describes what is required of us in these moments, that word may be “alertness”. We have to be alert to the needs of our neighbour, whether that involves taking precautions against infection, or being conscious that s/he may be facing mental health problems or financial difficulties in the current situation—or may simply require help with shopping.
Looking at the broader picture, however, we may realise that we are called to a wider alertness, one to which the Church’s liturgy invariably summons us at this time of year. November is the month when we recall all those who have gone before us in the pilgrimage of life, but to whom we are still inextricably linked as members of the Church. It is a time for reuniting ourselves with them through mutual prayer—prayer which should indeed continue throughout the year, but which is particularly urged on us in this month.
We are also at the end of the Church’s year, and shortly after, of the calendar year. In this part of the world, the season chimes in with the sense of ending, of mortality. The days are growing shorter, the leaves are falling, the trees are assuming their winter starkness. Nature itself, in the Northern hemisphere, joins in the call to be conscious that, in this life, all things must pass.
The foolish bridesmaids of today’s Gospel are content to ignore the signs, to blot out awareness in sleep. The consequences for them are disastrous and sound a warning to us. The bridegroom will come, is coming. When, we do not know, but his coming is certain as the dawn, a dawn which, one day, will not arrive for us on earth.
Many years ago, I attended the Diamond Jubilee celebration of my first teacher, Mother Mary Bernadette, SHCJ. After Mass, Mother Bernadette commented to me: “If anyone asked me about life, I wouldn’t say that life is hard, though I know that it is for many people: I would say that life is short.”
It grows shorter with every day that passes; the bridegroom comes daily closer. Are we alert to recognise His coming, indeed His presence among us already, not least among those who need our support, care, and concern? “The bridegroom is here.” Are we ready to meet Him?
