Tuesday of the Fourteenth Week in Ordinary Time
Lectionary: 384

Reading 1

Hosea 8:4-7, 11-13

Thus says the LORD:
They made kings in Israel, but not by my authority;
they established princes, but without my approval.
With their silver and gold they made
idols for themselves, to their own destruction.
Cast away your calf, O Samaria!
my wrath is kindled against them;
How long will they be unable to attain
innocence in Israel?
The work of an artisan,
no god at all,
Destined for the flames—
such is the calf of Samaria!

When they sow the wind,
they shall reap the whirlwind;
The stalk of grain that forms no ear
can yield no flour;
Even if it could,
strangers would swallow it.

When Ephraim made many altars to expiate sin,
his altars became occasions of sin.
Though I write for him my many ordinances,
they are considered as a stranger’s.
Though they offer sacrifice,
immolate flesh and eat it,
the LORD is not pleased with them.
He shall still remember their guilt
and punish their sins;
they shall return to Egypt.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 115:3-4, 5-6, 7ab-8, 9-10

R. (9a) The house of Israel trusts in the Lord.
or:
R. Alleluia.
Our God is in heaven;
whatever he wills, he does.
Their idols are silver and gold,
the handiwork of men.
R. The house of Israel trusts in the Lord.
or:
R. Alleluia.
They have mouths but speak not;
they have eyes but see not;
They have ears but hear not;
they have noses but smell not.
R. The house of Israel trusts in the Lord.
or:
R. Alleluia.
They have hands but feel not;
they have feet but walk not.
Their makers shall be like them,
everyone that trusts in them.
R. The house of Israel trusts in the Lord.
or:
R. Alleluia.

Alleluia

John 10:14

R. Alleluia, alleluia.
I am the good shepherd, says the Lord;
I know my sheep, and mine know me.
R. Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel

Matthew 9:32-38

A demoniac who could not speak was brought to Jesus,
and when the demon was driven out the mute man spoke.
The crowds were amazed and said,
“Nothing like this has ever been seen in Israel.”
But the Pharisees said,
“He drives out demons by the prince of demons.”

Jesus went around to all the towns and villages,
teaching in their synagogues,
proclaiming the Gospel of the Kingdom,
and curing every disease and illness.
At the sight of the crowds, his heart was moved with pity for them
because they were troubled and abandoned,
like sheep without a shepherd.
Then he said to his disciples,
“The harvest is abundant but the laborers are few;
so ask the master of the harvest
to send out laborers for his harvest.”

Lectionary for Mass for Use in the Dioceses of the United States, second typical edition, Copyright © 2001, 1998, 1997, 1986, 1970 Confraternity of Christian Doctrine; Psalm refrain © 1968, 1981, 1997, International Committee on English in the Liturgy, Inc. All rights reserved. Neither this work nor any part of it may be reproduced, distributed, performed or displayed in any medium, including electronic or digital, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

The Mirage Walkers

a short story excerpt from a novel-in-progress

I used to think that this had to be a dream. A nightmare. Like if I closed my eyes, maybe pinched myself like they always do in stories of dreams, maybe then I would wake up.

But this isn’t a dream. This is the reality of life in these wastes. I’ve been walking for a long time now. Not as long as some. Probably less than most. And yet, I have sadly gained more ground than the masses. Or what is left of them.

They aren’t as they once were. We are all born originals, unique and resplendent in our image and likeness. Sadly, most of them die as photocopies. Their old faces have been faded out by grief and comparisons. And I’ve found that if you compare things long enough, they all start to look the same. Copies. Or CtrlCs as you call them. I don’t know where that term came from. Maybe its from an older time.

I’ve heard stories of a time before all of this. Where the ground was lush with green, where rivers flowed and crystal blue seas stretched beyond the horizon. Before. When there was life still.

I’ve seen the seas, and they aren’t blue. Sure, they stretch to the horizon. If you could see the horizon. If the horizon wasn’t just a hazy fog of grief and emptiness. But the seas? You can hardly see the water for all the trash floating in the muck. And it’s more of a slimy brown gray now. And there isn’t any green anymore. It’s just vast, sand deserts. Rolling hills of death. And the occasional mirage.

I have vague memories of a life before. Although I know I never lived that life. More like a sense of things. Like a knowledge inside my soul that this mess isn’t what it was once, what it should have been. Before people got sick. Before we got greedy. Before we mined the life out of our soil and our souls to the bitter end. Before the idols took all we had and left us like dead men.

But I don’t know what we expected. Choosing kings and princes from the pool of the dead. Taking knowledge, wealth, and power for our own gain. We chose our own path and we didn’t ask if it was right or just. We didn’t ask for life or truth. And now we are like that which we made. With hands that do not feel and feet that cannot walk. Unseeing eyes and mouths that cannot speak. We hear the truth no more.

So I’m just walking. My feet moving of their own accord, past the copies around me. I used to be afraid of them. But after a while I learned that they didn’t see me, so busy were they with their comparisons. Their idols of old. They still carry them, even though they don’t work anymore. In their hands. Shiny tablets of glass and metal. They stand still, staring unseeing at them. But I’m not afraid of them anymore. I’ve even tried talking to them. A few times I’ve tried to get them to walk with me. They have feet, but they don’t walk. They have eyes but don’t see. And their ears don’t hear. Well, most don’t.

Every now and again, I find one that will walk awhile with me. Usually only the ones who have lost their idols. Once I found one just sitting, staring at me. He said one word. “Please.” He looked like a lost little boy, troubled and abandoned. First I took pity and then I took his hand and we started walking. That was a long time ago. Strange the path we found together. He’s not a copy anymore. Now he’s a mirage walker. Like me.

There are so many of them. The copies, I mean. I walk from mirage to mirage, finding those I can find. It’s and hard life. But if you look around you can see. The harvest is abundant, but the laborers are few. I’ve only met a handful of other walkers in my lifetime. I’m not sure how many are left now, in the vast lands of the unseeing. Less than there used to be. More than there once was.

I don’t want you to hear me saying that it’s hopeless. It’s not hopeless. The first of my kind left a path. I stumbled on it, against all likelihood, I stumbled on those worn footfalls and now I’m here. And more awaken. Just yesterday I found one…

But I move from town to town now, searching. Walking the mirage. The people give me bread and wine and I walk. It’s still the most terrifying and soul-awakening thing I’ve ever done. No, I can’t really describe it to you. I can tell you all about it, but you won’t hear it. You won’t see. And no, you can’t go with me. Truthfully, you could be walking right beside me and you wouldn’t reach the mirage. You have to walk more first. Just keep walking.

At first it’s one step at a time. But after a while it gets easier. Now you can only walk a short while. One day, you will be walking without cease. Sometimes for days on end.

Just keep walking.

Where are we going? To a town. We are almost to a town. Yes, they still exist. They are full of those we find. We harvest. We awaken. We shepherd. Sheep who have found a flock. When we reach that town, I will walk the mirage and then you will see. It will make more sense when you taste. Taste and see.

I am a mirage walker. I walk in a world of the dead. Those with eyes that do not see. I find the lost. I wake them. Well, I don’t wake them. I just walk. I follow the One who went before me. Who set the path. The firstborn of my kind. I cross the chasm of death. Into the abyss and back again. It’s the only way to find life. Somewhere on that bridge between Heaven and Earth. Pray for me. That I don’t lost sight my of my task. That I don’t stumble on the path. That my sacrifice and yours may be acceptable.

Look.

Can you see it? Far ahead of us? That faint glimmer hovering over the sand?

We are almost there. I know you are tired, but I’m with you.

Just keep walking.

This short story was inspired by today’s daily lectionary reading. It’s the beginning of a larger story, a Catholic fiction novel about the vocation of the priesthood and the priestly role in the sacraments, namely the Holy Eucharist. The story is a sci-if/fantasy allegory of sorts. It’s still evolving and this is only an excerpt. I hope you enjoy this brief taste of my work. More to come.

Melody Ruth