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You might remember this story, which I think I have told
before.
One summer night a thicket of ducks quacked its way across
a lake and dropped into a tree or two near the screened-in
porch where I sat on retreat. Their loud, non-stop,
ever-increasing racket shocked me. Each and every citizen,
it seemed, felt a duty to squawk in full voice and all at
once! I suppose they were having a rollicking good time,
but what did they achieve with their babble?
I would have assumed that they came for an evening’s
rest. But could anyone rest with this earsplitting
quack-talk?
Then there began a subtle change in the clatter, very
gradual, as when applause reaches a peak and then, almost
unnoticeably, crests and trails off. Each bird gave a bit
of quiet to the next until everyone was comfortable and
calm.
Except one.
This individual went on and on cawing, absurdly, all by
itself. Imagine it. Then at last a duck-mate nudged it and
said, “Hey, buddy we’re all around you and
we’re safe. Zip up your beak.” And it did.
There ensued the sleepy silence that I had thought they
wanted all along.
 I had an insight. I saw that this was teamwork.
I have always loved to be included in a team. Nobody
perfect, yet everyone having a special place, keeping the
rules, moving along together, and someone comforting the
one who can’t take a hint. Community, I suppose we
would call it today. Or family.
God confirms this in the
First Reading.
I will gather the blind and the lame, … the mothers and
those with child; they shall return as an immense
throng. They departed in tears, but I will console them
and guide them; I will lead them to brooks of water, on
a level road, so that none shall stumble.
The
Responsorial Psalm
tells us that mouths will be filled with laughter!
“Every tear will be wiped away”!
My duck friends seem to be symbols of these readings.
Their alarums, and finally their trusting slumber maybe
weren’t so different from what we ourselves do. Our
loud-longing is heard by God, and he is saying,
“Hush, the whole flock is here. Settle down.”
Like the last duck, Blind Bartimaeus in Sunday’s
Gospel
couldn’t stop calling out to Jesus. “Son of
David have pity on me!” The rest of the flock tried
to shush him, but he kept right on. Over and over,
“Son of David have pity on me!”
The blind man waded through the crowd to Jesus, who asked
him the very question the squawking ducks needed:
“What do you want?” In this case it was
obvious. A blind man would want his sight back. Did Jesus
miss it?
“Master, I want to see.”
Just getting his sight back would not have done it, any
more than just landing in the trees did the ducks. He was
already had the incarnate God standing before him, and
maybe this was the fullness of what he wanted to
“see.”
“Your faith has saved you,” Jesus said. And the man saw
and followed.
If Jesus asked you or me, “What do you want,”
how would we answer? Is the faith that saves us hiding
deep inside? Are we calling for help? Such a call can be
fulfilled this day, you know, if we let it.
“What do you want?”
John Foley, SJ
Write me an
email! I'd
like to have a discussion with you about this.
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