Saturday, March 16, 2024

Not Yet!

My hour has not yet come
In the last sentence of this past Friday’s gospel passage, St. John tells us that the crowd in Jerusalem could not attack Jesus “because His hour had not yet come.”

He uses that phrase a couple of times in his gospel. First, we remember the scene at Cana when his mother asks him to solve the problem of the wine running out, and he explains “my hour has not yet come.”

Then, in verses skipped in the editing of Friday’s passage, from John Chapter 7, when “his brothers” encourage him to go up to Jerusalem, he replies “my time is not yet here;” and in the following verse he explains to them “I am not going up to this feast, because my time has not yet been fulfilled.” 

And then the verse in Friday’s gospel, “no one laid a hand upon him, because his hour had not yet come.”

In each of these passages, the same word shows up in the original Greek: oupo, a very common adverb meaning: “not yet.” 

As ordinary as the word  oupo, “not yet” may be, it is crucially important in all the passages we just heard: To say that the hour has NOT YET arrived indicates that eventually the hour WILL arrive.

It implies that Jesus' life is following the plan, but as of yet not all the stages of that plan have occurred. But they will. Christ’s earthly life is following a trajectory, heading in a single direction: it has significance, it has meaning.

And if that’s the case, then we who have Christ living in us and who are living in Christ, we are also living out that plan, following that same trajectory. This is especially important for you and me to remember when things are going badly. In times of pain and hopelessness we can hold onto that little word  oupo , “not yet,” that assures us that no matter what things may look like, our lives are heading in a certain meaningful direction, and therefore, everything in our lives has meaning, even and especially the seemingly bad parts.

Father, the hour has come
At the last supper, Jesus says, “Father, the hour has come, glorify, your son.” It is in his suffering and death that he finally reaches the hour, his goal: the Glory of the father. And we who have suffered with him will one day be glorified with him as well.

Each year during Holy Week and Easter, we celebrate the “hour,”  we remind ourselves how the story turns out:  Christ’s passion and death are oupo, not yet the end of the story. We know that the Easter mystery does not end on Good Friday: we live in the assurance that Sunday is coming.

The idea of oupo, “not yet” disappears early on Easter morning, when Christ is finally raised to a new life, and then in the ascension is brought to the fullness of glory at his Father's right hand. 

And we who are still suffering here in this vale of tears are on our way to join him there. It's just that our own hour of glory has not yet come. 

A final thought: Lots of times when when it seems that "God didn't answer your prayer," the Lord did in fact give an answer to your request -- the answer was oupo. 

Oupo -- Not yet!



Saturday, March 9, 2024

CHRIST LIFTED ON HIGH

 In this morning’s gospel we heard Jesus tell his disciples, 

“And just as Moses lifted up [hupsoō] the serpent in the desert, so must the Son of Man be lifted up [hupsoō] so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life”

I’[d like to offer some thoughts about the Greek verb hupsoō,  “to lift up.” 


Most of the time in the New Testament the word is used figuratively for “lifting” someone to a position of honor or power: “Whoever exalts [hupsoō] himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted [hupsoō]” (Matt. 23:12).

But John uses it in its literal sense in this morning’s gospel when referring to a scene from the book ofNumbers In which Moses fashions a bronze serpent so that the Israelites who are being punished by being bitten by "fiery serpents" can gaze on the bronze figure and be healed.

This is what Jesus is referring to when he says, “Moses lifted up [hupsoō] the serpent in the desert” (John. 3:14a).

This literal use of “to lift up” in the Old Testament provides John with exactly the image he needs to express Christ’s being physically “lifted up” on the cross: he writes “And just as Moses lifted up [hupsoō] the serpent in the desert, so must the Son of Man be lifted up [hupsoō] so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life.”

With his love for double meanings, John will continue this image of “lifting up” later on, in Jesus’ambiguous promise, “And when I am lifted up [hupsoō] from the earth, I will draw everyone to myself” (John 12:32-34). 

Does this “being lifted up” refer to Christ’s being literally lifted up on the cross, or to his finally being lifted up in glory to the right hand of God? Or does it refer to both at the same time? 

John’s deliberate ambiguity points up the mysterious nature of the crucifixion and of all human suffering. 

But he also gives us a central insight about human suffering later in his gospel when he writes that by being lifted up on the cross Christ “draws all to himself” (Jn 12:32-33): 

Calvary is just the first step in a process. 

After being “lifted up” onto the cross Jesus will then be “lifted up” out of death by his Father and finally raised on high to sit at the right hand of the Father. 

And – here is the crucial point -- we too are to be lifted up along with him as he draws us all to himself!


John, by playing on the double meaning of “lifted up,”  links our human suffering with the mystery of Calvary, and then, 
with the cross as the starting point, describes a single upward surge in which all of creation – including our darkest valleys of sin and suffering – is embraced by Christ and lifted heavenward by him and with him in the vast, infinite and inexorable power of divine unconditional love. 

And so, Christ’s cross becomes the very means by which all of us, too, are lifted to salvation. 

Suffering is a mysterious but somehow an integral part of this ceaseless upward movement of divine love.

So, let us pray that we may be blessed with the eyes of faith when we look on our troubled world – just as when we look upon a crucifix. 

With those eyes and with the help of John’s beautiful image, we may be able to see that we and our dark valleys, and the whole world and its struggles, are continuously being “lifted up” by Christ in that single inevitable heavenward motion when all creation has been transformed, and every tear wiped away, and when every evil has been overcome and every pain forgotten amid the eternal joys of heaven.




Saturday, March 2, 2024

YOU THINK GOD IS LIKE YOU?

There is a verse in Psalm 50 in which God asks “do you think that I am like you?” This question deserves some careful reflection. The parable of the Prodigal Son (read at mass this morning) is a great challenge us, because it shows us a God who is infinitely merciful and forgiving. I have to ask myself, “Am I like that, or do I set limits on my forgiveness?”

I can certainly find plenty of quotations in the Old Testament, and some in the New, that portray God as vengeful, petty and angry, “punishing the children to the third and fourth generation for the sins of their parents.“ I can show you a God who demands that the Israelites destroy their enemies, including the babies. This God does not mess around! 

At the same time there are plenty of passages in both the Old Testament and especially in the New Testament, that portray God, as the loving father, forgiving and gentle toward all his children, including sinners. So we seem to be left with a god who is schizophrenic! Which is it? Which God is the real one? It  seems that we are stuck with this question.

THREE STEPS FORWARD

Let me suggest an approach that I have pointed out before in this blog. The Bible is a single story, beginning with Genesis and ending with the last chapter of the Book of Revelation. It is the story of God’s love for creation In the earliest chapters of Genesis God promises to set things right one day, and in the final chapters of Revelation we have the vision of a new Jerusalem coming down from heaven, a Kingdom of joy and peace for everyone in the world. The story goes in only One Direction: moving towards the culmination of God’s love at the end of time.

But the Bible is written by human beings; although they are inspired by the Holy Spirit, they are writing at a certain time, in certain culture, and with their own personal talents and shortcomings. So sometimes we get passages that reflect the values of people in, say, the bronze age, and their attitude towards warfare. But these passages are going in the wrong direction! They are not heading us toward the fullness of the kingdom, but rather away from it. 

On the other hand, we have lots of passages in the old testament, and certainly in the New Testament that bring us forward, in the direction of the eventual culmination of God’s loving plan for the world. 

Think of it this way: the Bible is ultimately heading in the one direction, but the pattern is this: three steps forward, and two steps back. So it makes progress, but the progress is not perfectly smooth. There are beautiful passages that bring us three steps forward in the right direction, but then, because of human weakness, there are passages in the Bible that bring us two steps back in the wrong direction, toward vengeance, selfishness, violence, and so on.

Three steps forward, two steps back.

Many of us find those “two steps back” passages kind of attractive. They show us a god who is vengeful, who punishes until his anger is satisfied. This is a God that we can understand. There’s no mystery involved. We all know people who are angry, or who can be vengeful; and we know how to deal with them, how to stay on their good side. The fact is that this gives us some control over such a God, right? 

But God reveals himself to us in Jesus Christ as a God who is Love itself, a God who loves us no matter what, just the way we are. We cannot understand everything that happens to us in our lives because ours is a God of mystery, a God of surprises. And we don’t necessarily like mystery or surprises. 

So the parable of the Prodigal Son shows us a God who is surprising, a God who is totally forgiving. This surely is a mystery. A beautiful mystery, but still a mystery.

[NOTE: I was just interrupted to hear a confession in French. I was pleased to hear the opening words of the Act of Contrition in French : "Mon Dieu, j’ai un très grand regret de vous avoir offensé parce que vous êtes infiniment bon, infiniment aimable..." How beautiful": "My God, I am very sorry for having offended you because you are infinitely good and infinitely lovable..." There is the God, the Abba, that Jesus came to reveal to us.  END OF NOTE]

Let’s end by returning to God's question from Psalm 50: “Do you think that I am like you?” Maybe a good answer would be “No, Lord, I surely hope that you are not like me! I hope that you are infinitely good and infinitely lovable.” In our traditional English version we don't get to the "you are all good and deserving of all my love" until we first do the "I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell." Take your pick.

As Lent moves forward toward the Easter mystery, let us be looking forward to the greatest of all God's gifts: resurrection and eternal life. Let’s concentrate on those three steps forward, because that is the direction that we are all heading in.

Let us pray for one another on our Lenten journey.




Monday, February 26, 2024

FINDING THE TRANSFIGURED CHRIST

 



Our computer network had some issues over the weekend, so I could not share my post. I now have the time to share a previous post that reflects on this past Sunday's reading. Some years ago I posted a different perspective on the Transfiguration, in which I suggested that it is oriented toward the future. Today I'll present another way of looking at the event: It's Jesus' letting his disciples catch a glimpse of the present truth that in the person of Jesus heaven is touching earth. It's not just about the future, but about Jesus' identity as the divine Son of God right now. The scene is filled with Old Testament imagery of divine apparitions: the cloud, the dazzling light, the white garment, the voice from heaven.

The three disciples on the the mountain get a glimpse not of the future but of who Christ presently is: In him heaven is touching earth, the Divine has taken on human form and become one of us.

We are offered such glimpses of glory too, but only on rare occasions. In order to catch one of those glimpses we first have to believe that Jesus is indeed present in our lives all the time as the Divine Son of the Almighty. Then, we have to make some sort of effort. (That's why divine apparitions usually take place of the tops of mountains: It takes some effort on our part to get there). Maybe the effort on our part is simply trying to be awake and aware, on the watch for God's self-revelations all around us. Often they come in the form of Love.

WHERE DO YOU SEE THE TRANSFIGURED ONE?



Think of how God's love shows itself in your life. I think of the faces of our kindergarten children, and a certain close long-time friend, or the young monks in our monastery. God is touching earth all over the place!




This past week we were informed that our school has been connected with a service that monitors the likelihood of lightning strikes in our area. If the likelihood of a strike reaches a certain level, the school is informed and we sound a warning to clear our playing fields until the threat passes. Too bad I don't get any advance notice that heaven is about to reveal itself in a powerful way in my life. I'm kind of on my own, and so I have to be constantly on the watch. But I do know that God has some favorite spots in which to appear: In the midst of troubled situations, in the midst of an interaction with someone I love, or in the person of someone who needs me to wash his or her feet.

Jesus' transfiguration, then is a reminder to look for the Love all around us. The experience of this love can sustain us through pain and struggle as it did the apostles in the dark days of Calvary and of persecution.

Saturday, February 17, 2024

FORGIVEN and FORGIVING

 

IBM Selectric

On Ash Wednesday I gave the homily at the mass for about 800 students (grades 7 through 12), faculty and staff. I thought I might share it here with you. The story is borrowed from my book “Downtown Monks.”

=============================

When I arrived as a freshman at St Benedict’s, one of my first teachers was Father Eugene Schwarz.  He was our music teacher, and was in charge of the choir, which was where I got to know him. I thought he was just the greatest, or as we said back then, the “coolest.”. 

By the end of my sophomore year I was convinced that what I wanted to do when I grew up was to become a monk, and return to St. Benedict’s Prep to teach, and be like Fr. Eugene. 

It would be some years later, after college, novitiate and seminary training that I did come back to the Hive as a monk and a newly ordained priest, and taught alongside Father Eugene. 

Shortly after I returned to live here in 1969, I asked Fr. Eugene if he would lend me his new IBM Selectric electric typewriter so I could type a paper for a class in graduate school. This machine had a sphere containing all the characters, and when you touched a key on the keyboard the sphere would immediately whirls and strike the proper character onto the paper.

“Sure!” he says, happy to be of help. “Just take the whole thing, table and all. It’s easier to move that way. Take the elevator though. Don’t try to carry it on the stairs or you’re liable to drop it.” I agree readily and take the shiny new machine back to my room, where it does a beautiful job on my paper. . . .

I finish typing my paper (remember this is before word processors and the internet). As I roll the typewriter on its table back down the long hallway toward the elevator to return it to Fr. Eugene, I notice the staircase that leads up to the fourth floor. His room is right at the top of the stairs. I could save several minutes by just carrying the typewriter on its table right up the stairs. Why not? I pick up the table and carefully start up the steps.  

Crash! The sickening racket echoes through the monastery’s hallways as the brand new IBM typewriter slides off the table and smashes onto the first step. I stand frozen, mouth hanging open in disbelief, holding the empty typewriter table and staring down wide-eyed at the pale blue machine that has just landed at my feet. I look up the steep flight of stairs and change my mind: there’s no way I’ll carry it up the stairs now! I decide to do what I should have done in the first place and take the elevator.

I set the typing table down at the foot of the staircase and glower accusingly at the front leg that caught on the bottom step and sent the typewriter flying. How could I be so dumb? Especially what Fr. Eugene said to me, I still couldn’t resist saving three minutes by carrying it up the stairs instead of going to the far end of the hallway and taking the school elevator. Now I’ve got this disaster on my hands.

In a daze I bend over and lift the machine carefully back onto the table, coiling the long black power cord onto the top. I can’t see any damage, but I’ve got a sick, foreboding feeling. I hurry, trying to disappear before curious heads start peering out of the monks’ rooms that line the long hallway.

==================

You know, we believe that God made us. We also believe that God doesn’t make junk so we are led to the inescapable conclusion  that each one of us in this room is God’s idea, God’s beautiful idea.

But experience tells us that we often fall short of that beautiful idea that God had in mind when he made us. In fact, we spend our whole lives trying to close that gap between God’s idea and the way we are now.

What brings all of us here to mass this morning is our belief that each of us is a sinner in need of repentance, in need of a change of heart.

Back to my story: 

With the typewriter back on its stand I wheel it squeakily down the hall toward the elevator. I’m numb as I mechanically push it through the doorway and then onto the elevator. I poke the button with the “4” worn off of it.

You have to understand that I loved Fr. Eugene. And now, in my first year of teaching here with him, I’ve ruined his expensive new typewriter.

Imagine how I feel as I push the typewriter down the hall, and onto the elevator. The way Father Eugene had asked me to do in the first place. It was the longest two minutes of my life.

It seems to me that this is sort of the idea of repentance: returning to God and asking for forgiveness. Did you hear the prophet in the first reading: “return to me, says the Lord….”

Fourth floor. I roll the table out of the elevator as fast as I dare—I want to get the next few minutes over with as quickly as possible. I let myself through the door leading into the monastery and squeak up to his door. I swallow hard and knock. I can hear my heart thumping.

“Come in, please.”

I turn the knob and push the typewriter in ahead of me. “Hi, Fr. Eugene! I’m bringing your typewriter back.”

“Oh! Finished already? Good for you!” he answers cheerfully.

I blurt out right away, “There’s a little problem though. I dropped it. I dropped the typewriter.” I hold my breath, waiting for the explosion, the scolding and the “Didn’t I tell you to use the elevator?”

“Oh! Was that the crash I heard a minute ago?” he asks as if he were simply curious.

“Afraid so.” I answer in a cracked voice. “I was starting to carry it up the stairs and it slid off and hit the floor.” How I wish I were somewhere else right now! Some place very far away.

“Well, let’s plug it in and see if it still works,’ ” he suggests matter-of-factly as he carefully marks his page, closes the book, and gets out of his chair.

I snatch the power cord a little too eagerly and, hands fumbling and shaking, I bend over and plug it into an outlet right by the door. Please, God, please let it work! Let it be all right! My knees are getting weak.

When he pushes the switch, I close my eyes and hold my breath. There’s an odd humming sound. I half-open one eye and peek at the little steel ball with all the letters on it. He touches a key on the keyboard. The ball gives one sickly little twitch, and then the weird buzz gets louder. It’s shot! He tries a few more keys, each time with the same result. Oh, God! I’ve ruined it! I start to sweat as I prepare once again for the scolding to start.

“Well, looks like something’s broken, huh?” he says calmly, as he pops open the top of the machine and peers down casually at its innards.

“I . . . I’m sorry!” I blurt out, “What can I say? It was such a dumb thing to do! I feel awful.” I don’t just feel stupid, I also feel as if I’ve betrayed his trust and let him down. “Man! I just feel so. . . .”

“Hey!” he interrupts me in a gentle voice. Still bent over the ruined typewriter, he turns his head to look up at me. “Relax, please! So something’s broken. It’s still under warranty, and we can probably get it fixed for nothing. No big deal!”

I blink at him. I can’t believe my ears. “You mean you’re not mad at me?” I ask incredulously.

“What for?” he mumbles, his nose buried in the machine again. After a few more seconds he straightens up, gently closes the top of the machine, and adds, “These things happen. We’ll all survive, I’m sure.”

I’m at a loss for words. Although I still feel terrible, a new feeling starts to sweep over me—a wonderful sense of relief. Look what I’ve done! Yet he’s just brushing it off as if nothing happened!

“Well . . .” I stammer, still trying to figure out this turn of events.

“I’ll get Fr. Ben to call the service guy and get it fixed,” he continues. “So do me a favor and don’t worry about it!” His smile is utterly convincing. “Okay? Really. I mean it.”

“Okay. Thanks a lot, Father!” I answer, forcing a smile. He’s already walking back to his chair where he’d been reading when I came in. As far as he’s concerned, the business is finished. But I’m still mortified and feel that I have to say something, anything. “Sorry! I mean, that was so dumb, you know?” I babble, “I just feel so, well, so. . . .”

At his chair he stops, turns back slowly toward me, and with an amused look, gently interrupts me in mid-sentence: “Just close the door on your way out. See you at Vespers.” He sits down, picks up his book, and opens to the bookmark.

“Okay,” I babble. “And thanks!” I pull the door gently behind me until it clicks.

 *  *  *  *  *

Lent is a special time that the church invites us to reflect on our need to turn to God and repent. It’s a time for healing, time to return to the idea that God had in mind when he made me.


The ashes are a sign that we are sorry for our sins and failures, but they are also a sign that lets everyone see that we are committing ourselves to be better followers of Christ, to work at imitating Christ in his self-giving love for others.  

So today, as we begin this season of lent, besides those Lenten practices that we’ve promised, let’s commit ourselves to imitating Jesus by the way we treat one another whether schoolmates or parents or teachers, or anyone we meet. 

Oh. I have to finish my story about Father Eugene: 

In 1972, when Newark became an independent abbey, Father Eugene, who was already sick with MS, moved to St. Mary’s Delbarton so as not to become a burden on the small, new community here in Newark. He would die a few years later.

The ending of my story comes in 1984, when the monastery building was renovated. We decided to have the novices and the young monks live on the fourth floor of the monastery along with  the novice master -- which was  me. And guess what room was assigned to the novice master? 

It was father Eugene’s room, the one right at the top of that fateful staircase!

So now, when I come back to my room, I step through that door through which I had pushed the broken typewriter all those years ago. 

Every now and then I’m reminded of Father Eugene’s gift of loving, gentle forgiveness that he showed to a thoughtless young monk back in 1970. 

He keeps challenging me to treat others the way he treated me that day. When I get my ashes today I’ll be thinking of him, and I invite, I challenge each of you today, when you receive those ashes as a sign of repentance, to let them also be a sign of your commitment to work harder at being the loving patient and forgiving person that God had in mind when he created you. 

The kind of person that Father Eugene was for me. 






Saturday, February 10, 2024

ARMCHAIR PILGRIMS


Lent 2024 begins on February 14, This post is meant to serve as a cordial invitation to join a group of us ¨armchair pilgrims" who each Lent read the assigned chapter of my book "Pilgrim Road" each day. The book is a series of reflections, one for each day of Lent, each set in a different locale in Europe or South America, that offer thoughts appropriate to the Lenten Journey. 

The metaphor of life as a journey seems to be part of most cultures, even very ancient ones. The Hebrew and the Christian Scriptures refer to important journeys that change peoples' lives. So, the framework of a forty-day journey to Easter appeals naturally to many religious people. The stories in "Pilgrim Road" are accounts of my experiences during a sabbatical year when I traveled as a solo pilgrim through Europe and South America. But This book held a big surprise for me.

After "Pilgrim Road" was published, it began to morph into something I hadn't intended when I wrote it:
it has become a literary vehicle that creates a bond among its readers, uniting them into a pilgrimage group, like those in the Middle Ages that made perilous journeys to Compostela, Jerusalem and other pilgrimage sites. There are evidently a lot of people who, like me, get the book off the shelf every Ash Wednesday and journey with it to Easter Sunday. 

So when someone tells me "I'm reading your book each day," I always tell the person "You have a lot of company! 

You're part of a big pilgrimage group that's been growing over the years. Welcome!" There's something about being part of a group of like-minded souls, especially if they are from all over the place. In a pilgrimage group, people would help one another along the road in lots of different ways, but I imagine that one of the most important ways must have been by simply encouraging one another by their presence.

In the last few years, I've heard about book study groups and even simply friends who get together regularly to discuss what they've been getting from "journeying" with the book. Those who can share their experiences with others certainly have the advantage over the rest of us who are reading it alone, with nobody to talk with about what we're reading. The difficulty of our particular pilgrim company is, obviously, that most of us never see one another, we don't even know who else may be on the road with us, or how many we are. But I draw encouragement every day from the thought that there are all these people that I know, as well as many, many more who I'll never meet, who are traveling with me and praying for me as I do for them.

I should say that I consider this book a gift from the Lord for which I can take only a tiny bit of credit. Each time I read a chapter I find something new in it, and I thank God for using me to put it into print.

I'm curious to know how many of the readers of this blog are part of the pilgrim company. If you're reading "Pilgrim Road" would you mind encouraging the rest of us by simply leaving a quick comment (and maybe where you are from) in the "Comments" box. (I won't put you on a mailing list or sell your email address, pilgrim's promise). I just think it could be interesting and fun for us. Nothing wrong with having a little fun during Lent, right?

Saturday, February 3, 2024

A COMPASSIONATE GOD?

 In today’s gospel passage (Saturday, Feb. 3) we see these words: “When Jesus disembarked and saw the vast crowd, his heart was moved with pity for them.” (Mk 6:34).

“Moved with pity” is a form of the Greek verb splanchnizomai, which is one of my favorite  New Testament words. It also happens to be extremely important for our relationship with God. I think the word is worth a few minutes of study, if you’re up for it. What follows is a study of the word that I did some years ago. If you're ready, let's go.

 The Greek word for the parts of the body that react to emotion is the plural word splanchna. The KingJames Bible translates it as "bowels," while modern bibles usually translate it, depending on the context, as "affection" or "compassion." (e.g. in Philippians, the  KJV has "If there be therefore any consolation in Christ, if any comfort of love, if any fellowship of the Spirit, if any bowels (splanchna) and mercies…" The New American Bible has "If there is any encouragement in Christ, any solace in love, any participation in the Spirit, any compassion (splanchna) and mercy… (Phil. 2:1)" In the First Letter of John we read, "If someone who has worldly means sees a brother in need and refuses him compassion (splanchna), how can the love of God remain in him? (I Jn 3:17)" This is Greek's strongest word to express compassionate love, being moved in the depths of ones "guts."

In Mary's song of praise, the "Magnificat," we read, "because of the tender mercy (splanchna) of our God by which the daybreak from on high will visit us. (Lk 1:78)" Here we come face to face with one of the most astounding revelations in Scripture: A God who is able to be emotionally moved! It's hard for us who have heard about this God all our lives to understand just how unusual this concept is. We don't see, for example, how the notion of a God who can feel emotions contradicts the idea of a God who is "perfect" and and unchanging. Being perfect, this god should really be unable to change or be changed, but rather be "from age to age the same."  

 Zeus is not our God!

In the Greek world of the NT, the stoic philosophers thought that the highest virtue was apathia, the total absence of feeling. This was the goal of the wise person, and was supposedly a characteristic of the gods themselves. No self-respecting god would ever be moved by emotions such as affection or anger. Yet the bible, both the Old and the New testaments, shows us a God who is constantly being moved by the plight of his people. The Judeo-Christian God can experience joy, anger, jealousy, and grief. We see this most easily in the NT in the verb form of splanchna -- the passive verb splanchnizomai, which the NAB translates as "moved with compassion" or "moved with pity." 

The verb appears in three familiar parables about God's compassion.. First, in Luke's story of "The Good Samaritan" a priest and a Levite walked past a wounded wayfarer, "but a Samaritan traveler who came upon him was moved with compassion (splanchnizomai) at the sight. He approached the victim, poured oil and wine over his wounds and bandaged them. (Lk 10:33-34)" Then in the beginning of the parable of the Unforgiving Servant, the one who owed his master ten thousand talents of silver "fell down, did him homage, and said, 'Be patient with me, and I will pay you back in full.'  Moved with compassion (splanchnizomai) the master of that servant let him go and forgave him the loan. (Mt 18:26-27)" Finally, in one of the best known parables of God's love, the story of the Prodigal Son, "While he was still a long way off, his father caught sight of him, and was filled with compassion (splanchnizomai). He ran to his son, embraced him and kissed him. (Lk 15:20)"

The parables are not the only NT passages that reveal God as being moved with pity by human troubles. Several of the miracle stories begin with Christ's being "deeply moved" at someone's plight. The gospels portray Jesus as someone who is moved by the plight of people. In Matthew, for example, "At the sight of the crowds, [Jesus'] heart was moved with pity (splanchnizomai) for them because they were troubled and abandoned, like sheep without a shepherd.  (Mt 9:36)"

"As [Jesus] drew near to the gate of the city, a man who had died was being carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow. A large crowd from the city was with her. When the Lord saw her, he was moved with pity (splanchnizomai) for her and said to her, 'Do not weep.' (Lk 7:13)" 

On another occasion a group of lepers called out to Jesus to have pity on them. Matthew tells us that "Jesus stopped and called them and said, 'What do you want me to do for you?' They answered him, 'Lord, let our eyes be opened.' Moved with pity (splanchnizomai), Jesus touched their eyes. Immediately they received their sight, and followed him. (Mt 20:32-34)" In one final example, "A leper came to him (and kneeling down) begged him and said, 'If you wish, you can make me clean.'  Moved with pity (splanchnizomai), he stretched out his hand, touched him, and said to him, 'I do will it. Be made clean.'(Mk 1:41)"

So, all of this background underlies the sentence we started with at the beginning of this post: “When Jesus disembarked and saw the vast crowd, his heart was moved with pity for them.” (Mk 6:34). 

I'll leave you with this question: If Jesus feels this compassionate about the sufferings of others, might he be expecting you and me to imitate him?