Homily for the First Sunday of Advent December 1, 2024

Facing Our Anxieties.

According to the National Bureau of Standards, a dense fog covering seven city blocks to a depth of a hundred feet is composed of something less than one glass of water. This can be compared to the depths of the things we worry about in life. If we could see into the future, if we could see problems in their true light, they would not blind us to the world—to living itself—but instead could be viewed in their true size and perspective. Moreover, if all the things we worry about were reduced to their true size, we could probably put them all into a single drinking glass, too.

Our readings for this First Sunday of Advent invite us to be prepared for the coming of the Lord—for his first coming, which we celebrate at Christmas; for his final coming, which will take place at the end of time; and for his daily coming, his daily presence each day of our lives.

In the gospel, Jesus warns us not to become “drowsy” in two ways: from “carousing and drunkenness” and “the anxieties of daily life.” It is on the latter of the two that I want to focus today: the anxieties of daily life.

It seems to me that a lot of people are very anxious at this particular moment in our history. We have just experienced a really nasty and divisive presidential campaign, and many are anxious for their future, and the future of their children and grandchildren. Others are anxious about the cost of living, the high cost of food, and gas, and heating the home during winter. The poor are anxious, especially during the end of each month, when a large part of their monthly check has gone for rent, and money is running out for feeding the family and paying all the bills. Others are anxious because of serious illness—either their own or that of a loved one. So, the words of Jesus hit home, don’t they? The “anxieties of daily life” are very real. They are very serious, indeed. So, how can we say, as in the analysis with which we began, that “all the things we worry about” can probably be reduced “into a single drinking glass,” and not feel like “seven city blocks of heavy fog?”

Well, Jesus gives us two “answers,” two approaches to this subject to think about. First, he often speaks about the need to have trust in God. In one famous passage, for example, he asks us to consider how the wild flowers grow. They just present themselves each year; they can be ignored, or they can be gathered up with the grasses among which they grow and be burned. But not even King Solomon in all his glory was arrayed as these wild flowers. Similarly, Jesus says, take a good look at the birds of the air. They do not plant anything; they do not gather things into barns. And yet, your heavenly father feeds them.

For Jesus, the opposite of love, oftentimes, is not hate, but fear. Think of the number of times he asks his followers, why did you fear, or where is your trust.

I have known people who were able to take these lessons to heart. I remember the poor widows that I encountered in my youth. I remember one in particular who would come to our home with $100 in cash. She would ask my mother to write letters for her, explaining that half of the money would go to various relatives in Poland, and the other half to various missionaries that they wanted to support. And somehow, she survived.

The other thing that Jesus did to help us overcome anxiety is to call people into communion, asking that we be there for others. He even identified himself specifically with the poor: I was hungry, and you gave me food, I was thirsty, and you gave me drink; I was naked and you clothed me. In the early days of my life, we had a coal stove. I found out much later that my dad would order a load of coal for us, and a second load to be given anonymously to one or another widow who needed help. So, if community works in the way Jesus intended, if we really strive to love one another, then we should be there for each other, so that no one has to face their fears and anxieties alone.

Life can be hard; problems can feel overwhelming. But if we nurture our faith, so that we can firmly believe that God is with us, and we nurture a sense of community, so that no one has to face tragedy or loss on their own—then, anxiety become manageable. Just talking about our problems, either with a friend, or a professional counselor, can help. But if we can truly be there in meaningful ways for each other, the wear and tear of daily life is lighter because it is shared.

Here at Our Lady of Peace is a community that has heard the message and responded in love. Think of all the people being fed each Monday afternoon. Think of all the young mothers who are getting help with diapers. Think of all those who come to our door when they have no one else to turn to. Through your generosity and compassion, we are making burdens lighter.

So, if you want to see your anxiety level go down, be there for others. Find someone worse off than you. Listen to the fears, offer encouragement, share the load. That’s how seven city blocks of heavy fog can be reduced to less than a drinking glass: share the anxiety with others; share your anxiety with the Lord; reach out, and help others to carry the load.

< Older Post

Newer Post >

Father's Homilies

Homily for the Third Sunday of Easter April 19, 2026

By Charlene Currie • April 25, 2026

Born to Look … Learning to See Homily for the Third Sunday of Easter April 19, 2026 The scoutmaster used to take his troops on hikes along wilderness nature trails. After each hike he would challenge the scouts to describe what they had observed on their excursion. The boys invariably hadn’t seen a fraction of what the scoutmaster had seen. He would wave his arms in great circles and shout, “Creation is all around you, but you are blocking it out. Stop wearing your raincoat in the shower. You were born to look, but you have to learn to see.” You were born to look, but you have to learn to see. One of the questions that always arises about today’s gospel passage is: Why didn’t the two disciples recognize Jesus? Let’s spend some time reflecting on the possibilities. One obvious answer is that they were disheartened. Their lives are at their lowest point. They are sad and confused. The one they had pinned their hopes on had been humiliated and crucified in a horrible way. How could such a disaster be anything but a total defeat? How could a Messiah, or Savior, allow himself to be beaten and put to death? In addition, the two disciples are probably terrorized, full of fear. The leaders of the people, both religious and political, had made their point. Anyone who rocks the boat and challenges authority will be dealt with swiftly and brutally. If the two were recognized as followers of Jesus, his fate could also be theirs. Let me share another story with you, a story which shows how expectations can color what we see and experience. ---------------------------------- A young man from a wealthy family was about to graduate from high school. It was the custom in his affluent neighborhood for the parents to give the graduate a car as a graduation present. Bill and his father spent months looking at cars, and the week before graduation they found the perfect one. Bill was certain that the car would be his on graduation night. Imagine Bill’s disappointment when, on the eve of the big day, his father handed him a gift-wrapped Bible! Bill was so angry, he hurled the Bible across the room and stormed out of the house, vowing never to return again. Bill and his father never saw each other again. Yet it was the news of his father’s death that brought Bill back home again. One night, as he sat going through his father’s possessions that he was to inherit, Bill came across the Bible that his father had given him. He brushed away the dust and opened it to find a cashier’s check, dated the day of his graduation—for the exact amount of the car they had chosen together. ------------------------------- As the scoutmaster said, “You are born to look, but you have to learn to see.” What does today’s gospel passage want us to learn to see? One obvious answer is that the privileged place to encounter Jesus is in the celebration of the Eucharist, or Mass. In the gospel Jesus does two things: he interprets the Scriptures and how they apply to him; and he “breaks bread” with the two disciples. We thus have the two halves of the Mass: the liturgy of the word and the liturgy of the Eucharist. The Bible is telling us where to look, and it is teaching us to learn to see. Like the cashier’s check in the Bible, Jesus’ presence is not always obvious or straightforward. So, where and how should we look? The first place is the Bible. We need to take time to read God’s word slowly, savor it, and allow it to speak to us. If you are having difficulty, a commentary will help. Turning to those who know the Bible better that we do, and asking for clarifications and advice, will also help. The second place of encounter with Jesus is the Eucharist. The mystery of Emmaus is that the disciples recognize Jesus in the “breaking of bread,” which was one of the phrases used for the celebration of the Eucharist. Try to enter the Mystery more and more by giving yourself totally, without distractions, to each part of the Mass. Savor what it means to gather with open minds and hearts; to listen to the message of Scripture, the inspired word of God; to take the message of the homily home with you and reflect on it; to ask for forgiveness and to pray for peace; to intercede for our needs and the needs of the whole world; to receive our Lord mindfully, and not just hurry through the motions. Finally, in the Emmaus story, Jesus approaches his people who are depressed, disappointed and broken-hearted. At first, they do not recognize him. But as they listen more and more, their hearts start to burn within them. So, another way to experience the presence of Jesus Christ is to do as he did, to find value in what he taught and how he acted. He clearly said that he could be found in the poor and vulnerable: I was hungry, and you gave me food; I was thirsty, and you gave me drink; I was naked, and you clothed me; I was ill, or in prison, or lonely, and you visited me. Today’s gospel gives us a blueprint for encountering Jesus and feeling his presence. But we have to give ourselves to it wholeheartedly. We were born to look, but we have to learn how to see. The Bible has a treasure in it, and it’s not a cashier’s check. The Eucharist has a presence in it, and it’s something more than bread. The people around us are children of God. They have a spark of the divine within them. We were born to look, but we have to learn how to see.

Homily for the Second Sunday of Easter April 12, 2026

By Charlene Currie • April 25, 2026

Will You Still Need Me? Homily for the Second Sunday of Easter April 12, 2026 One hot summer afternoon a woman was working strenuously, weeding her flower beds and pruning the plants. The flowers were especially magnificent. A passerby asked, “I really like those flowers—do you?” As she wiped perspiration from her face with a dirty hand, the woman’s weary response was, “Only when they bloom.” The passerby thought how many folks have a similar attitude toward church, family, work, or life in general—“I only like it when it is in full bloom and beautiful.” The passerby thought of those necessary times of hard work—mulching, weeding, cultivating, pruning and transplanting—as well as seasonal dormancy, which are all necessary to bring about the blooms which precede the bearing of seeds and fruit. --------------------------------- I mentioned during one of my homilies during Holy Week that I was always bothered that the risen Jesus, with his risen body, still had the wounds. I compared it to buying a shiny, brand-new car, and insisting that there be dents on the fenders and leaks in the engine. As I thought about it more and more, however, I came to understand that the wounds were there for a purpose. In the case of Thomas, the wounds were the evidence he needed. But, beyond that, the wounds serve as a reminder that Jesus’ love for us is total, down to the last drop of blood. The wounds help preserve the memory of how painful true love can be. It’s easy to love that which is perfect and beautiful, is it not? But Jesus chose to show us a love of that which is less than perfect, and clearly not beautiful. Perhaps the clearest example of that is that he was there for the lepers of his day, those who had a contagious disease that rotted their flesh and forced them to live in isolation. But it was true of others, as well. Jesus went out of his way to embrace public sinners, foreigners, enemies, even those who were involved in putting him to death. From the cross he prayed, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” The risen body of Jesus, still bearing the wounds, means that our Lord is present in a special way to those who are wounded: those with cancer or another life-threatening disease, those who have lost a loved one, those who have been bullied, those carrying the wounds of a failed relationship, those who feel they cannot be forgiven, those who know they are less than perfect. Jesus is there for those living with the daily threat of war, terrorism, violence, domestic abuse, betrayal. In short, the less than perfect resurrected body of Jesus means that now, as then, he is present in a special way to those who are less than perfect. ------------------------------------------------ I was reminded of an early hit by the Beatles. Do you remember a song entitled When I’m Sixty-Four, released in June 1967? Here are some of the lyrics: When I get older, losing my hair Many years from now, Will you still be sending me a valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine? If I'd been out till quarter to three, Would you lock the door? Will you still need me, will you still feed me, When I'm sixty-four? Ooh … I could be handy mending a fuse When your lights have gone. You can knit a sweater by the fireside, Sunday mornings, go for a ride. Doing the garden, digging the weeds, Who could ask for more? Will you still need me, will you still feed me, When I'm sixty-four? -------------------------------------------------- In a similar way, Jesus’ wounds remind us that he’s not a fair-weather friend, only there for the good times. He’s there, always, and especially when we’re wounded. So, if you’re struggling, if you’re dealing with something painful, don’t run away. Don’t make the mistake of thinking the Lord doesn’t understand, or care. Instead, go to the wounds. Allow yourself to feel what true love is like when you need it the most.