Our Lady of Peace Church | Father's Homilies

Homily for the Third Sunday of Easter April 19, 2026

Sat, 25 Apr 2026 11:16:24 GMT

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.

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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.

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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

Sat, 25 Apr 2026 11:10:31 GMT

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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

Homily for Easter April 4-5, 2026

Thu, 09 Apr 2026 10:46:02 GMT

Daring to Trust by Leaving the Tomb

Homily for Easter

April 4-5, 2026

Many years ago, there was a book by Wendy Kaminer with the strange title, I’m Dysfunctional, You’re Dysfunctional, which took a look at the national obsession with the “cult of victimization.”

In an interview Ms. Kaminer said, “There is something very mean-spirited about this cult of victimization. For all the talk about caring and sharing, it is an excuse for people not to have any compassion. The payoff of claiming that you are a victim is that you always get to put your problems first. Primarily, this self-help movement is a movement of the middle class, and it reflects what is called compassion fatigue. It’s middle-class people saying, ‘I’m tired of hearing about those poor children in poverty…about the problem of minorities in this country. I have problems, too. My father wasn’t nice to me.’ It is as if people are saying, ‘Me too, me too.’ Everyone is vying for the crown of thorns.”

An article I read continues, “If we are faithful to Christ’s call to discipleship, we are to put aside our own sense of victimization for the sake of others. In letting go of ourselves, in putting ourselves at the service of others, in seeking justice and peace and healing for them, we can bring the resurrection into both our lives and theirs.”

From Palm Sunday until today, we have walked together through the most eventful week in Jesus Christ’s life. We saw his resolve to enter Jerusalem on a donkey, even though he knew the authorities there were opposed to him. We saw him in teaching mode, washing the feet of his disciples, showing them the path of humility and service. We witnessed the cruelty he endured, including the crown of thorns, placed on his head in mockery and scorn. And now we come to the heart of it all. Jesus dared to trust in God, even when the Father seemed to be silent. Most of Jesus’ followers ran and hid, for they feared that their fate would be the same as his. Jesus was showing his unlimited love for them, and they wanted only to save their skins. How sad it would have been if it had all ended there.

And how sad for us if that is all we carry in our hearts today. If all we experience in life is fear, doubt, depression, defeatism, and a preoccupation with self. Resurrection is meant to turn the tables, upend our lives, change our outlook, bring us to a new understanding of what matters. If Jesus Christ is risen, and we are focused only on all that is wrong with our lives and our world, he might as well have stayed in the tomb.

Resurrection, if it is real for us, means that we cannot stay in our tombs, worrying about what is wrong with us and our world. Resurrection is all about what is right, good, true, beautiful, and promising. If Resurrection is real, our final destination cannot, must not, be the gloom of the tomb. Our world has many problems, that is true. Our neighbors are struggling. Food and gas prices are too high. The direction our country is going, in in so many ways, is full of hate. Evil and cruelty can appear to be winning.

But Resurrection is an explosion of hope, an infinite burst of love, a promise that God is in charge. Easter says: Stop moping! Stop despairing! In the words of my favorite Psalm, Psalm 37:

Do not fret because of the wicked;

do not envy those who do evil:

for they wither quickly like grass

and fade like the green of the fields.

If you trust in the Lord and do good,

then you will live in the land and be

secure.

If you find your delight in the Lord,

he will grant your heart’s desire….

Be still before the Lord and wait in

patience;

do not fret at the man who prospers;

a man who makes evil plots

to bring down the needy and the poor.

Do not fret. Jesus has left the tomb. It’s time to come out of ours. Empowered by resurrection faith, we can join together with the Lord and help make God’s dream for our world a reality. But we can only do it if we leave the tomb of doubt, dread and despair. We can do it, if we dare to trust.

Homily for Good Friday April 3, 2026

Thu, 09 Apr 2026 10:38:50 GMT

Come unto Me.

Homily for Good Friday

April 3, 2026

A well-known sculptor had a burning ambition to create the greatest statue of Jesus Christ ever made. He began in his oceanside studio by shaping a clay model of a triumphant, regal figure. The head was thrown back and the arms were upraised in a gesture of great majesty. It was his conception of how Christ would look: strong and dominant.

“This will be my masterpiece,” he said, on the day the clay model was completed.

During the night, however, a heavy fog rolled into the area and sea spray seeped through a partially opened window. The moisture affected the shape of the clay so that when the artist returned to the studio in the morning, he was shocked at what he found.

Droplets of moisture had formed on the model, creating an illusion of bleeding. The head had drooped. The facial expression had been transformed from one of severity to one of compassion. And the arms had dropped into a posture of welcome. It had become a wounded Christ-figure.

The artist stared at the figure, agonizing over the time wasted and the need to begin all over again. Then, inspiration came over him to change his mood. He began to see that this image of Christ was, by far, the truer one. So, he carved these words in the base of the newly shaped figure: Come unto Me.

Inspired by a favorite poem, I offer the following:

· Come unto me, all who live with the dread of war and the fear of violence.

· Come unto me, all who wonder where cooperation and civility are to be found in our nation.

· Come unto me, all who cry for the fate of our planet and the abuse of its resources.

· Come unto me, all who face serious health issues, either your own or that of a loved one.

· Come unto me, all who have lost a loved one and experience painful loneliness and grief.

· Come unto me, all who hunger for food, for normalcy, for love and compassion.

· Come unto me, all who experience judgment, harassment, or persecution, simply for being different.

· Come unto me, all who dream of a better life and a kinder world.

· Come unto me, all who, while experiencing crucifixion, still dare to trust that resurrection and newness of life are not locked up in a tomb.

Come unto me.

The poem that has always inspired me, The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus, inspired by the Statue of Liberty:

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Homily for Holy Thursday April 2, 2026

Thu, 09 Apr 2026 10:32:40 GMT

True Love, Beaten and Weathered.

Homily for Holy Thursday

April 2, 2026

There once was a wise and beloved king who cared greatly for his people and wanted only what was best for them. The people knew the king took personal interest in their affairs and tried to understand how decisions affected their lives. Periodically, he would disguise himself and wander through the streets, trying to see life from their perspective.

One day he disguised himself as a poor villager and went to visit the public baths. Many people were enjoying the fellowship and relaxation. The water for the baths was heated by a furnace in the cellar, where one man was responsible for maintaining the comfort level of the water. The king made his way to the basement to visit the man who tirelessly tended the fire.

The two shared a meal together, and the king befriended the lonely man. Day after day, week in and week out, the king went to visit the fire tender. The man in the cellar soon became close to the strange visitor because he came down to the basement where he was. No one else ever had showed that much caring or concern.

One day the king revealed his true identity to his friend. It was a risky move, for he feared that the man might ask him for special favors or a gift. Instead, the king’s new friend looked into his eyes and said, “You left your comfortable palace to sit with me in this hot and dingy cellar. You ate my meager food and genuinely showed you cared about what happens to me. On other people you might bestow rich gifts, but to me you have given the greatest gift of all. You gave me the gift of yourself.”

Today, as we begin the solemn Easter triduum, our readings present the account of Jesus and his friends on the night before he died. He had left the glory of heaven and began to associate in a special way with the humble and poor. As a matter of fact, he became humble and poor himself, celebrating the Passover with the likes of fishermen, tax collectors, former Zealots, impetuous men like Peter, and even a traitor like Judas. He left them an example of humble service, thinking of the needs of others first, taking care of bodily needs that others might think were below his dignity. But more than that, he gave the gift of himself.

The wondrous thing that we celebrate tonight is that Jesus wanted to continue that self-giving for those who would come after that band of Apostles. The gift was total. It would literally be to the last drop of his blood, the gift of one willing to lay down his life, not just for his intimate friends, but even for his enemies. He gave himself so totally that, on the cross, he would even make excuses for them. “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

And so, we gather for the memorial of that gift of self. As bread that is broken and shared, as wine poured out, so a body broken and bruised, so lifeblood drained. So, Jesus, present among his people, now and forever.

The great Mystery, of course, is that death is no longer permanent, the grave no longer our final destination. One of the things that strikes me is that when Jesus rises from the dead, he still has the wounds. He tells Thomas, the doubter, to put his finger into the nail marks, and his hand into the gash in Jesus’ side. I considered the wounds as somehow illogical. It would be like buying a shiny, brand-new car, and insisting that there be dents in the fenders and a leaky engine.

But the wounds are there, as reminders of a total gift of self. True love is like that. It makes you vulnerable. It means you have to endure, be patient with each other, forgive a million times, overlook faults, be there in the tough times. Real love is not always easy. It takes grit and determination, picking yourself up when you fall, trying to do the right thing, even when you’re not sure what that is.

Earthly rulers can give rich gifts, positions of power or honor, special favors. But tonight we celebrate the gift of self, Jesus to us, and we to one another in his name. And we celebrate real love, tried and true, beaten and weathered, even when it hurts. But especially when it triumphs, even over death.

Homily for Palm Sunday of the Passion of the Lord March 29, 2026

Thu, 09 Apr 2026 10:17:59 GMT

Daring to Trust.

Homily for Palm Sunday of the Passion of the Lord

March 29, 2026

It was a crowded day at the Jersey shore; the weather was hot and the beach overflowed with bathers. A woman was splashing in the surf when she accidentally stepped off the sandbar and dropped into a swift undertow that dragged her under the water. Frantically, she struggled to escape the strong current, yelling for help. At least twenty adults watched from the shoreline, apparently paralyzed, until a young man sprinted into the surf, swam out to her and helped her back to the beach.

A witness to the event described the episode to the beach patrol. He spoke of his admiration for the young man who responded so quickly, and of his contempt for all those people who stood by and failed to act. “The woman had been in a dangerous situation and those people didn’t even seem to care,” he grumbled.

The officer looked at the man and said, “The world often seems divided between those who care and those who don’t care enough. But don’t judge too harshly. It takes courage to care greatly.”

As we read todays scripture passages, we encounter Jesus, who cared very deeply, to the bitter end, and to his last drop of blood. He knew what was coming. He had encountered opposition to his teaching and his actions, right from the start. He knew that one of his disciples would betray him; he knew that another would deny him. He knew that the Apostles would run away out of fear. He knew what crucifixion was. He prayed for some alternative to that torture. He knew he would be sentenced on false charges. He knew he would die.

And yet, from the very first step that his donkey took, the inevitable parade to Calvary started, the predictable countdown to death would begin. But he had courage. His mind was made up.

In a recent message to the people gathered in St. Peter’s square, Pope Leo said this: “In our lives, both individually and as a Church, interior struggles or circumstances we deem unfavorable can lead us to believe that it is not the right time to proclaim the Gospel, to make a decision, or to change a situation. In this way, however, we risk becoming paralyzed by indecision or imprisoned by excessive prudence, whereas the Gospel calls us to dare to trust” (Angelus Message, January 25, 2026, L’Osservatore Romano, February 2026, p.60).

As we enter this Holy Week, as we contemplate the love and courage of Jesus, I was struck by Pope Leo’s words because I think they apply to every situation in which we are afraid, when we would rather run away than take a stand, when we would prefer to cry in misery rather than face our challenges with courage and hope. These few words from Pope Leo can serve as a guide for our observance of Holy Week. Think of these words. Meditate on them. Chew on them in some moments of quiet. The Gospel calls us to dare to trust. No matter what we are experiencing, no matter how difficult life becomes, the Gospel calls us to dare to trust.

Homily for the Fifth Sunday of Lent March 22, 2026

Wed, 08 Apr 2026 20:09:29 GMT

Overcoming Indifference.

Homily for the Fifth Sunday of Lent

March 22, 2026

Once a wise old teacher was speaking to a group of young and eager students. He gave them the assignment to go out by the side of some lonely road and find a small, unnoticed flower. He asked them to study the flower for a long time. “Get a magnifying glass and study the delicate veins in the leaves, and notice the nuances and shades of color. Turn the leaf slowly and observe its symmetry. And remember: this flower might have gone unnoticed and unappreciated if you had not found and admired it.”

When the class returned after carrying out the assignment, the wise old teacher observed, “People are just like that unnoticed flower, too. Each person is different, carefully crafted, uniquely endowed. But you have to spend time with a person to know this. So many people go unnoticed and unappreciated because no one has ever taken time with them and admired their uniqueness.”

We have this incredibly powerful story of the raising of Lazarus, a person very definitely dead (in the tomb for four days) being brought back to life. And there is an obvious message in that. Can you imagine being there at that moment? Can you begin to understand the astonishment people felt? Can you envisage the reaction of Martha and Mary to have their absolute sorrow turned to utter joy? The obvious message is: Jesus is the real deal. He has power over life and death.

But, interestingly enough, in the gospel of Luke, there is a parable that Jesus tells (Luke 16:19-31) with a man named Lazarus. It is the story of the rich man and the beggar Lazarus, who sits at the rich man’s gate. His condition is dire; it says that Lazarus “longed to eat the scraps that fell from the rich man’s table,” and that he was covered with sores that dogs would lick. The point of the story is that, even though the wealthy man could have tripped over Lazarus, he never did anything to alleviate his condition. And, according to the story, he ends up in a place of torment.

But I wanted to explore this a bit further. So, I googled the question: What is the opposite of life? And, to my surprise, the search engine came up with four answers. (1) Probably the most obvious: the opposite of life is death. (2) "Death is not the opposite of life. Life has no opposite. Death is the opposite of birth. Life is eternal." ~ Eckhart Tolle ~ (3) That which is inanimate, such as a rock. (4) Now, here’s the most interesting one: from a psychological perspective, the opposite of life is apathy or indifference. The rich man in Jesus’ story is, at the very least, indifferent to the poor beggar.

Pope Francis often spoke out about indifference in today’s world. He noted that we can get so caught up in our own little worlds that we fail to notice the suffering going on around us. And, because of the rapid pace of the news about wars, terrorism, various disasters, and political infighting, we can simply be overwhelmed by all that is disconcerting and frightening. Also, there’s an epidemic of loneliness and a lack of connectedness in our world. Like the poor, lonely flower beside the road the teacher asked his students to notice and appreciate, many suffer alone, unnoticed and ignored.

But Jesus’ challenge, his basic message, is that we cannot be apathetic or indifferent. Remember the great judgment scene of Matthew chapter twenty-five: 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, and you took care of me. If we are apathetic or indifferent about people in our community, we’re being apathetic and indifferent to Jesus! We’re ignoring people who, like Lazarus in Jesus’ parable, are experiencing a slow death, brought about by hunger, poverty, illness and neglect.

Remember the assignment of the wise old teacher in the story, asking his students to study an overlooked flower beside the road. “People are just like that unnoticed flower, too. Each person is different, carefully crafted, uniquely endowed. But you have to spend time with a person to know this. So many people go unnoticed and unappreciated because no one has ever taken time with them and admired their uniqueness.”

My suggestion: try to do something concrete to make a real difference. Is there someone you know you should visit? Someone sad who could use some cheering up? Some food you can donate? Some clothes you don’t really need? Some worthy cause that you could support? If you make a difference, there will be that much less indifference in our community.

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Lent March 15, 2026

Mon, 16 Mar 2026 23:46:40 GMT

Sight and Insight.

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Lent

March 15, 2026

A story from Hans Christian Anderson…

The tale concerns an emperor who has an obsession with fancy new clothes and spends lavishly on them at the expense of state matters. One day, two con men visit the emperor's capital. Posing as weavers, they offer to supply him with magnificent clothes that are invisible to those who are either incompetent or stupid. The gullible emperor hires them, and they set up looms and pretend to go to work. A succession of officials, starting with the emperor's wise and competent minister, and then ending with the emperor himself, visit them to check their progress. Each sees that the looms are empty but pretends otherwise to avoid being thought a fool. Finally, the "weavers" report that the emperor's suit is finished. They mime dressing him, and he sets off in a procession before the whole city. The townsfolk uncomfortably go along with the pretense, not wanting to appear inept or stupid, until a child blurts out that the emperor is wearing nothing at all. The entire town then realizes the truth of the observation and repeats the child's cry. The emperor awkwardly continues with the procession.

In today’s remarkable story, we find Jesus healing a man blind from birth. But there is a deeper message: while the blind man gains deeper insight into the truth of who Jesus is, there are other characters in the story who become increasingly and stubbornly blind.

First, there is the question, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” This was a common view at that time that blindness was a punishment for sin. Jesus does away with that interpretation by responding, “Neither he nor his parents sinned; it is so that the works of God might be made visible through him.” Jesus, in performing this miracle, was revealing that he was the Messiah, the one who would enable the blind to see.

Then, when the authorities question the man, they do not see the miracle right in front of them. When they ask how the man was healed, he explains that Jesus made clay and opened his eyes on the sabbath. Now, according to the rules, no work was to be done on the sabbath. So, they conclude, “This man is not from God, because he does not keep the sabbath.”

Notice the growing insight of the blind man, who now asks, “How can a sinful man do such signs?”

Next, the authorities question the man’s parents. They give a half-hearted response, “We know that this is our son and that he was born blind. We do not know how he sees now, nor do we know who opened his eyes. He is of age; he can speak for himself.” Why this lukewarm response? Because the authorities had decreed that anyone who accepted Jesus as Messiah would be kicked out of the synagogue. Their answer is based on fear, not on truth.

Next, the authorities question the man further. They claim to be disciples of Moses, not this man (in other words, they are strict followers of the law as they understand it). When they say they don’t know Jesus or his origins, the cured man replies, “This is what is so amazing, that you do not know where he is from, yet he opened my eyes. We know that God does not listen to sinners, but if one is devout and does his will, he listens to him. …If this man were not from God, he would not be able to do anything.” The authorities then go back to the old belief, “You were born totally in sin, and are you trying to teach us?”

In the end, the man born blind came to full faith and worshiped Jesus. The authorities, blind to what is right in front of them, will ultimately reject Jesus and insist on his execution. Most of the crowd, either out of ignorance or fear, will go along with them. At the foot of the cross, only the faithful few will remain.

The blind man who receives his sight is like the boy in the Hans Christian Anderson story. He is honest, pure and truthful. He dares to say what he sees right in front of him, even though the others might think he is inept or stupid. The emperor, insisting that he is neither inept or stupid, continues the parade in all his royal nakedness.

There is a clear warning in these stories: beware of following the crowd, simply going along, blindly believing everything you are told. I think that all of us tend to interpret reality according to our presumptions, likes, tastes, and prejudices. Some, for example, always wear Republican reading glasses, and others Democratic. Some will take whatever they read in social media as the gospel truth, while others insist on Matthew, Mark, Luke or John. Think of how many were blind followers of Adolf Hitler. Their hatred and fear of Jews blinded their hearts to the gospel of love. Think of how many in our day have accepted the gospel of violence and revenge, killing innocent people in schools, malls, places of work, and homes. Think of the scapegoating that is going on: blaming people who are from a different culture, of speak a different language, for all the troubles in society.

The message I see in today’s gospel has to do with the danger of following the party line, of blindly following along, of closing our eyes to immoral behavior, and accepting things that we would never have dreamed of accepting before. Whom do we believe? Whom do we follow? And where does Jesus, who can cure blindness, fit into the way we see our world?

Homily for the Third Sunday of Lent March 8, 2026

Fri, 13 Mar 2026 10:29:26 GMT

Love, Like Water, Needs to Flow.

Homily for the Third Sunday of Lent

March 8, 2026

Today’s gospel about the woman at the well and the importance of water reminded me of an interesting experience I had in Israel many years ago.

The Sea of Galilee and the Dead Sea are both formed from the same supply of water. It flows down, clear and cool, from Mount Hermon. The Sea of Galilee makes beauty of its water, for the sea has an outlet. It gets to give. It gathers in its riches that it may pour them out again to fertilize the Jordan plain.

The Dead Sea, on the other hand, with the same source of refreshing water, is desolate, for the Dead Sea has no outlet. I had the interesting experience of “swimming” in the Dead Sea. Because of the particular makeup of the water, you can’t sink! Unfortunately, someone near me kicked the water, and I got it in my eye. All the salt made my eye burn, and I had nothing un-salty to clear the water from my eye.

In today’s gospel we have John’s extensive story of the Samaritan woman at the well. Note, first, that she goes to the well all by herself at noon, during the hottest part of the day. All the others would have gone in the cool of the early morning to get their water. Evidently, because of her past, she was being shunned by the people of the town.

During the course of the conversation, Jesus, in effect, holds up a mirror to the woman. He makes clear that he knows her entire story. He cares enough about her to make sure that he, too, is there at the wrong time of day, in the scorching heat.

You might say that, when the woman arrives, she is like the Dead Sea: all the sins of her past, all the pains of her present, are locked up inside her like a swamp with no exit. She probably arrives, thinking that, because of her past, she really doesn’t have much of a future.

As the conversation continues, some amazing things begin to happen. The woman comes to realize that she doesn’t need to be imprisoned by her past. Jesus, even with a detailed knowledge of her past, is patient, gentle and forgiving. He allows her to forgive herself, to reclaim her God-given dignity, and to see an entirely different future. And at the same time that she comes to know who she really is, she comes gradually to know who Jesus is—not only the one that knew even her darkest secrets, but the Messiah who was to bring light, life and salvation to the human race.

So, the swamp flows out of the woman because new water, flowing and life giving, is restoring and healing her soul. And she is so transformed that, rather than hiding in shame from her neighbors, she now brings the good news to them. The life she has is no longer locked up in the past, it flows with gratitude and new possibilities. And it is so strong, so beautiful, it has to be proclaimed, it has to be shared—even with those who had despised and judged her harshly. They were no longer her tormentors; they were neighbors worthy of the same love she had been shown by Jesus—not recrimination or revenge.

What strikes me about this whole story is how powerful and life-changing Jesus’ love can be. He heals the woman who, in turn, helps heal the entire town. There is both a personal and a communal aspect to sin and forgiveness. Each of us, individually, can be clogged like the Dead Sea, imprisoned by a sinful past and present. To have a truly radiant and joyful future, we have to drain the swamp.

The same is true on a larger scale. Society as a whole can lose its way. Things that had never been acceptable before are now the victims of compromise. Moral standards, which helped to make life in community possible, and which trained the young in civic and personal virtue, can be corrupted. So, what’s to be done? We need to do what the woman did when freed from her past. We need the life-giving water to flow through us and out into the world. We may not be able to do big things, impacting an entire nation, but we can make a difference, one life at a time. If we want to be healed, we need to be healers. If we want to experience peace, then we need to be peaceable. If we have encountered the One who knows us completely, and still loves us, that’s incredibly good news that needs to spread. Do you feel healed, forgiven, loved? If so, spread the healing, the forgiveness, and the love! Love can’t be a dead end. It needs to flow.

Homily for the Second Sunday of Lent March 1, 2026

Fri, 13 Mar 2026 10:15:58 GMT

Do We Want to Heal Our Suffering World?

Homily for the Second Sunday of Lent

March 1, 2026

The question was once asked of a highly successful businessman, “How have you done so much in your lifetime?”

He replied, “I dream. You see, I turned my mind loose to imagine what I wanted to do. Then I went to bed and thought about my dreams. In the night, I dreamt about my dreams. And when I rose in the morning, I saw the way to make my dreams real. While other people were saying, ‘You can’t do that; it isn’t possible,’ I was well on my way to achieve what I wanted.”

As Woodrow Wilson, twenty-eighth president of the United States, said: “We grow great by dreams. All big [people] are dreamers. They see things in the soft haze of a spring day or in the red glow of a fireplace on a long winter’s evening. Some of us let these great dreams die, but others nourish and protect them—nourish them through bad days until they bring them to the sunshine and light that always comes to those who sincerely hope their dreams will come true.”

So please, don’t let anyone steal your dreams or try to tell you they are impossible.

We have in today’s gospel reading the biblical account of what is known as the transfiguration of Jesus Christ. It’s obviously something outside of ordinary human experience. Human beings generally don’t become intensely white and glow like a nuclear explosion. Figures who have long-since been dead don’t normally appear in order to have a chat. And if someone tells us that they’re hearing voices, we might suggest that they see a psychiatrist.

In this passage, the overwhelming sense of suddenly being in the twilight zone hits Peter, and he starts babbling. Wow, Lord, it’s great to be here. Let me set up some tents for you and the two dead guys, and we can all gather around the fire and sing camp songs.

But that’s not it, really, is it? When God’s voice is heard in the presence of obvious power and beauty that goes beyond, transcending normal human experience—God has their attention, doesn’t he?

So what are we to learn from this powerful scripture passage? I believe it starts with what the Apostles hear: This is my beloved Son; listen to him. He’s going to share my dream with you, my dream for what can be if you truly listen. Do you want to teach the world—to love the world—to heal the world—to restore the world—the world I dreamed of from the first moment of creation? If you do, then listen. Listen as Jesus shares my dream with you.

What is this dream? We find it in the Lord’s Prayer: thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. We find a description of what this kingdom should look like in Jesus’ teaching:

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for the kingdom of heaven is theirs.

Blessed are the meek, the merciful, those who are mourning, those who hunger and thirst for justice.

Humility, compassion, mercy, forgiveness, justice, peace, taking care of the poor and the oppressed—these are God’s dream for the world.

We learn about God’s dream when Jesus teaches about how our lives will be judged: 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, and you came to me. These are God’s dreams for the world.

We learn about God’s dream when Jesus goes beyond the letter of the law. You had been told in the past: love your neighbor, your fellow countrymen, those who look and act like you. But I tell you, love your enemies. Pray for your persecutors. Do good, even to those who hate you. Forgive, as I have forgiven you. These are God’s dreams for the world.

We learn about God’s dream from the way Jesus broke down barriers. He dared to touch ten lepers and heal them. It didn’t matter that one of them was a hated Samaritan. As a matter of fact, he was the only one who expressed his gratitude, the only one who said thank you for being restored. Jesus healed the heart and soul of the Samaritan woman at the well. He told a story about a man who was beaten and left, half-dead, in a ditch. Who was the only one who stopped to take care of him? A Samaritan, the true neighbor, the only one who showed compassion.

We learn, most of all, from the way Jesus acted. At a very powerful, teachable moment, for example, when he was dying on the cross, Jesus prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what to do.”

Jesus’ way was one of inclusion, compassion, mercy, forgiveness, justice, peace, and support for outcasts, those living in poverty, and those with no voice. Much of our world seems to revolve around exclusion, cruelty, judgmentalism, violence, support for the wealthy, and making life miserable for those with little capacity to defend themselves.

So, the question raised by our gospel today has very practical consequences. Do we want to teach the world that there is a better way? Do we want to heal our suffering world? Do we want to restore what has been lost? In short, do we want to share in God’s dream, praying that “thy kingdom come, thy will be done?” If so, God’s voice is clear: Listen to him. Listen.

Homily for the Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time February 15, 2026

Tue, 17 Feb 2026 11:24:37 GMT

Harnessing Anger Before It Explodes.

Homily for the Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time

February 15, 2026

The story is told of a silly argument that left two sisters bitter after the death of their mother. For years, they barely spoke, and rarely saw one another. If the truth were known, they could hardly remember what the “squabble” was about. An aunt thought it was over a piece of cheap costume jewelry they both wanted because it “looked so much like mother.”

One night the seventeen-year-old son of the younger sister was seriously injured in a car wreck. When word reached the boy’s estranged aunt, her heart was broken. Visions of her own son raced through her mind as she began to weep. She also pictured the tormented face of her younger sister. As she thought about her, she saw her as a little girl playing with her dolls; a teenager getting ready for her first date; a beautiful bride; a wife; a mother. The “squabble” seemed so petty now.

The older sister jumped into her car and raced across town to the hospital where her sister’s family was waiting…praying for the boy. When she entered the hospital waiting room and saw her sister for the first time in years, she ran to her, hugged her, and said, “I’m sorry.”

How sad that she didn’t say it sooner. How wonderful that she did and how wonderful that she became reconciled with her sister before any more precious time passed!

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As I look at our society today, it seems to me that many people are angry, anxious and upset about one aspect or another of what’s going on in our world. When the anger boils over, some turn to violence to express their anger.

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In today’s gospel, Jesus makes some incredibly demanding and challenging statements. What he’s making clear is that our external actions are preceded by our internal thoughts, feelings and attitudes. Violence and murder don’t just happen; there is an internal spark that starts the fire. Anger can lead to our not talking to someone for years, or it can lead to acts of violence, and even murder. The additional problem is that others are adding fuel to the fire, turning disagreement and disappointment into outright hate and the desire for revenge.

Anger over the way in which a student is mistreated and bullied in school has led to mass shootings in schools. Politicians and those in authority, as well as their family members, are being assaulted because of things they’ve said or voted for. Some time ago, an angry mob attacked the nation’s capital, making our elected representatives scurry for safety, as a hangman’s noose was set up for the Vice President of the United States. It all started with anger, and it was fueled by angry rhetoric.

Some have said that in this Sermon Jesus is asking too much. It is an impossible ethic. After all, who of us can say that we’ve never had an angry thought?

But I would argue that Jesus is on to something. There is a slippery slope that starts with anger. But if that fire of anger isn’t dealt with, it can lead to greater, and far more dangerous anger, the carrying of a grudge, the desire for revenge, and the decision to make someone pay.

So, what can we do about it? We can begin by examining ourselves. Are there “petty squabbles” in our lives that have led to responses of hatred or the desire for revenge? Do we want to get even and see harm done to people who have bullied us or made our lives miserable? Do we respond with mental, verbal, or physical abuse when we don’t get our way?

And, on a broader scale, can we expect our public officials to start acting for the common good? Can we expect them to be purveyors of compassion rather than hate, prejudice and discrimination?

Jesus’ teaching is not about impossibility. It is about a tough love that sees the danger of uncontrolled anger, and then reveals that there is a better way. Jesus’ teaching in this famous Sermon on the Mount gives us a means for defusing our passions by helping us to understand them, and then get them under control. As we look at our society today, the alternative is unacceptable.

Homily for the Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time February 8, 2026

Tue, 17 Feb 2026 11:09:08 GMT

Salt and Light: All Members of One World.

Homily for the Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time

February 8, 2026

Bob Greene, who was a columnist for the Chicago Tribune, related that one cold night after a game, Chicago Bulls super-star Michael Jordan headed through a large crowd toward his car. As he opened the car door, Jordan saw a youngster in a wheelchair some twenty feet away. The boy’s neck was bent at an unnatural angle; his eyes could not look directly forward. Jordan walked over to the boy and knelt beside him. The youngster was so excited that he began to rise out of the wheelchair. Michael comforted him, talked softly, and put his arm around the boy’s frail shoulder.

The boy’s father tried to snap a picture, but the camera didn’t work. Jordan noticed. Without being asked, he continued to kneel at the boy’s side until the father was able to take the picture. Only then did Michael return to his car.

The boy’s eyes were glistening with tears of joy. His dad was already replaying the moment with his son. If nothing good ever happens again for that little boy, he will always know that on one night Michael Jordan cared enough to include him in his world.

This story reminded me of a particularly effective commercial some years ago. It’s a McDonald’s commercial, and it’s about the relationship of a teen-aged boy and his young sister. It’s obvious that the girl idolizes her older brother, enjoys his presence, and loves him deeply. Well, on one occasion both are in a McDonald’s, but not together. The girl is with her parents, while her brother is together with some of his high school friends. It could be a basketball team celebrating their victory. At one point, the brother gets up from his place, walks over to his sister, and hands her a French fry. The heart-warming moment reveals that the young man cared enough to include his sister in his world.

In today’s gospel reading, Jesus uses two images to describe his followers: salt and light. Salt at that time was used as a preservative, a healing agent, and a substance that added flavor and zest to a meal. Light, of course, enabled people to see in the dark, to get from one place to another safely, and to serve as a protector against scary things, both real and imagined.

As images, salt and light represented gifts that Jesus’ followers had received: they were able to make life better for others, to make life worth living when others were discouraged, to show the way when others were feeling lost or overwhelmed.

It’s like Michael Jackson taking a few moments to notice a boy in a wheelchair, or like an older brother showing his love with a French fry. It’s showing others that we care enough to make them a part of our world. It’s taking time to notice that someone needs an arm around the shoulder, or a word of encouragement, or a simple smile.

Our world, as we know, is terribly divided. People on both sides of the divide feel as if their life is disrupted, out of balance, uncertain, and frightening. How are we to be salt and light for the people of our day?

It seems to me that there’s a growing feeling that people everywhere need to know that their cries of pain and uncertainty are being heard, that we are with them, and that we acknowledge that they are part of our world. There’s a growing feeling that there are values that need to be preserved, always and everywhere, values enshrined in the Beatitudes, which we studied last week: love, compassion, mercy, the thirst for justice and peace. There’s a growing feeling that we can’t hide our love and concern, that people of faith can’t stay on the sidelines. There is a growing awareness that dares to say, we are part of one world. Let us embrace and walk together on the path of forgiveness and healing. This is the path of salt and light

Homily for the Third Sunday in Ordinary Time February 1, 2026

Mon, 16 Feb 2026 11:44:45 GMT

The Beatitudes: Transforming Hearts and Societies

Homily for the Third Sunday in Ordinary Time

February 1, 2026

The 20 ^th century rabbi, author and novelist, Chaim Potok, wrote the following with regards to a brilliant son:

Yahweh, Master of the Universe, blest me with a brilliant son. And he cursed me with the problems of raising him. Ah, what it is to have a brilliant son. Joshua, a boy with a mind like a jewel. Ah, what a curse it is, what an anguish it is to have a Josh whose is mind is like a pearl, like a sun.

Yahweh, when my son Joshua was six years old, I saw him reading a story, he swallowed it as one swallows food or water. There was no heart in my Joshua, there was only his mind. He was a mind in a body without a heart. It was a story about a poor old man and his struggle to get to Jerusalem before he died. Ah, how this man suffered! And my Joshua enjoyed the last terrible page because when he finished it, he realized for the first time what a splendid memory he possessed. He looked at me proudly and re-told the story from memory, and I cried inside my heart.

I went outside and shouted to the Master of the Universe, “Why? What have you done to me? A mind like this I need for a son? A heart I need for a son. A soul I need for a son. Compassion I want from my son. Righteousness, mercy, strength to suffer and carry pain, that I want from my son, not a mind without a soul, without a heart.”

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In today’s gospel, we have listened to a central part of Jesus’ teaching, a summary of his entire message. You could describe these Beatitudes as Jesus’ desire for his followers to have heart, to have a soul, to be loving and compassionate.

Being “poor in spirit” is at the heart of it. The poor in spirit are humble people who know they need God, and who want to live according to the pattern God has placed before our lives. These Beatitudes, which are counter-intuitive and counter-cultural, basically enumerate the attitudes, the lived attitudes that will put us in touch with the heart of Jesus Christ.

Blessed are those who mourn. Why? Because you feel incomplete; you know something is missing; you realize that there is a big hole in your heart that needs healing. And so, you are not self-sufficient and self-contained. You need God, and you need others, to become whole again.

Blessed are the meek. Why? Because you probably don’t have a swelled head, a runaway, self-righteous ego. You are open to others; you treat people with gentleness. You have a compassionate heart.

Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness. Why? Because your compassionate heart enables you to see how other people are treated. You can sympathize with their lot in life. You know when they are not treated fairly, or when they are used by others. You hate to see little, powerless people treated as if they have no dignity, as if they are little more than pests who get in the way of the schemes and plots of others.

Blest are the merciful. Why? Because, basically, they have found that terrorizing others leads to hatred, anger, and a disrespect for another person made in the image and likeness of God.

Let’s take a concrete example. A lot of people are really upset about what is happening in Minneapolis. And let me say, I’m not talking about the politics of it, so much as the morality of what is taking place. Some time ago, when the people of the world saw the video of how George Floyd was treated, there were demonstrations, not just here in our nation, but all around the world. Conscience was awakened when people felt that this just wasn’t right. Feeling the need to be heard, to give voice to the moral outrage they were feeling, they felt they had to do something. And now, the same thing is happening with the deaths of Renee Good and Alex Pretti. Many of those who are poor in spirit are mourning because of those deaths. They are seeing the opposite of mercy and meekness on display. They are hungering and thirsting for justice in a situation in which they feel justice is being denied.

Now, let me be clear: Not once have I used terms like politics, or Democrat or Republican. Some things are right or wrong no matter which party happens to be in power. I’m quoting the most basic teaching of Jesus as found in the Beatitudes. I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean for us to put these values into practice only for the one hour we spend in church. These are powerful attitudes that are meant to transform both individual hearts and whole societies. Showing mercy, compassion, sorrow, and a desire for justice and peace are not just a Christian agenda. They are a human agenda. They are right, not because they are Christian, but because they are true.

Somebody else will have to figure out the legal aspects of what is going on. But I am mourning with our brothers and sisters in Minneapolis. I am mourning with people right here in our own community who are afraid. And I’m ready to be judged, and even persecuted, because I am speaking the truth of the gospel as I see it. By nature, I am not a demonstrator at the drop of a hat. But I am passionate about how people are treated, and whether or not they have their dignity respected. And I feel that, if we don’t do that, our society could fall apart.

You know, faith and religion can be hijacked so that they become the servant rather than the master. In the first instance, I do not turn to the approach of one political party or another. I turn to something more basic, something at the heart of the gospel: love. Love is the standard given to us by Jesus Christ and his earliest followers. Convention may tell me to stay out of politics, but no one can tell me to stay out of love, or goodness, or compassion or truth. These are the core values that make us “blessed.” These are the standards by which we live.

Homily for the Third Sunday in Ordinary Time January 25, 2026

Sat, 24 Jan 2026 19:05:32 GMT

A Light into the Darkness.

Homily for the Third Sunday in Ordinary Time

January 25, 2026

Some years ago, a Greek philosopher and teacher ended a lecture asking, “Are there any questions?” In the audience was a popular author named Robert Fulghum. Fulghum asked, “Dr. Papaderos, what is the meaning of life?” This was followed by some laughter and some people stirred to go. Papaderos held up his hand and stilled the room, looked at Fulghum for some time, asking with his eyes if this was a serious question. Seeing that it was, the philosopher decided to answer the question.

Taking his wallet out of his pocket, he fished into it and brought out a very small, round mirror, about the size of a quarter. Then he said, “When I was a small child, during the war, we were very poor and we lived in a remote village. One day, on the road, I found several broken pieces of a mirror from a wrecked German motorcycle. I tried to find all the pieces and put it back together, but it was not possible, so I kept only the largest piece. This one. And by scratching it on a stone I made it round. I began to play with it as a toy and became fascinated by the fact that I could reflect light into dark places where the sun would never shine—in deep holes and crevices and dark closets. It became a game for me to get light into the most inaccessible places I could find. I kept the little mirror, and as I went about growing up, I would take it out in idle moments and continue the challenge of the game. As I became a man, I grew to understand that this was not just a child’s game but a metaphor for what I might do with my life. I came to understand that I am not the light or the source of the light. But light—truth, understanding, knowledge—is there, and it will only shine in many dark places if I reflect it. I am a fragment of a mirror whose whole design and shape I do not know. Nevertheless, with what I have, I can reflect light into the dark places of this world—into the black places of the hearts of men—and change some things in some people. Perhaps others may see and do likewise. This is what I am about. This is the meaning of my life.

In today’s readings we find a reference to light. In the first passage from Isaiah, we have heard, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom a light has shone.” In the Responsorial Psalm: “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom should I fear?” And in the Gospel, when Jesus enters Galilee, Matthew makes reference back to our first reading from Isaiah: “the people who sit in darkness have seen a great light, on those dwelling in a land overshadowed by death light has arisen.”

And then, Jesus invites others to share in his mission. He calls Simon Peter, Andrew, James and John, inviting them to drop their fishing nets, and follow him. They would no longer be catching fish; now, their focus is on people, particularly those living in darkness, gloom and death. They are called to join Jesus in bringing the light of God to those whose lives are bleak: living in poverty, illness, ignorance, abuse and isolation. They are called to reflect, not the light of the sun, but the light of the very Son of God, the light of the world.

Now, I want to focus briefly on our second reading of St. Paul to the Corinthians. He has heard that there are divisions in the Church community, and he doesn’t like it. “I urge you, brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ,” he wrote, “that all of you agree in what you say, and that there be no divisions among you.” He has heard that there are rivalries, people claiming that they are in different camps, different parties, if you will. I belong to Paul. I belong to Apollos. I belong to Peter.

Paul asks some questions that get to the heart of the matter. “Is Christ divided? Was Paul crucified for you? Or were you baptized in the name of Paul?” Through all these rivalries, Paul sees that the people are warping the message, making it less genuine. Why would anyone want to join them if they’re fighting all the time?

Well, today we are the disciples. We are called to be bearers of light, and harmony and healing. We are called to fish in the name of Jesus, making his life and teaching attractive, so that others will want to become part of it—so that they will want to spread light rather than darkness, and love, not hate.

Let’s remember the question with which we started: what is the meaning of life? What’s your life all about? What do you hope to accomplish? Have you really thought about it? Well, here’s our chance. Can we join Jesus in his fishing expedition? Can we unite around his purpose? Can we bring light to those who are discouraged, lonely, neglected, battered down by life, living in poverty, illness, or neglect? Can we be light in very real, practical ways, right here in our part of God’s world?

Homily for the Second Sunday in Ordinary Time January 18, 2026

Sat, 24 Jan 2026 18:58:50 GMT

Rest, But Don’t Quit.

Homily for the Second Sunday in Ordinary Time

January 18, 2026

A story is told about James Garfield, the twentieth president of the United States. In an earlier time, he was president of Hiram College in Ohio. He once was approached by the father of a young student seeking admission to the college. The father criticized the length and the difficulty of the required curriculum. “Can’t you simplify the course work? My son will never get through all this academic work. There should be a shorter route.”

Garfield replied, “I believe I can arrange such a plan, but it all depends upon what you want for your son. When God wants to make an oak tree, he takes a hundred years. And, when God wants to make a squash, he requires only two months.”

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Many years ago, there was a Broadway play, later made into a movie, entitled Fiddler on the Roof. It deals with a Jewish family and the larger community, within Russia. At a certain point, the authorities begin to drive the struggling Jewish people from the area. And so, they have to pack up their things and leave. One person says to the Rabbi, “Rabbi, wouldn’t it be wonderful if the Messiah came?” The Rabbi reflects for a moment and responds, “Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait someplace else.”

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Many of us are not good at waiting. We lack patience when we have to wait in line at the post office or the bank, when we’re late for an appointment and the traffic is bumper to bumper. If it’s been a long day and you’re tired out, it’s harder to wait.

In today’s Responsorial Psalm there is this line: “I have waited, waited for the Lord, and he stooped toward me and heard my cry. And he put a new song into my mouth, a hymn to our God.”

For years, for centuries, the people had been waiting for a Messiah, or Savior, only to be disappointed time after time. Can you imagine, then, the significance of John the Baptist’s announcement in today’s gospel? “The one who sent me to baptize with water told me, ‘On whomever you see the Spirit come down and remain, he is the one who will baptize with the Holy Spirit.’ Now I have seen and testified that he is the Son of God.”

John has testified that the Son of God has come into our world, into our lives, and is with us. The waiting was worth it! Now, because of Jesus, our life is on a positive trajectory—not toward death and despair, but toward life and hope.

And yet, life can get pretty heavy and challenging. Especially in our time, when there seems to be so much cruelty, when those at the top don’t seem to care, a lot of people are ready to throw in the towel.

There’s a short poem I read recently that really spoke to me. Its title is Don’ Quit. Here’s the opening stanza:

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,

When the road you’re trudging seems all up

hill,

When the funds are low and the debts are high,

And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,

When care is pressing you down a bit,

Rest, if you must—but don’t quit.

[Clinton Howell, “Don’t Quit,” Fresh Packet of Sower’s Seeds: Third Planting, Brian Cavanaugh, T.O.R., 1994, Paulist Press.]

I know that when people are depressed and feeling discouraged, they don’t particularly want to hear poetry read to them. But this poetry is meant for us today. Can we be a positive force, enlightened by our faith, to help those who are thinking of quitting? Can we simply be there, listen patiently, and help to raise the spirits of someone who is despairing? The hardest way in which to deal with burdens is alone. Can we be there for each other?

If we are going to do that, our own faith needs to be strengthened. Take these words from Psalm 40 with you today, let them penetrate your minds and hearts: “I have waited, waited for the Lord, and he stooped toward me and heard my cry. And he put a new song into my mouth, a hymn to our God.”

Can you do that? Can you trust God. In the words of the poem: “Rest if you must—but don’t quit.”

Homily for the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord January 11, 2026

Sat, 24 Jan 2026 18:49:14 GMT

To Whom Do You Listen?

Homily for the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord

January 11, 2026

A young girl named Cindy glanced nervously at the clock on the kitchen wall. “They should be home any time now,” she thought as she put the finishing touches on the chocolate cake she was frosting. It was the first time in her twelve years she had tried to make a cake from scratch and, to be honest, it wasn’t exactly an aesthetic triumph. The cake was…well, lumpy. And the frosting was bitter, as if she had run out of sugar or something. Which, of course, she had.

And then there was the way the kitchen looked. Imagine a huge blender filled with all the fixings for chocolate cake—including the requisite bowls, pans and utensils. Now imagine that the blender is turned on. High speed. With the lid off. Do you get the idea?

But Cindy wasn’t thinking about the mess. She had created something, a veritable phoenix of flour and sugar rising out of the kitchen clutter. She was anxious for her parents to return from their date so she could present her anniversary gift to them. She turned off the kitchen lights and waited excitedly in the darkness. When at last she saw the flash of the car headlights, she positioned herself in the kitchen doorway. By the time she heard the key sliding into the front door, she was close to exploding.

Her parents tried to slip in quietly, but Cindy would have none of that. She flipped on the lights dramatically and trumpeted: “Ta-daaa!” She gestured grandly toward the kitchen table, where a slightly off-balance two-layer chocolate cake awaited their inspection.

But her mother’s eyes never made it all the way to the table. “Just look at this mess!” she moaned. “How many times have I talked to you about cleaning up after yourself?”

“But Mom, I was only…”

“I should make you clean this up right now, but I’m too tired to stay up with you to make sure you get it done right,” her mother said. “So, you’ll do it first thing in the morning.”

“Honey,” Cindy’s father interjected gently, “take a look at the table.”

“I know—its’s a mess,” his wife said coldly. “The whole kitchen is a disaster. I can’t stand to look at it.” She stormed up the stairs into her room, slamming the door shut behind her.

For a few moments Cindy and her father stood silently, neither one knowing what to say. At last, she looked up at him, her eyes moist and red. “She never saw the cake,” she said.

In today’s gospel reading, a voice came from heaven, “You are my beloved Son; with you I am well pleased.”

Now, let’s compare that with some of the things said about Jesus in the Bible.

When Nathaniel is invited to become one of Jesus’ disciples, he responds, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” (John 1:46)

At one point, we are told that Jesus’ family “came to take charge of him, saying, ‘He is out of his mind” (Mark 3:21)

When Jesus said that he had the power to lay down his life, and the power to take it up again,

some of the people said, “He is possessed by a devil—out of his mind! Why pay any attention to him?” (John 10:20)

When some of the people reached for rocks to stone Jesus one day, he asks “Many good deeds have I shown you from the Father. For which of these do you stone me?” “It is not for any ‘good deed’ that we are stoning you,” they retorted, ‘”but for blaspheming. You who are only a man are making yourself God” (John 10:32-33).

When Jesus is being crucified, some of the leaders “kept jeering at him, saying, ‘He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, the chosen one.’ The soldiers also made fun of him, coming forward to offer him their sour wine and saying, ‘If you are the king of the Jews, save yourself’” (John 23:35-37).

These contrasting voices offered to Jesus make me want to ask: whose voice do I listen to? Which voices mean the most to me, or have power over me?

I was thinking back to the time of my adolescence. It’s a time when you want to fit in, you want to feel accepted. And you can be very sensitive to remarks people make, even in passing. Plus, there are people who are natural bullies; they have a knack of making life miserable for those they pick on.

Today, I think social media adds to the pressure. If you post a statement, or a photo, and you have 200 “friends”—that’s a lot of people who can pass judgment on you, what you’re doing, what you’re thinking. Plus, now you have AI, which can take almost anything and turn it into something else. I’ve seen some pretty wild things that President Donald Trump has supposedly said or done. And then, I ask myself, why isn’t this being covered by all the networks? Simple: it’s generated by AI. It isn’t true.

Today’s gospel has God the Father saying that Jesus is his Son with whom he is pleased. It happened at Jesus’ baptism. And I believe the same thing happens at every baptism—no, even before that, at every birth: You are my beloved son, my beloved daughter. I don’t make junk. I’m very pleased with you.

I think we have to ask ourselves: Does that matter to us? Does it make a difference for the strength of our ego that God thinks we’re terrific? What about all the people that are put down or bullied, and have all kinds of horrible things said about them, but never hear what their Creator thinks? Wouldn’t it be nice if someone let them know?

So…to whom do you listen? Who can make your day or make you feel like an utter failure? I’m glad you’re here, so that you know God’s opinion of you: “You are my beloved sons and daughters. I love you more than you can imagine. Now, stop listening to all that other garbage! Believe in yourself, as I believe in you!”

Homily for the Solemnity of the Epiphany of the Lord January 4, 2026

Sat, 24 Jan 2026 18:40:05 GMT

Eagle or Snake.

Homily for the Solemnity of the Epiphany of the Lord

January 4, 2026

A central theme of today’s gospel is that of journey: three companions, strangers from the East, set out on a long journey in search of something that meant a great deal to them. It reminded me of the miles and miles of cars on Route 91, bumper to bumper, making their way toward Burlington, Vermont, because people wanted to see a total solar eclipse.

Many years ago, an insightful thinker, the Rev. Robert McAfee Brown, wrote an essay for Life magazine, addressing the question, “What is the meaning of life?” He wrote, “I believe we are placed here to be companions—a wonderful word that comes from the Latin cum panis, ‘with bread.’ We are here to share bread with one another so that everyone has enough, no one has too much. Our social order achieves this goal with maximum freedom and minimum coercion….And while the goal is too vast to be realized fully on this planet, it is still our task to create foretastes of in in this world. We are to generate living glimpses of what life is meant to be…”

This article had a special attraction for me because of the word the Rev. Brown uses, and its Latin root: companions, cum panis, with bread. I like that because it relates to what we do when we gather here, celebrating the Eucharist. We hit the pause button on our hectic life, giving us some time to seek wisdom by listening to the inspired word of God. And then we are given nourishment, the bread that is Jesus, to create glimpses of what life can be.

An article I read recently suggests that “there is a great battle that rages inside every person.” Then the anonymous story suggests: “One side is the soaring eagle. Everything the eagle stands for is good and true and beautiful. The eagle soars above the clouds. Even though it dips down into the valleys, the eagle builds its nest on the mountaintops.

“The other side is the slithering serpent, the rattlesnake. That crafty, deceitful snake represents the worst aspects of a person—the darker side. The snake feeds upon one’s downfalls and setbacks, and justifies itself by its presence in the slithering mass.

“Who wins this great battle in your life? None other than the one that is fed the most—the eagle, or the rattlesnake.”

Returning to our gospel story, for me the Magi are like the eagle. They are on a quest for something greater than themselves. They search for the meaningful, the good, and beautiful and true. They are not afraid to ask for guidance. They do not fear to learn by asking questions. And they can take the measure of a situation, discern whether it is good or evil, and adjust their journey accordingly.

The snake in the story is King Herod. He shows himself to be small and petty. He lives in ignorance in his own self-created little world. He asks questions, but not to seek the good, or the beautiful, or the true. He asks so that he can defend himself at all costs. A petty tyrant, he even goes so far as to order the massacre of little boys, two years of age and under, so that no one can ever challenge his power. He sees people as pawns that have meaning only to the extent that they can either help or hurt him. While the Magi feed the eagle within, Herod feeds the rattlesnake that he becomes, inch by inch, day by day.

At the end of the gospel, the Magi showed great wisdom. They wanted nothing to do with the tyrant and his schemes. They chose the bread of goodness, truth and beauty. Having gained insight, “having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed for their country by another way.”

The eagle and the rattlesnake, the Kingdom of God, or a living hell: that choice is always before us. Hopefully, by a steady diet of the Eucharist, we have gained the wisdom to make the right choice, and to change direction if we need to, praying, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…”

Homily for the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God January 1, 2026

Sun, 04 Jan 2026 11:07:06 GMT

We Have a Mother.

Homily for the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God

January 1, 2026

It is God who enables you

to smile in spite of tears;

to carry on when you feel like giving in;

to pray when you’re at a loss for words;

to love even though your heart has been broken

time and time again;

to sit calmly when you feel like throwing up

your hands in frustration;

to be understanding when nothing seems to

make sense;

to listen when you’d really rather not hear;

to share your feelings with others, because

sharing is necessary to ease the load.

On this feast day honoring Mary, the mother of God, we find this simple statement about Mary in today’s gospel: “And Mary kept all these things, reflecting on them in her heart.” Other translations use the word “treasure:” Mary treasured all these things in her heart.

And this is what we have come to expect of Mary, is it not? After all, she was visited by an angel, and was asked to consent to God’s plan for her. Two thousand years of art depict a calm, serene Mary with a halo around her head, perfectly tuned in to God’s will.

But I beg to differ. Because of the demands of a census, the very pregnant Mary had to make a one-hundred-mile trip on a donkey over dirt roads, with no one to offer comfort but Joseph. Now, I have to admit that I’ve never been pregnant, so this may be a stretch. But I’ve sat on a plane for fourteen hours, hoping to be anywhere else but in that miserable seat.

And then, when Mary and Joseph arrive in Bethlehem, they find that every place is booked. There’s no hospital. The best they can find is a shelter for animals. And then this band of shepherds barges in, not giving Mary any privacy.

Some days later, they learn that crazy King Herod is out to kill the child, so it’s back on the donkey, this time to Egypt, to a foreign land, where they will be refugees without any status, without any rights. And it’s all rather vague: stay there, they’re told, until King Herod is dead.

Through all of that, Mary reflected, Mary treasured what was happening because she and Joseph both knew that they were part of something bigger than the discomforts of the moment. And so, Mary was able to smile in spite of tears, to carry on when her weary body felt like giving in, to pray even though the words didn’t come easily, to sit calmly even when feeling like throwing up her hands in frustration, and to love even when the world seemed to give little love in return.

January 1 ^st is, as we’ve noted, the feast day of Mary, the Mother of God. It is also the universal day of prayer for peace. And so, it is the patronal feast day of Our Lady of Peace. For twenty years now, we have worshipped and prayed, welcomed one another, comforted one another, enjoyed one another, put up with one another—all under the watchful eyes of Mary.

We have a mother who is holy, to be sure. We have a mother who has taught us the value of compassion because she experienced what the world can be like when compassion is lacking. We have a mother who has experienced poverty, making do and providing a home for her little family. We have a mother who can sympathize with those who have experienced loss, and poverty, and the untimely loss of a child. We have a mother who has grit and a calm determination. She may have been pushed aside, but she was never counted out. Even when everyone else ran away, she was there, holding things together, encouraging the brokenhearted, sharing the wisdom she gained on the dusty roads of life.

For twenty years as the parish of Our Lady of Peace, we have had a mother who has been with us in all the ups and downs, all the accomplishments and disappointments, all the phases of our life. And because we have a mother who has always been there for us, we have tried always to be there for each other, and to be there for all the others who have needed us. If we are special in any way, it is because our mother is special.

Today, we pause to reflect. We pause to treasure. And we continue our journey, walking with grit and determination, for we have a mother who has shown us the way.

Reflection for the Feast of the Holy Family December 28, 2025

Sun, 04 Jan 2026 10:57:59 GMT

A New Look at a Celebration of Love.

Reflection for the Feast of the Holy Family

December 28, 2025

There are different translations of the Bible, which was originally written in Hebrew and Greek. There is a New American Bible, which has American idiom in it. A New English Bible reflects a British flavor. The King James version included lofty language and ‘thee’s’ and ‘thou’s.’ I also have Bibles in French Spanish and Polish. I find that, sometimes, it’s good to hear something from a different perspective. It can make one think. It can offer new insights. With that in mind, the following is a mother’s paraphrase of St. Paul’s inspiring reflection on the centrality of love, found in 1 Corinthians 13

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Though I speak with the language of educators and psychiatrists and have not love, I am as blaring brass or a crashing cymbal.

And if I have the gift of planning my child’s future and understanding all the mysteries of a child’s mind and have ample knowledge of teenagers, and though I have faith in my children, so that I could remove their mountains of doubts and fears and have not love, I am nothing.

And though I bestow all my goods to feed and nourish them properly, and though I give my body to backbreaking housework and have not love, it profits me not.

Love is patient with the naughty child and is kind. Love does not envy when a child wants to move to grandma’s house because “she is nice.”

Love is not anxious to impress a teenager with one’s superior knowledge.

Love has good manners in the home—does not act selfishly or with a martyr complex, is not easily provoked by normal childish actions.

Love does not remember the wrongs of yesterday and love thinks no evil—it gives the child the benefit of the doubt.

Love does not make light of sin in the child’s life (or in her own, either), but rejoices when he or she comes to a knowledge of the truth.

Love does not fail. Wherether there be comfortable surroundings, they shall fail; whether there be total communication between parents and children, it will cease; whether there be good education, it shall vanish.

When we were children, we spoke and acted and understood as children, but now that we have become parents, we must act maturely.

Now abide faith, hope, and love—these three are needed in the home. Faith in Jesus Christ, eternal hope for the future of the child, and God’s love shed in our hearts, but the greatest of these is love.

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Homily for Christmas December 25, 2025

Sun, 04 Jan 2026 10:49:46 GMT

Love Is Drawing Near

Homily for Christmas

December 25, 2025

Once, there was a time, according to legend, when Ireland was ruled by a king who had no son. The king sent out his couriers to post notices in all the towns of the realm. The notices advised that every qualified young man should apply for an interview with the king as a possible successor to the throne. However, all such candidates must have these two qualifications: They must (1) love God and (2) love their fellow human beings.

The young man about whom this legend centers saw a notice and reflected that he loved God and also his neighbors. One thing stopped him, he was so poor that he had no clothes that would be presentable in the sight of the king. Nor did he have the funds to buy provisions for the long journey to the castle. So the young man begged here, borrowed there, finally managing to scrounge enough money for the appropriate clothes and the necessary supplies.

Properly attired and well-suited, the young man set out on his quest, and had almost completed the journey when he came upon a poor beggar by the side of the road. The beggar sat trembling, clad only in tattered rags. His extended arms pleaded for help. His weak voice croaked, “I’m hungry and cold. Please help me… please?”

The young man was so moved by this beggar’s need that he immediately stripped off his new clothes and put on the tattered threads of the beggar. Without a second thought he gave the beggar all his provisions as well. Then, somewhat hesitantly, he continued his journey to the castle, dressed in the rags of the beggar, lacking provisions for his return back home. Upon his arrival at the castle, a king’s attendant showed him in to the great hall. After a brief respite to clean off the journey’s grime, he was finally admitted to the throne room of the king.

The young man bowed low before his majesty. When he raised his eyes, he gaped in astonishment. “You…it’s you! You’re the beggar by the side of the road.” “Yes,” the king replied with a twinkle in his eye, “I was that beggar.” “But…bu … buu… you are not really a beggar. You are the king for real. Well, then, why did you do this to me?” the young man stammered after gaining more of his composure.

“Because I had to find out if you genuinely love God and your fellow human beings,” said the king. “I knew that if I came to you as king, you would have been impressed by my gem-encrusted golden crown and my royal robes. You would have done anything I asked of you because of my regal character. But that way I would never have known what is truly in your heart. So I used a ruse. I came to you as a beggar with no claims on you except for the love in your heart. And I discovered that you sincerely do love God and your fellow human beings. You will be my successor,” promised the king. “You will inherit my kingdom.”

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Christmas celebrates our God drawing near to the human family – but not with the fullness of power we might expect. No, our God chose to come—weak, ragged, and poor—to a world that almost had no room for him. And so he comes in our day, not in magnificence and might, not forcing his way into our lives. Rather, our God arrives as an invitation. An invitation to love. To love, not just those who are easy to love, or deserving of our love, or those who could return our love. In the shabbiness of poverty, what Mother Teresa described as the “distressing guise of the poorest of the poor,” our God draws near to us, inviting us simply to love. You see, God is love, and the more we love, the more we approach God. To love especially those difficult to love, perhaps like the beggar in tattered clothes: that’s the real miracle of Christmas.

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Advent December 21, 2025

Sun, 04 Jan 2026 10:31:31 GMT

Sharing In God’s Dream

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Advent

December 21, 2025

I recently read that the great inventor Thomas Edison discouraged his friend, Henry Ford, from pursuing his fledgling idea of a motorcar. Convinced of the worthlessness of the project, Edison invited Ford to come and work for him. Thankfully, Ford remained committed to his idea and tirelessly pursued his dream. Although his first attempt resulted in a vehicle without a reverse gear, Ford knew he could make it happen. And, eventually, he did.

“Forget it,” the experts advised Madame Marie Curie. They agreed that radium could not exist. However, Marie Curie insisted, “I know radium is a real element. I can make it happen.” And that she did.

Let’s not forget the Wright Brothers either. Journalists, friends, specialists, and even their father laughed at the folly of their idea for an airplane. “What a silly and insane way to waste money,” Orville and Wilbur were told. Others jeered, “Leave flying to the birds.” “Sorry,” the brothers replied, “We have a dream, and we can make it happen.” As a result, a place named Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, became the setting for the launching of their “ridiculous” idea.

Finally, consider the plight of Benjamin Franklin the next time you marvel at the modern conveniences we take for granted—television, computers, air conditioning, stereos, blenders, etc., all of which work simply by plugging them into a wall outlet. He was admonished to stop his foolish experiments with lightning. What an absurd waste of time! Why, nothing could outdo the oil lamp. Thank goodness, Franklin knew he could make electricity happen.

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In today’s gospel we learn that God communicates with Joseph through a dream. It was the dream of a miraculous birth: “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary your wife into your home. For it is through the Holy Spirit that this child has been conceived in her.” On the face of it, Joseph could have blamed this dream on some bad fish he had eaten the night before. He could have refused to believe that it was God making this strange request. Things just don’t work that way….Or do they?

With Christmas just a few days away, we have two people on their way to Bethlehem with rather strange dreams. Mary and Joseph were both asked to believe in the seemingly impossible: “Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son…” Neither Joseph nor Mary were forced into it. Mary had to say yes to the angel and Joseph had to follow a message he received while he slept.

But we also have another dream expressed in this story, in this case, God’s dream: The virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and “they shall name him Emmanuel, which means God is with us.”

There’s the really incredible dream of the Christmas story: God dreams of wanting to be with us, of accompanying us throughout our lives. And it doesn’t mean that life will be totally easy. Just think of what Mary and Joseph had to go through. Joseph has to lead his pregnant wife, riding on a donkey, on a hundred- mile trip to fulfill the requirements of a census. Then, when they learn that King Herod wants to kill the child, they are forced to become immigrants by fleeing to Egypt.

Joseph and Mary had an incredible faith, a remarkable trust. Today’s gospel ends with the simple statement, “When Joseph awoke, he did as the angel of the Lord had commanded him and took his wife into his home.” And so, the drama begins.

God has a dream of wanting to be with us: that’s what Christmas is all about. God didn’t make his presence easy; it all started in a manger, in the dark, in the cold, in poverty. It seems that God wanted to be especially near to those who needed him the most.

The question to ponder in these remaining days of Advent is: While God wants to be with us, do we want to be with God? Do we want to share in God’s dream of a world ruled by love rather than hate, of compassion rather than cruelty, of generosity rather than selfishness, of welcome rather than exclusion? Christmas will come, to be sure. The question is, do we want to live it?

Homily for the Third Sunday of Advent December 14, 2025

Sun, 04 Jan 2026 10:22:42 GMT

Turning Society Upside Down

Homily for the Third Sunday of Advent

December 14, 2025

There was a great and very influential Austrian-Israeli philosopher named Martin Buber. He tells a story of his paralyzed grandfather who was asked to relate a story about his great teacher, named Baal Shem Tov. The grandfather replied by telling how the holy man used to jump up and down and dance when he was praying. Being swept up in the fervor of the story, the grandfather himself stood up and began to jump and dance to show how the master had done it. At that moment the grandfather was completely healed of his paralysis.

Coming a little closer to home, in my first parish assignment in Springfield, the head custodian told me a story about a friend of his, whom he had known for more than forty years. In all that time the friend was confined to a wheelchair. Then one day, around two o’clock in the morning, my friend’s doorbell rang. He sleepily made his way to the door and found his friend, standing up, walking around, practically dancing, with tears streaming down his face. He had just returned from a healing service with Fr. Ralph DiOrio in Worcester, MA. The priest prayed over him, and he was able to get out of his wheelchair, perfectly healed.

I say this was closer to home because when I was a college student, I knew Fr. DiOrio because I helped out with a Confirmation program in the Worcester parish where he was assigned at that time.

Even closer to home, there is a story about my grandmother. Many years ago, my grandmother had an ulcer on her leg that was refusing to heal. Even though it was difficult for her to walk, on Good Friday she insisted on walking up the hill to the afternoon service. The pious Polish people of that time had the custom of going down the aisle on their knees, and then kissing Jesus on a crucifix that was lying on a pillow. I was told that, when my grandmother left the church that day, the ulcer on her leg was completely gone.

In our gospel reading today the strong and forceful character, John the Baptist has a moment of doubt. He sends his disciples to Jesus to ask, “Are you the one?” Are you the long-awaited Messiah, the long hoped-for Savior? Are you the one, or should we start looking for someone else?

Notice Jesus’ reply: “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind regain their sight, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have the good news proclaimed to them.” There’s kind of a rising scale here; the miracles become more and more dramatic. The blind see, the deaf hear…and then we come to the dead are raised. I would have expected Jesus to stop right there. The other things are pretty powerful, but seeing the dead being raised to life: that would have me believing for sure.

But Jesus doesn’t stop there. At the top of the rising scale, he ends with: and the poor have the good news proclaimed to them. Why are the “poor getting good news” the climax of the whole thing?

Here's what I think. If you consider Jesus’ life and teaching as a whole, I think he was turning society upside down. He was turning what we consider important upside down. He said that he himself had come, not to be served, but to serve. And he taught that if we want to follow him, we are to do the same.

But there’s more to it than that. In the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 25, there’s the famous judgment scene in which Jesus says it will be like a shepherd separating the sheep from the goats. And what is the basis for judgment? “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me…” In other words, Jesus identifies himself totally with the poor. So, if we want not only to do Jesus will, but also to encounter him, we don’t go to the top. We don’t look for him among the high and mighty. Just as he was poor during his earthly life, so now he is the poor person who has no food, or water, or clothing. He is the stranger among us, the immigrant in our community, including those who are being rounded up like cattle. And I have to say, Wow! Does he really mean that? Can he become today’s poor? Well, if he can raise the dead, heal a man who had been in a wheelchair for forty years, and heal the sore on my grandmother’s leg, I’d say, yeah! He can do that!

You see? How we treat people matters. How we treat others, and especially the poor and vulnerable, really matters. Love is at the heart of it. Love is always at the heart of it. That’s how we judge what’s going on in our society. And it’s a good way to judge ourselves, our attitudes, our convictions, and our actions. We have a moral compass given to us by Jesus—a compass that always asks, is it loving? Is it right?

Homily for the Second Sunday of Advent December 7, 2025

Wed, 17 Dec 2025 22:19:11 GMT

Is It Right?

Homily for the Second Sunday of Advent

December 7, 2025

I found an interesting reflection on life entitled Youth. Here it is…

Youth is not a time of life, it is a state of mind. It is not a matter of rosy cheeks, red lips and supple knees; it is a matter of the will, a quality of the imagination, a vigor of the emotions. It is the freshness of the deep springs of life.

Youth means a temperamental predominance of courage over timidity of the appetite, for adventure over the love of ease. This often exists in a person of sixty more than in a youth of twenty. Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals.

Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul. Worry, fear, self-distrust bows the heart and turns the spirit to dust.

Whether sixty or sixteen, there is in every human being’s heart the lure of wonder, the unfailing childlike appetite of what’s next and the joy of the game of living. In the center of your heart and my heart there is a wireless station: so long as it receives messages of beauty, hope, cheer, courage and power from men and women and from the Infinite, so long are you young.

When the aerials are down and your spirit is covered with the snows of cynicism and the ice of pessimism, then you are grown old, even at twenty, but as long as your aerials are up to catch waves of optimism there is hope you may die young at eighty.

Now, I know that we are living in a particularly challenging time. It seems that, on a daily basis, we are inundated with negative stories of anger, perpetual disagreement, cruelty, economic and political insecurity, natural disasters, fires, disrespect for human dignity, shootings and disregard for life. Every day it seems I get calls from people who can’t pay their rent or utility bills, mothers who worry about providing food for their families, immigrants who worry about government raids…It’s tiring and depressing. It’s easy to lose hope.

How different are our readings for this Second Sunday of Advent. They give us, at least in the case of Isaiah, a remarkable, rosy picture. In looking to a future with a Messiah, or Savior in it, we get God’s view of what life can be. “Not by appearance shall he judge, nor by hearsay shall he decide, but he shall judge the poor with justice and decide aright for the land’s afflicted….Then the wolf shall be a guest of the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; the calf and the young lion shall browse together, with a little child to guide them….The baby shall play by the cobra’s den…” It’s like whoa! What’s this guy been smoking?

And then you’ve got John the Baptist, one of the stranger characters in the Bible. He takes on the corrupt leaders of the day, calling them a “brood of vipers”—a bunch of snakes. And then, in describing the one who is to come after him, the one whose way he’s preparing, he says: “the one who is coming after me is mightier than I….He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” Again, wow! Most of us have been baptized. Do you feel the Holy Spirit? Would you describe yourself as being on fire?

Very clearly, we have two visions or interpretations of reality at work. One of negativity, panic, fear, and the desire to check out and give up. And the other of grit, and determination, and courage, and a positive spirit that never gives up.

Which vision is ours? Are we ready to give up, climb under the covers, and hope that nobody bothers us? Or are we open to God’s vision of a world that respects dignity, fights for justice, provides help for the weak, and cries out We are better than this!

Let me conclude with an inspiring way of looking at issues that are part of our day-to-day living—in a quote from Martin Luther King, Jr. Speaking in 1967 Dr. King said, “Cowardice asks the question, ‘Is it safe?’ Expediency asks the question, ‘Is it politic?’ Vanity asks the question, ‘Is it popular?’ But conscience asks the question, ‘Is it right?’”

Is it right? A question rooted in Holy Spirit and fire. Is it right? A question that keeps us from being complacent and feeling defeated. Is it right? A question that is forever young and life-giving. Look around. Take a real look at what’s happening all around us, and dare to ask: Is it right?

Homily for the First Sunday of Advent November 30, 2025

Thu, 04 Dec 2025 11:11:15 GMT

How Far Do You Want to Go?

Homily for the First Sunday of Advent

November 30, 2025

Three people were encouraged to find what was called the cave of wisdom and life. They made careful preparations for what would be a challenging and arduous journey. When they reached the place of the cave, they noted a guard at the entrance. They were not permitted to enter the cave until they had spoken with the guard. He had only one question for them, and he demanded that they answer only after talking it over with one another. He assured them that they would have a good guide to lead them through the regions of the cave. His question was a simple one: “How far into the cave of wisdom and life do you wish to go?”

The three travelers discussed the question and then returned to the guard. Their response was, “Oh, not very far. We just want to go far enough into the cave so that we can say that we have been here.”

The response of the guard showed none of his disappointment as he summoned someone to lead the three travelers a short distance into the cave, and then watched them set out again after a very short time, to make the journey back to their own land.

With this First Sunday of Advent, we begin a new Church year—Year A, in which many of our gospel readings will focus on St. Matthew.

In various parts of today’s Scripture readings, we find an invitation to join in a journey, to get moving. In the first passage, the prophet Isaiah has this to say: “Come, let us climb the Lord’s mountain, to the house of the God of Jacob, that he may instruct us in his ways, and we may walk in his paths.”

The refrain from our Responsorial Psalm was, “Let us go rejoicing to the house of the Lord.” In Paul’s letter to the Romans, we find this advice: “Let us throw off the works of darkness and put on the armor of light; let us conduct ourselves properly as in the day…” And in the Gospel reading from Matthew, Jesus says simply: “Stay awake! For you do not know on which day your Lord will come.”

So, we have all this imagery about movement, of setting out, of going somewhere at the invitation of our God. The question is: How far do we want to go? Do we want to be like the three travelers visiting the cave of wisdom and life? Do we want to go just far enough, so you can say, “Oh, I’ve been there, and I took a selfie that proves I’ve been there!” How far on this journey with God do we want to go?

We have some examples in the Scriptures. When Jesus called Peter and Andrew, James and John, we’re told that they immediately dropped everything, left their fishing nets, and even left James and John’s father in the boat. When Jesus catches sight of a tax collector named Matthew and calls him, we’re told that he immediately jumps at the chance and follows Jesus.

In another passage, a wealthy young man asks Jesus what he must do to gain eternal life. We find that he’s basically a good person; he says he’s kept the commandments ever since he was a little boy. But Jesus notices that there was one thing still holding him back: his money and his possessions. He then looks at him with love and invites him, “Go, and sell everything you have, give the money to the poor, and then come follow me.” We’re told that the young man went away sad because he had many possessions—which, apparently were more important than his relationship with God.

In yet another passage Jesus teaches, “You have heard the commandment, Love your countryman and hate your enemy. What I say to you is love your enemy and pray for your persecutors.” What’s so great about loving those who love you? Anybody, even tax collectors, can do that. But I’m challenging you to follow me, and make me and my teaching the center of your life. I’m asking you to come farther than you think you can.

So, this new church year lies ahead of us. We’re invited to make the journey with Jesus, from Bethlehem to Jerusalem. He’s asking us to enter the cave of life and wisdom. The question is: how far do you want to go? Just enough to say you’ve been there, you’ve been baptized, you’ve got the papers to prove you’re a Catholic? Or do you want to learn more, be challenged more, go deeper into the teaching Jesus offers, become a better disciple and friend? How far do you want to go?

Homily for the Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe November 23, 2025

Fri, 28 Nov 2025 11:33:42 GMT

Prairie Chickens and Eagles

Homily for the Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe

November 23, 2025

An American Indian tells about a brave who found an eagle’s egg and put it into the nest of a prairie chicken. The eaglet hatched with the brood of chicks and grew up with them.

All its life the changeling eagle, thinking it was a prairie chicken, did what the other prairie chickens did. It scratched in the dirt for seeds and insects to eat. It clucked and cackled. And it flew in a brief thrashing of wings and flurry of feathers no more than a few feet off the ground. After all, that’s how prairie chickens were supposed to fly.

Years passed, and the changeling grew very old. One day it saw a magnificent bird soaring far above in the cloudless sky. Hanging with graceful majesty on the powerful wind currents, it soared with scarcely a beat of its strong golden wings.

“What a beautiful bird!” said the changeling eagle to its neighbor. “What is it?” “That’s an eagle—the chief of the birds,” the neighbor clucked. “But don’t give it a second thought. You could never be like him.”

So, the changeling eagle never gave it another thought. And it died thinking it was a prairie chicken.

Today, we are celebrating the fact that Jesus Christ is the King of all God’s creation. And yet, it is strange that the gospel passage chosen for this feast is the scene of Jesus’ crucifixion.

Notice how weak he is. Consider how he is laughed at and made fun of. “He saved others, let him save himself if he is the chosen one, the Christ of God….If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself.”

So, the problem is one of expectations. The bystanders were looking for an eagle, and all they saw before them was a prairie chicken!

And yet, at the end of the gospel, this prairie chicken seems to have some power that prairie chickens don’t normally have. When Jesus is asked by the thief being crucified with him, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom,” Jesus replies, “Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.” Hardly a promise that could be made by a prairie chicken! What’s going on here?

I’d like to refer us to a passage we find in the writings of St. Paul, a section of his letter to the Philippians that is the second reading on Palm Sunday, when we reflect on the crucifixion of Jesus. Here it is: “Christ Jesus, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God something to be grasped. Rather, he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, coming in human likeness; and found human in appearance, he humbled himself, becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Because of this, God greatly exalted him and bestowed on him the name which is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, of those in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.”

Jesus taught the way of humility and service. He came to raise others up, especially those who were bowed down by poverty or prejudice. He taught that there was no greater love than to lay down one’s life for the love of others. Greatness is found not in building oneself up at the expense of others, but in building up others, especially those who need it the most.

So, Jesus emptied himself, to the point of looking like a prairie chicken, and in doing so he showed us the way to the eternal kingdom by means of humble service, that we might become who we truly are, eagles destined to soar beyond the clouds.

Homily for the Thirty-Third Sunday in Ordinary Time November 16, 2025

Fri, 28 Nov 2025 11:28:38 GMT

Too Stubborn to Quit.

Homily for the Thirty-Third Sunday in Ordinary Time

November 16, 2025

The California coast was blanketed in fog July 4, 1952. Twenty-one miles to the west, on Catalina Island, Florence Chadwick, a 34-year-old-long-distance-swimmer, waded in to the water and began swimming toward the California coast. She had already conquered the English Channel, swimming in both directions. Now she was determined to be the first woman to swim the Catalina Channel.

As the hours ticked off, Chadwick fought bone-chilling cold, dense fog, and sharks. Several times, sharks had to be driven off by rifles. Fatigue never set in, but the icy water numbed her to the point of exhaustion. Straining to make out the shore through her swimmer’s goggles, she could see only a dense fog. She knew she could not go any farther. Although not a quitter, Chadwick shouted to her trainer and her mother in the boat and asked to be taken out of the water. They urged her not to give up, but when she looked toward the California coast, all she could see was thick fog.

So after fifteen hours and fifty-five minutes of fighting the elements, she was hauled from the channel into the boat. Frozen to the bone and her spirit defeated, Chadwick was devastated when she discovered she was only a half-mile from the coast! She felt the shock of failure….

Two months later, Chadwick swam that same channel, and again fog clouded her vision, but this time she swam with her faith intact—that somewhere behind that fog was land. This time she succeeded. Not only was she the first woman to swim the Catalina Channel, but she beat the men’s record by two hours.

A line from this story that struck me was: “this time she swam with her faith intact.” Florence Chadwick was able to persevere to her goal because she believed she could do it.

In today’s gospel passage, Jesus speaks about the challenges and threats that will be faced by the first disciples when they go out into the world and start proclaiming the message. He doesn’t mince words or paint a rosy picture. Tough times of suffering will come. But then he adds, “By your perseverance you will secure your lives.”

In reflecting on this teaching, I was reminded of another Bible story. The disciples are in a boat crossing a lake. Jesus had stayed behind to spend some time in prayer. Then, late at night, he comes toward them, walking on the water. The disciples are frightened, thinking they’re seeing a ghost. Jesus tries to reassure them, when Simon Peter yells, “Lord, if it is really you, command that I walk on the water toward you.” Jesus invites him to do so, and Peter steps out of the boat and actually walks on the water toward Jesus. But then, he looks down and notices the threatening situation he is in. And he begins to sink. Jesus has to fish him out of the water and get him back into the boat (Cf. Matthew 14:22-33).

What makes the difference? As long as Peter keeps his eyes on Jesus, he can do the seemingly impossible. When he focuses on the threat, he sinks.

We find something similar in the writings of St. Paul. In his first letter to the Corinthians, he writes, “You know that while all the runners in the stadium take part in the race, the award goes to one man. In that case, run so as to win! Athletes deny themselves all sorts of things. They do this to win a crown of leaves that withers, but we a crown that is imperishable. I do not run like a man who loses sight of the finish line…” (1 Cor 9:24-26).

So, when we have to face difficulties, when we live in hard times, when we feel left out or let down, how are we supposed to keep going?

Florence Chadwick failed when she couldn’t see the finish line. When she found faith withing herself again, she was able to go back and reach her goal. Peter was even able to walk on water, but only as long as he kept his eyes on Jesus. And Paul writes that he has been able to keep going, even while facing all sorts of hardships, because he has never lost sight of the goal.

When facing challenges, a stubborn faith is required; perseverance is needed. It’s very easy to give up, to call it quits, to feel that there’s no way to face all the problems that pile up. We don’t have to face life’s challenges alone. Jesus is with us. And he asks us to be there for each other. He asks us to persevere, to have faith, to be too stubborn to quit.

Homily for the Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica November 9, 2025

Fri, 28 Nov 2025 11:20:37 GMT

The Holy Presence of God

Homily for the Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica

November 9, 2025

Once, a parish priest climbed way up in the church’s steeple to be nearer to God. He wanted to hand down God’s Word to his parishioners, like Moses of old, who had brought the Ten Commandments down from the mountaintop. Then, one day he indeed thought he heard God say something.

The priest cried out aloud from the steeple, “Where are you, Lord? I can’t seem to hear your voice clearly.” And the Lord replied, “I’m down here among my people. Where are you?”

Today, we’re celebrating the dedication of a special church, the church of St. John Lateran. What makes this church unique is that for many centuries it has been the cathedral, or the official church, of the bishop of Rome, the Holy Father.

So, in our readings we find a focus on buildings that were signs of God’s presence. In Ezekiel, life-giving water is flowing from the temple, making the earth fertile and fruitful for the people.

In the second reading Paul talks about himself, as well as those who came after him, as builders of God’s building, with a solid foundation. But then he teaches that the people are actually what God is building. Each person has the Spirit of God dwelling in him or her. That makes each of us, and all of us together, holy. God’s not off somewhere in holy isolation. God is down here—in us, and with us, and among us.

In the gospel we find two temples, two signs of God’s presence among the people. The first is the magnificent building, the temple which was the sign of God’s presence in Israel, the special place where they could focus their worship and offer their sacrifices to God.

But we have a second “temple” in this gospel—in this case, not a building or a sign or a symbol, but Jesus, the Son of God, God come to earth to be among the people. The clue to help us understand this is Jesus’ statement: “Destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up.” In other words, put me to death on Good Friday, and on Easter Sunday I will rise from the dead! God among the people, watering, teaching, nurturing, not just for this life, but for life eternal.

So, we’re celebrating church today, in all its manifestations and meanings. A building that is the sacred place of encounter with the divine. A community that is sacred because God dwells in each and in all of us. And Jesus Christ, the foundation, the very life-giving presence.

Let me end with a story. Many years ago, when I was studying to become a priest, I heard about a priest who some years before was the head of a seminary. During the season of Lent one year, he examined his conscience and decided that, once and for all, he wanted to give up smoking. He knew this would be hard, so he brought the Eucharist into his office. Being a humble man, he didn’t tell anybody what he had planned.

One day, a visitor came to see the priest, and he started to light up a cigarette. The priest became outraged, and he yelled at the visitor, “How dare you smoke in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament?” The visitor ran out of the office, believing the priest had gone mad, thinking he was the Blessed Sacrament.

Well, that crazy story has stayed with me over the years, and I’ve thought about it in relation to how I treat people. If God’s Spirit dwells in each of us, if each of us is a holy temple, then that means I should treat everyone as if they are, in a sense, a blessed sacrament, a person created in God’s image, and having a spark of the divine within them. If God is down here, in, with and among us, even in those I find it difficult to love, how dare I treat anybody as if they have no dignity or worth?

Homily for All Soul’s Day November 2, 2025

Fri, 28 Nov 2025 11:12:56 GMT

Care for the Dead and the Dying

Homily for All Soul’s Day

November 2, 2025

On All Souls’ Day each year, which falls on November 2 ^nd , we pray for all those who have died, certainly including family members and friends, those who died recently, and those who may not have anyone to pray for them. Here, at Our Lady of Peace, it is our tradition to remember in a special way members of our parish who died during the past year.

But today I’d like to take a look at another kind of dying, which I will illustrate with a couple of stories.

Story #1. Last year a man died. We’ll call him Ben, though his name doesn’t really matter. In one form or another we have all known Ben. Ben was seventy-six years old and had been a widower for two years. He was alert, intelligent, healthy and desperately unhappy.

In the spring Ben took a nasty fall. Though the doctors had not felt the injuries were that serious, three days later he was dead. A conclusion that was reached by a number of people who knew Ben was that he simply quit living; he chose no longer to cling to hope. Ben didn’t die from a fall; he died of acute loneliness. Ben had no will to live because his life had become a succession of days that were all yawningly empty.

But perhaps the saddest part of Ben’s story is that he also chose loneliness. After the death of his wife, his family and friends tried constantly to get him out and to get him involved. He was invited on trips, he was invited to join clubs, he was invited to dinners. Ben always refused. And yet, in the next breath he’d be lamenting his loneliness. Ben’s prison of isolation was erected brick by brick, with his own hand.

Story #2. A woman was standing on a curb, waiting for the traffic light to change. On the opposite curb was a girl about 17 years old. The woman noticed that the girl was crying.

When the light changed, each started across the street. Just as they were about to meet, the woman’s motherly instincts came rushing to the surface. Every part of her wanted to reach out and comfort that girl. But the woman passed her by. She didn’t even greet her; she just kept going.

Hours later the tear-filled eyes of that girl continued to haunt the woman. Over and over she said to herself, “Why didn’t I turn to her and say, ‘Can I be of help?’ Sure, she might have rejected me, but so what! Only a few seconds would have been enough to let her know that someone cared for her. Instead, I passed on by. I acted as if she didn’t exist.”

In the first story, we have a kind of death from the inside. Ben chooses to remain in his self-imposed prison of loneliness, rejecting all offers of help of any kind.

In the second story, when the woman says I acted as if she didn’t even exist, she feels that she has missed an opportunity to so much as smile. Admittedly, it’s an awkward situation, and we want to respect peoples’ privacy, and there’s so little time to think about it. But there’s a lesson in it, nonetheless. Let’s see if we can apply that lesson to a growing area of concern.

For many of our neighbors, decisions made in Washington mean that food assistance may be decreased or eliminated. It’s important for us to know the facts. We’re not talking about lazy people, or substance abusers (although there may be some). In many cases, we’re talking about children, or people who happen to have lost their job, or single mothers trying to hold onto two part-time jobs while providing for their family. Some time ago, it was reported to me that a student at the Tech School was hoping it wouldn’t snow the next day. He said, “If there’s no school, I’ll have nothing to eat.”

What do we do? Do we let them go hungry? Do we let innocent children suffer? Do we ignore them because it’s not our problem? Do we act as if these people don’t exist?

On this All Souls’ Day, how appropriate it is to pray for those who have died. But let’s not forget all those who, in one way or another, may be slowly dying. Dying for food. Dying for comfort. Dying because no one seems to care. Dying to have their dignity and their humanity respected. Dying because they’ve had bad luck. If we’re praying for All Souls, let us not forget that the poor and vulnerable also have souls. If we can make a difference, let us not be guilty of neglect. Let us share what we can, let us join together in a common cause, let us use some of our treasure to show that we treasure All Souls! They don’t have to be dead for us to care about them.

Homily for the Thirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time October 26, 2025

Mon, 27 Oct 2025 19:41:31 GMT

For Whom Do I Work?

Homily for the Thirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time

October 26, 2025

There was an old Hasidic tale about Rabbi Naftali. Now it was the custom of the rich people of his city, whose homes were on the outskirts and sort of isolated, to hire men to watch over their property at night. They began the security guard protection business, which is thriving even today.

But back to the tale. Late one evening, as was his custom, Rabbi Naftali was out for a walk, and he met one such watchman walking back and forth. The rabbi asked, “For whom do you work?” The guard told the rabbi who had hired him, and then the guard inquired, “And for whom do you work, Rabbi?”

The watchman’s words struck at the heart of the rabbi, who replied, “I’m not sure whether I work for anyone or not.” The rabbi walked along with the watchman for some time in silence. Then he asked, “Will you come and work for me?”

“Oh Rabbi, I should be honored to be your servant,” said the watchman, “but what would be my duties?” Rabbi Naftali answered, “To keep reminding me with that question [“For whom do you work, Rabbi?”].

The position of the Pharisee in Jesus’ story today is similar to that of a rabbi. The Pharisees were religious leaders who studied the religious law, helped to interpret it, and them worked to make sure that the law was understood and obeyed. It seems to me that the Pharisee allowed pride about his position go to his head. He lost a sense of humility and service. And, at a deeper level, he had forgotten for whom he worked, namely God. The clearest indicator of that is found in Jesus words: “The Pharisee took up his position and spoke this prayer to himself….” He wasn’t praying to God; he was speaking to himself about himself.

A second problem I see in this story is that the Pharisee dared, not to examine his own conscience to determine how he honestly stood before God; rather, he examined what he thought was the conscience of the tax collector, and condemned him.

The failing of the Pharisee relates to his position in society. He had worked all his life to gain his position of honor. And so, he created a kind of public persona for others to see. He didn’t dare to look beneath the shining example of himself that he created. He was blinded to any sin he had committed, and any accountability for it.

The other man was a tax collector, a Jewish person who collected taxes for the Roman occupiers, making a profit by over-charging. And thus, he would have been despised and avoided by most people. But this man looks inside himself. He dares to admit his condition before God. Not even raising his eyes to heaven, he prayed, “O God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

Here, in the case of the tax collector, we have a real breakthrough, a real conversion of mind and heart. To pray as he did, he had to admit that, ultimately, he didn’t work for Rome or the Roman Emperor—or even himself. He worked for God, the God who had given him life, and who offered him salvation.

So, by means of this short but powerful story, the question the property guard asked the rabbi is now aimed at us. When all is said and done, when the outer veneer is stripped away, the question is: For whom do I work?

A practical and fruitful way to flesh this out is to put yourself into Jesus’ story. Ask yourself, whom am I like—underneath the makeup, underneath the appearances? Who am I when I am naked and alone before God? Do I tend to be self-righteous and judgmental, focusing on the faults of others? Or am I concerned about my own relationship with God in an honest and humble way? For whom do I work? For whom do I exist?

Homily for the Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Tue, 21 Oct 2025 20:27:30 GMT

The Mystery of Prayer without Discouragement.

Homily for the Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time

October 19, 2025

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, the famous nineteenth century poet and artist, was once approached by an elderly man. The old fellow had some sketches and drawings that he wanted Rossetti to look at and tell him if they were any good, or if they at least showed potential talent.

Rossetti looked them over carefully. After the first few he knew that they were worthless, showing not the least sign of artistic talent. But Rossetti was a kind man, and he told the elderly man as gently as possible that the pictures were without much value and showed little talent. He was sorry, but he could not lie to the man.

The visitor was disappointed, but seemed to expect Rossetti’s judgment. He then apologized for taking up Rossetti’s time, but would he just look at a few more drawings—these done by a young art student?

Rossetti looked over the second batch of sketches and immediately became enthusiastic over the talent they revealed. “These,” he said, “oh, these are good. This young student has great talent. He should be given every help and encouragement in his career as an artist. He has a great future if he will work hard and stick to it.”

Rossetti could see that the old fellow was deeply moved. “Who is this fine young artist?” he asked. “Your son?” “No,” said the old man sadly. “It is me—forty years ago. If only I had heard your praise then! For you see, I got discouraged and gave up—too soon.

In the story Jesus tells in today’s gospel, the widow is ultimately successful because she doesn’t get discouraged. She refuses to give up. She believes in the rightness of her cause, and keeps at it.

In recent times, it seems that a lot of people are discouraged. News coming out of Washington, and hearing about all the services and sources of support that are being slashed, leads to a sense of anxiety. Some are experiencing self-doubt about their ability to perform or to provide for the needs of their loved ones. When an atmosphere of hopelessness occurs, many start to feel helpless and disillusioned. And there is an epidemic of loneliness which can lead to discouragement, especially if medical problems become a factor, or family members and friends don’t visit. Students can feel discouraged if they don’t do well on an exam, or if they are shunned by a group to which they want to belong.

But beyond all that, today’s gospel also raises questions about our relationship with God. Sometimes, we can feel that God is distant, or not listening. Those burdened by guilt or a feeling of sinfulness can feel cut off from God. Some report that, while they normally pray, they are experiencing a spiritual dryness, and they feel less connected to God. These feelings of spiritual aloneness can add to a sense of discouragement.

Let’s take a look at what the Bible reveals about Jesus’ own prayer life and his relationship with the Father. We are told that quite often, especially before a major decision, Jesus would go off to a deserted place and spend the whole night in prayer. He then invited his followers to turn to him, to share their burdens with him in prayer. He said that his yoke was easy, and his burden light, precisely because the burden was no longer carried alone. For Jesus, prayer was not a rushed word or two every now and then. It was a lifeline, a quality relationship that came before everything else.

A passage of Scripture in which we get a profound insight into Jesus’ prayer life, is the account of his agony in the garden, on the night before he was going to die. He had seen crucifixions; he knew what was waiting for him. And so, he pleaded, asking the Father if there could be some other way. But he never lost a sense of trust, concluding with, “your will, not mine, be done.”

And that gives insight into what is perhaps the hardest lesson about prayer. First, my approach to prayer has changed over the years. For example, when I was five or six years old, I heard the gospel about Jesus saying that if we had faith the size of a mustard seed, we could say to this mulberry tree, be uprooted and thrown into the sea, it would obey you. Well, we didn’t have a mulberry tree, but there was a maple tree in our back yard. So, several times, I said to the tree, “Be uprooted and go into the pond in the woods.” It didn’t seem to work.

Here’s how I look at prayer now. I’ve talked from time to time about my love of astronomy, and how it gives me a sense of awe. I marvel, for instance, that there are between 300 to 400 billion stars just in our Milky Way galaxy. And they say there are perhaps trillions of galaxies out there. They say our universe, all the stuff of creation, is almost 14 billion years old. I’m not throwing out these figures to confuse you. Here’s the point: when I pray, I let God know what I’d like to happen. After a long, long time, the Red Sox have now won more than one World Series. And, we now have an American Pope. But when I pray for something, I can’t bring myself to believe that I know better than God. He’s created the whole universe. So, after a lifetime of prayer, I still ask for things. I hope for miracles. I pray for blessings. But I don’t think it’s my job to get God to do my will. Rather, I believe it’s the other way around. I need to discern God’s will. And I can’t do that on the run. I have to sit down long enough to listen with my heart: Dear Lord, what’s the most loving thing I can do in this situation? Lord, how can I help this person who is feeling lost or discouraged? How can I bear my cross, unless you help me? What do you want me to do?

And it still remains a mystery. I don’t always get it right. But I keep trying.

Homily for the Twenty-eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Tue, 21 Oct 2025 20:10:19 GMT

Learning to be Grateful.

Homily for the Twenty-eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time

October 12, 2025

One Thanksgiving some years ago, while watching a football game, a successful businessman reflected on his life and thought of all the people who had been influential in helping him become who he was. He decided to write each person a thank-you card telling him or her of his gratitude for their influence on his life.

His fourth grade teacher quickly came to mind for insisting that he and his classmates strive for excellence in every endeavor. She pounded it into her students, be it regarding homework, tests or class projects. So he sent her a thank-you note.

One day, just after the new year, he received a return letter from the former teacher. She apologized for not replying sooner, but stated that his letter took some time getting to her, since she had moved in with her daughter after retiring from teaching grade school for sixty-six years. She told him how thankful she was to have received his card and how it cheered her to find out he had learned so well his lessons in excellence. She went on to say that in her sixty-six years of teaching, this was the first thank-you card she had ever received, and how grateful she was that he had taken the time to remember her.

The connection of this story to our gospel reading should be obvious. Jesus says, “Ten [lepers] were cleansed, were they not? Where are the other nine? Has none but this foreigner returned to give thanks to God?”

As in several of the gospel accounts, it is the unexpected person who is the hero, or the example to be followed.

Now, in our day, one of the things I’ve read about often, and observed myself, is that those who have been Catholic all their lives (often called cradle Catholics) can take what we have for granted, often just going through the motions, but not much else. By contrast, it is converts, those who have had to struggle with the decision, those who have had to consciously make the choice, who seem to have a level of commitment, participation and enthusiasm that is often lacking in those who had the decision made for them when they were infants.

Did you know that the word Eucharist comes from the Greek and it means giving thanks? Giving thanks for what we have received as a pure gift from a loving God. Giving thanks for something we have not earned. Giving thanks for our faith, and all the other blessings we have. Giving thanks for the life we share—the eternal life with God.

As we contemplate this gospel, the gospel of the foreigner-hero, this gospel of the 10% gratitude, and as we note that we are here to Eucharist (let’s think of it as an active verb). We are here to give thanks for all that we have and all that we are, and especially the gift of eternal life.

How does that make you feel?

· Blah, blah, blah…ho hum…same old, same old, week after week…

· Or, Jesus, I don’t know where to begin, or how to thank you enough. Because of you, my life is not a dead end. I don’t want you to feel like the teacher who taught for sixty-six years and only received one thank you!

You know, the media these days tends to focus on all that is wrong with our world, with all the bickering, infighting, discriminating, killing…Could it be that we’ve forgotten how to give thanks? That we’re not even aware of our blessings?

Let’s spend a few moments of quiet reflection.

What are you thankful for?

Can you bring your gratitude to Jesus when you approach the altar for communion?

Homily for the Twenty-seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time October 5, 2025

Thu, 09 Oct 2025 14:00:33 GMT

Jesus and the “and then some” Approach

Homily for the Twenty-seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time

October 5, 2025

A successful businessman was once asked for the secret of success by a student who interviewed him as part of his senior thesis. Thoughtfully, the businessman pondered the question. His reply summed up success in three words: “and then some.” “You see,” he said, “I learned early in life that the difference between average people and the truly successful could be simply stated in those words. Top people did what was expected, and then some!”

The truly successful were thoughtful of others; they were considerate and kind—and then some. They met their obligations and responsibilities fairly and squarely—and then some. They were good friends and helpful neighbors—and then some. They could be counted on in an emergency—and then some.

Jesus taught the “and then some principle”….He tells us to go beyond what is expected! Go a little bit farther!

At the end of today’s gospel passage, Jesus sums up his teaching in this way: “When you have done all you have been commanded, say, ‘We are unprofitable servants; we have done what we were obliged to do.”

Let me give you some examples of “and then some” teaching by Jesus. In the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5-7) we find these …

“You have heard it said, ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ But what I say to you is: offer no resistance to injury. When a person strikes you on the right cheek, turn and offer him the other. If anyone wants to go to law over your shirt, hand him your coat as well. Should anyone press you into service for one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the person who begs from you. Do not turn your back on the borrower” (Mt 5:35-42).

Here's another one. “You have heard the commandment, ‘You shall love your countryman but hate your enemy.’ My command to you is: love your enemies, pray for your persecutors. This will prove that you are children of your heavenly Father, for his sun rises on the bad and the good, he rains on the just and the unjust. If you love those who love you, what merit is there in that? Do not tax collectors do as much? And if you greet your brothers only, what is so praiseworthy about that? Do not pagans do as much?” (Mt 5:43-47).

Do you see the “and then some” approach at work here? The life we have been called to is not wimpy. It takes great commitment and a whole lot of courage. It could also be a real remedy for the mess we’re in.

In our nation, we seem to have a grievance culture. Everybody has something and someone to complain about. Many take the path of retaliation and revenge. There’s a lot of getting even, and a lot of fear as a result.

Just think about the violence and the mass-shootings, in schools, in houses of worship, in places of employment, at political gatherings. There’s a mean, nasty and cruel culture that appears to be spreading. Those who are seen as “different” in some way are not always accepted or loved. And this is about as far from Jesus’ teaching as I can imagine.

Imagine what would happen if people actually took Jesus’ teaching seriously and put it into practice. We wouldn’t say, “Do I have to come to Mass?” We’d say, “I can’t wait to go to Mass. God has been so good to me that I want to thank him.” Or, “I know so many people that are sick or struggling, I want to pray for them.’

Imagine what would happen if Jesus’ teaching on nonviolence and love of enemies were actually taken seriously. What if we defended people instead of bullying them? What if we showed compassion to those who are different instead of labeling them and making them feel unwelcome? What if people from opposing political parties stopped the nastiness, and sought to better our lives rather than taking revenge or getting even?

I’m proud to be a follower of Jesus Christ. His teaching makes sense to me. The faith he calls for is not wimpy! It takes being different, thinking outside the box, and looking for ways in which we can be a part of the solution, rather than a part of the problem our society faces. Jesus places great trust in us by calling us to stop being indifferent to discrimination and cruelty. Jesus calls us to bring light into the darkness, compassion into a world of hate, and a willingness not to settle for the bare minimum. Jesus asks us, each day, to listen to his voice, deepen our understanding, and live our faith boldly—and then some.

Homily for the Twenty-sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time September 28, 2025

Thu, 09 Oct 2025 13:54:54 GMT

Homily for the Twenty-sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time

September 28, 2025

Are We Really Listening to What We Hear?

There was a woman who believed she had a hearing problem. Her friends kept telling her she had a problem. She was always asking them to repeat what had been said in a conversation.

The woman made an appointment with an audiologist to check out her hearing problems. The doctor told her that he had the latest diagnostic technology, but that he preferred using his old reliable test first. So, the doctor took out his railroad pocket watch.

Seated across from the woman, the doctor held up the watch and asked her if she could hear the watch’s ticking. “Sure, just fine,” she replied. So, the doctor got up, walked behind her and asked if she could hear it now. Again, she gave an affirmative response. The doctor then walked across the office, standing about twenty feet away and asked if the ticking could still be heard. The woman replied that she heard it easily. Finally, the doctor walked out the door so he was out of sight, and asked if she could still hear the watch. Again, the woman said that she heard it clearly.

The doctor returned to his chair, putting the old, reliable watch back in his pocket. Looking at the woman, he gave her his diagnosis. “Your hearing is perfect,” the doctor said. “Your problem is not in your hearing; you just don’t know how to listen.”

At the end of Jesus’ story in today’s gospel, the wealthy man begs Abraham to send Lazarus to his father’s house, where he has five brothers, to give them a warning lest they end up in the same place where he is.

Abraham replies that they have all the warning they need through the holy persons of their history, Moses and the prophets. In other words, they have all the warning they need.

Then, there’s a final plea, to have someone to return from the dead—that would surely get their attention. And, ironically, Abraham replies, “If they will not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded if someone should rise from the dead.”

Here’s what’s ironic: in the Resurrection, Jesus himself does indeed return from the dead. That’s at the heart of our faith—something we proclaim, something we reflect on, every time we gather here in church.

What makes Jesus’ story particularly sad, I think, is that the poor, starving beggar was right at the rich man’s gate. The rich man might have tripped over him, going in and out of his house. Yet, he never gave it a second thought. He had surely heard the teaching of Moses and the prophets every time he went to the synagogue. There, he would have heard the constant plea to take care of the widows, orphans and strangers in his midst. The problem is that he may have heard, but he never really listened.

And now, the story is placed before us. When we see someone who is poor, someone in obvious misery, someone who asks for our help, do we really see what’s happening, do we really listen to what the Bible teaches over and over again. Do we do anything to make the fate of the poor and the marginalized any better?

One of our problems, I think, as a nation, is that we’re not really listening to the clear teaching of the Bible. We now have an official policy that anyone who looks different can be picked up by masked enforcement officials, and taken away from family, job and community without any due process. A whole subgroup of our population is being stigmatized, and paying a horrible price, for the simple reason that they are not white.

So, we’ve heard the story. The poor beggar, the one from the lower class, the one who makes a scene by publicly begging—he’s the one who ends up in heavenly glory. The rich man was condemned, not so much for his wealth, as his indifference. He may have heard, but he didn’t really listen.

Some may say, “Whoa! You’re getting into politics now. You shouldn’t be saying these things in a church.” To that I would reply that even politics has a moral side to it. I’m using the gospel to apply Jesus’ teaching. I’m trying not just to hear, but to truly listen. The poor beggar is the hero of the story; he’s done nothing wrong. It’s the indifference and lack of compassion, the cruelty and hard-heartedness of the rich man that is condemned. When we look at what’s happening in our world, does the teaching of Jesus really matter? Are we just hearing, or really listening?

Homily for the Twenty-fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time September 21, 2025

Wed, 24 Sep 2025 21:33:00 GMT

Does Jesus Have a Chance in Today’s World?

Homily for the Twenty-fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time

September 21, 2025

I came across this anonymous story… A man spoke with the Lord about heaven and hell. “I will show you hell,” said the Lord, and they went into a room which had a large pot of stew in the middle. The smell was delicious, but around the pot sat desperate people who were starving. All were holding spoons with very long handles which reached into the pot, but because the handle of the spoon was longer than their arm, it was impossible to get the stew into their mouths. Their suffering was terrible.

“Now I will show you heaven,” said the Lord, and they went into another room identical to the first one. There was a similar pot of delicious stew and the people had the same long-handled spoons, but they were well-nourished, talking and happy. At first the man did not understand. “It is simple,” said the Lord. “You see, they have learned to feed each other.”

In today’s gospel Jesus says, “No servant can serve two masters. He will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and mammon.”

I think the key word for us to take a look at is the last one, mammon. Mammon has to do with money, riches and possessions. What is most important is what mammon can do to you: it can make you greedy, blind you to the needs of others, and lead to consumerism, a preoccupation with material goods. Taken to the extreme, money and material goods can become an idol, having god-like power over individuals.

In the story about heaven and hell, it would appear that those in hell are self-centered, locked in on themselves. They have never found the beauty of sharing, or of caring about the needs of other people. They try only to feed themselves; those around them don’t seem to matter. Perhaps the worst thing that has happened to them is that they have become indifferent to the needs of others. It is self-survival at any cost.

In one of his stories, Jesus remarks that where our treasure is, that’s where our heart will lie. Let’s ask ourselves: What am I most concerned about? What gets my attention? What makes me angry? What makes me happy?

Our coming regularly to Church is important because we get a steady diet of what Jesus considers important. He invites us, not just to learn about him, but to grow in a relationship with him, so that we can become more like him. This doesn’t happen over-night, and it’s not a once-in-awhile kind of thing. Most of the time, we are living in the world, listening to its values, becoming concerned about what other people tell us we should be concerned about. We have 184 hours each week, and we give one of those hours to our time together in worship. That 183 vs.1! To be realistic, does Jesus then have a chance? Can he become our guide, our teacher, our hero, the heart of our life?

There are very clever commercials that are meant to buy in to the values they are selling. For example, there are Capital One ads that always end with the question, “What’s in your wallet?” Well, today’s Gospel asks a question that goes deeper than that: What’s in your heart? Or better, who’s in your heart? Have you let God in? Have you given God a chance? Or, have you shut God out?

Homily for the Exaltation of the Cross September 14, 2025

Sat, 20 Sep 2025 16:10:04 GMT

Jesus: The Font of Everlasting Love

Homily for the Exaltation of the Cross

September 14, 2025

There is an old tale about an unusual tree that grew outside the gates of a desert city. It was an ancient tree, a landmark, as a matter of fact. It seemed to have been touched by the finger of God, for it bore fruit perpetually. Despite its old age, its limbs were constantly laden with fruit. Hundreds of passersby refreshed themselves from the tree, as it never failed to give freely of its fruit.

But then a greedy merchant purchased the property on which the tree grew. He saw hundreds of travelers picking the fruit from his tree, so he built a huge fence around it. Travelers pleaded and pleaded with the new owner, “Share the fruit with us.”

The miserly merchant scoffed. “It’s my tree, my fruit, and bought with my money.”

And then an astonishing thing happened—suddenly, the ancient tree died! What could have happened? The law of giving, as predictable as the law of gravity, expresses the immutable principle: when giving stops, bearing fruit ceases, and death follows inevitably.

Today, I want to focus on our second reading from Paul’s Letter to the Philippians. Scholars say that what is contained here is actually an ancient hymn that predates Paul. But consider these beautiful words:

Brothers and sisters:

Christ Jesus, though he was in the form of God,

did not regard equality with God

something to be grasped.

Rather, he emptied himself,

taking the form of a slave,

coming in human likeness;

and found human in appearance,

he humbled himself,

becoming obedient to the point of death,

even death on a cross.

Because of this, God greatly exalted him

and bestowed on him the name

which is above every name,

that at the name of Jesus

every knee should bend,

of those in heaven and on earth and under the earth,

and every tongue confess that

Jesus Christ is Lord,

to the glory of God the Father.

Now, over the years, I seldom have thrown Greek words at you, but in this case, I think I will. The word is kenois: emptying oneself. There are a lot of early Christian writers who found this concept central to their understanding of who Jesus is, and therefore who we, his followers are.

What this means is that Jesus on the cross is a lot like the fruit tree in the story. He constantly lays down his life out of love. He constantly gives himself that we might have new life. That’s been going on for some 2,000 years, and the font of Jesus’ love has never run dry. He has never stopped loving, and so, those who turn to him can find refreshment when they are running dry, hope when they’re feeling overwhelmed, reassurance when they are in doubt, and reason to go on when they’re ready to give up.

That’s what we do each time we come to Mass: to pick some fruit form the tree of life. To receive nourishment for our weariness, courage for our fear, and hope for something better, something to hang onto when we feel dry, overcome by the challenges of the day, at the end of our rope.

Near the side entrance to our church, we have an image of the Divine Mercy, as revealed to Sr. Faustina, the Polish nun. There are rays coming forth, depicting the water and the blood that flowed from Jesus’ side when the soldier pierced him with a lance. The Church has taught that this reveals how we are formed into a community of faith. The water stands for baptism, and the blood for the Eucharist. The Church is formed from Christ’s wounded heart. We receive God’s mercy through our Lord’s total gift of self—emptying himself that we might be raised up, giving himself that we might learn the lesson of humility and service, bleeding for us that we never forget or question the depth of his love.

One final thought. Jesus’ life-giving love flows to us that we might share in his life. But it is not meant to form a big puddle of love to which we hang on selfishly. The love is meant to flow both to us and through us. If the love doesn’t go out to others, we will, like the old fruit tree, dry up and die. Love is meant to be shared, or it’s not real love at all.

Homily for the Twenty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time September 7, 2025

Sat, 20 Sep 2025 16:00:48 GMT

Who or What Is at the Center of My Life?

Homily for the Twenty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time

September 7, 2025

Once there was a farming town that could be reached only by a narrow road with a bad curve in it. There were frequent accidents on the road, especially at the curve, and the preacher would preach to the people of the town to make sure that they were Good Samaritans to the accident victims. And so they were, as they would pick up the people on the road. One day someone suggested that they buy an ambulance to get the victims to the hospital more quickly. The preacher preached and the people gave.

Then one day a councilman suggested that the town authorize building a wider road and taking out the dangerous curve. It happened that the mayor had a farm market right at the curve on the road, and was against taking out the curve. Someone asked the preacher to say a word about the councilman’s suggestion to the mayor and the congregation next Sunday. But the preacher and most of the people figured that they had better stay out of politics, so the following Sunday the preacher preached on the Good Samaritan gospel and encouraged the people to continue their fine work of picking up the accident victims—which they did.

So, morally speaking, what is the determining factor in the town’s decision? I would point to greed: the mayor’s economic interests appear to supersede every other consideration, including serious bodily harm, and possibly even death.

In today’s gospel Jesus makes an astonishing statement: “Anyone of you who does not renounce all his possessions cannot be my disciple.” In the story, the mayor cannot renounce his possessions, and the rest of the town simply goes along.

But in rather harsh language Jesus calls for something more than mediocrity. The love commitment he calls for is drastic and radical. Not only are possessions called into question, but so are fathers and mothers, children, brothers and sisters—and even one’s own life. Something or someone has to be at the center, and for Jesus, it’s not our possessions, or even members of our family.

This takes us to a deeper level of understanding the story of the Good Samaritan. In that parable, the Samaritan is indeed praised because he’s the only one who shows compassion—going beyond ethnic or political identity, to an appreciation of a common humanity, even if the person is supposedly your enemy.

But what are we to think if, repeatedly, day in and day out, people are getting robbed, mugged, and left to die at that same spot in the road? What if a deeper, more serious solution is called for? Can fear, or greed, or indifference stops us from seeking a solution that would be more effective?

Let me give you a local example. Many years ago, when I first came back to this area, I found that many people were in need. And so, they would come back to me, month after month, seeking help with rent, or utility bills, or food that ran out yet again.

We could have simply continued that process. And I know that, in crisis situations, that kind of intervention is necessary. But for many, the problem wasn’t being solved, it was just being postponed—again and again.

And so, we founded Montague Catholic Social Ministries. Certainly, we help people with their immediate needs. But then we try to move beyond that by empowering people to rise up out of poverty, to put an end to domestic violence, to help women who have been traumatized, to help new immigrants to develop the skills they need in order to flourish. For more than thirty years now, that is what is happening at the corner of Avenue A and Third Street.

As you may know, the Board of Directors and the Staff went through a process of rebranding—finding a name that more adequately describes what the agency has become. We go beyond Montague, we serve not only Catholics, we do more than mere social work. We are an agency that works heart to heart, with staff members who accompany people and help their dreams and aspirations to take flight.

Getting back to the gospel, Jesus is asking us to consider who, at the heart of it, we really are. Do we take our marching orders from Jesus, or one of the political parties? Do we only take sides in wars that are going on, or do we strive to pray for and promote peace? Do we use our money and our possessions for the good of others, or have material things become our masters? Where do we find our true security—in things we’ve collected, or in the God who created us?

Here's a couple of things that I’ve found helpful. At least twice a year, I go through my closets and bureau drawers and ask myself, do I really need all these shirts and pants and shoes? Many get weeded out and donated to charity. Similarly, if someone gives me a sweater as a gift, I give away one of the others.

The other thing I do is to stay informed about the needs of our community. I’ve bought winter coats, and diapers, and backpacks and deodorant because I’ve seen the need. I also support organizations like St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital because I can’t stand the idea that children, who haven’t had a chance to live yet, are the victims of a horrible disease.

It's a struggle, but in these ways, I’m trying not to let material things possess me. But that’s me. I realize that each of us is unique, each of us has different obligations, each of us has different means available to us. But the challenge of the gospel is always before us. We hear the words; we understand Jesus’ teaching. Now the challenge is to figure out how to live it. Who, or what, is at the heart of my life, my commitments, and my actions?

Homily for the Twenty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time August 31, 2025

Sat, 20 Sep 2025 15:54:25 GMT

An Upside-Down World.

Homily for the Twenty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time

August 31, 2025

In ancient times a king decided to find and honor the greatest person among his subjects. A man of wealth and property was singled out. Another was praised for her healing powers, another for his wisdom and knowledge of the law. Still another was lauded for his business acumen. Many other successful people were brought to the palace, and it became evident that the task of choosing the greatest would be difficult.

Finally, the last candidate stood before the king. It was a woman. Her hair was white. Her eyes shone with the light of knowledge, understanding and love.

“Who is this?” asked the king. “What has she done?” “You have seen and heard all the others,” said the king’s aide. “This is their teacher!”

The people applauded and the king came down from his throne to honor her.

In today’s gospel, Jesus focuses on a theme he emphasizes many times in the gospels: humility. He is in the home of one of the key members of that society, described as a “leading Pharisee.” I’m sure it was a sumptuous meal with a lot of important citizens in attendance.

Jesus actually offers two examples about humility. The first one, I am sure, must have been received with openness because it gave advice about how to save face. Imagine a person being invited to a wedding, and he plunks himself down in the seat that was reserved for the mayor of the city. Many other guests arrive, and the seats fill up pretty fast. And finally, the mayor arrives. Where on earth is he supposed to sit? Out in the kitchen? At the children’s table? No, his seat is taken, and that seat, embarrassing as it is, is taken away from him. It makes sense to avoid being shamed in this way.

The second teaching of Jesus was, I’m sure, more difficult for the guests at that dinner party to take. “When you hold a lunch or a dinner,” he teaches, “do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or your wealthy neighbors…” I’m sure that would have eliminated just about every person at the Pharisee’s dinner party. Instead, Jesus teaches, “Invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind…”

Can you imagine the looks on people’s faces? The cream of society inviting the dregs? That must have hurt their sensibilities! But it is precisely such people as this that Jesus has been inviting: those left out, those shunned, those considered sinners and losers.

But here is Jesus the teacher, challenging the prevailing concepts and proposing a new wisdom—a wisdom that turns everything upside down, that creates a new pecking order! The poor, the lame, the blind, the crippled, the sinners: these are the new cream of the crop.

At the end of the passage, Jesus adds one more bit of wisdom. You invite these people precisely because they are unable to repay you. No way can they have a dinner party in your honor. But you will be repaid by the One who is in charge of this new order of things: you will be repaid by God “at the resurrection of the righteous.”

This is an entirely new teaching by a unique master teacher. And it gives us something to think about. Basically, it is this: you no longer go up by going up. You don’t succeed by climbing the ladder of success. Rather, you go up by going down! You please God by taking care of his children who are hurting, who have been beaten down by life, who have few neighbors that take an interest in them.

In the story of the king searching for the best citizen, the king honors the teacher, the one that enabled others to succeed. Now, Jesus, our teacher, is asking us to succeed by helping those who are seen, in one way or another, as failures. Will we honor our teacher by basically turning our world upside down?

That’s what today’s gospel offers. We don’t succeed in this new Kingdom by succeeding! Rather, we succeed by helping others to succeed. Whose philosophy do we choose to live by? Which teacher do we embrace?

Homily for the Twenty-first Sunday of Ordinary Time August 24, 2025

Wed, 27 Aug 2025 23:01:35 GMT

A Sermon Walking.

Homily for the Twenty-first Sunday of Ordinary Time

August 24, 2025

One afternoon in 1953, reporters and officials gathered at a Chicago railroad station to await the arrival of the 1952 Nobel Peace Prize winner. He stepped off the train—a giant of a man, six-feet-four, with bushy hair and a large moustache.

As cameras flashed, city officials approached with hands outstretched and began telling him how honored they were to meet him. He thanked them politely and then, looking over their heads, asked if he could be excused for a moment. He walked through the crowd with quick strides until he reached the side of an elderly black woman who was struggling as she tried to carry two large suitcases.

He picked up the bags in his big hands and, smiling, escorted the woman to a bus. As he helped her aboard, he wished her a safe journey. Meanwhile, the crowd tagged along behind him. He turned to them and said, “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

The man was Dr. Albert Schweitzer, the famous missionary-doctor, who had spent his life helping the poorest of the poor in Africa. A member of the reception committee said to one of the reporters: “That’s the first time I ever saw a sermon walking.”

When you think about it, people were attracted to Jesus during his earthly ministry because he was a sermon walking. He didn’t teach anything that he didn’t apply to himself. People marveled that he spoke with a new and authentic authority.

Think of some of the most difficult things he taught. Forgive your enemies, pray for your persecutors, he said. And on the cross he did precisely that: Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.

At the Last Supper he washed the feet of the Apostles, humbling himself, unashamed to be their servant. And he taught that what he had done was an example for them: wash one another’s feet.

When James and John wanted the positions of honor in Jesus’ kingdom, asking to sit at his right and his left, Jesus rejected that kind of thinking. Pagans do that, he said. But it shall not be that way in the new kingdom. And how ironic that, on the day that Jesus died, it was two criminals who were given those positions, one at his right, the other at his left. And when one of them repented and asked Jesus to remember him in his kingdom, Jesus replied that he would be with him that day in Paradise.

Jesus didn’t just teach; he lived the message. He was a sermon walking. They thought Albert Schweitzer was a sermon walking because a poor lady who needed help with her luggage was just as important to him as Chicago’s welcoming Committee.

People who encountered Mother Teresa said that she was a sermon walking. She didn’t just teach her nuns, she caressed the dying, nursed the sick, and cleaned the latrine.

The same was true for those who witnessed the example of Pope Francis. He went to the ends of the earth, to those who were forgotten, to those who lived in slums, to refugees at the world’s boarders, to jails and youth detention facilities, teaching by his example that all are welcome, no one is cast aside, no one is forgotten in God’s kingdom.

In today’s gospel, Jesus advises that we strive to enter through the narrow gate. Not the wide way of popularity, power and prestige, but the narrow gate of service, humility and love of the forgotten. You see what Jesus is doing? He’s lifting up the last and the least, and making them the first, the ones who have a sure ticket at the gate of heaven. How do we get in? By feeding them, nursing them, lifting them up out of misery, visiting them in their loneliness, standing up for them when others would deny them their rights—and by helping them with their luggage and making sure they get on the right bus. In short, by becoming a sermon walking.

Homily for the Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time August 17, 2025

Wed, 27 Aug 2025 22:51:57 GMT

Setting the World on Fire

Shrieking in the middle of the night, the smoke detector startled the family awake. Immediately jumping from their bed, the parents yelled for their children to hurry out of the house. Once outside, the parents started counting and discovered that one child was missing. A parent’s worst fear was now realized. Then they saw their son at a second-floor window, trapped by the flames.

The father, a devout church elder, immediately dropped to his knees, praying that God would somehow work to save his son. The mother, too, was a person of deep faith, but also a very practical woman. Immediately, she ran next door, yanked a neighbor’s extension ladder from the garage wall, propped it against her house and rescued her son from the flaming house.

In today’s gospel, Jesus uses some rather graphic imagery to describe his mission. He says he’s got a fire to start, and he can’t wait. He also points out that there is a baptism he must receive. Now, at this point, he’s already been baptized with water by John the Baptist. So, there’s another baptism awaiting him: a baptism by fire. He’s referring to the agony of the cross.

Living in an area tightly controlled by the Roman Empire, where justice was often brutally distributed, Jesus would have seen crucifixions. And so, he knew what kind of death was awaiting him. It was going to be his baptism, or trial, by fire.

And Jesus also knew human nature. He already saw the division that was growing about him and his message. Some were convinced that he was the long-awaited Savior, while others considered him a dangerous heretic and deceiver who was pulling people away from the true faith. The kinds of divisions he describes already existed.

And the same is true in our day. How many parents have come to me, bemoaning the fact that their adult children are not coming to church. The scandal of the sex abuse crisis certainly has had an impact. And we live in a culture that, in many ways, doesn’t support the church or its values. Many will admit that they’re just too busy, and they have too many commitments, to be able to commit themselves to regular participation at Mass.

My belief is that God doesn’t give up on anyone. For everyone, there will come a time when each person, facing a traumatic situation, or the possibility of death, will have to deal with their mortality. In the early days of Christianity there was a deep appreciation for this in that there were statues and other representations of Dismas, the good thief, who at the last moment asked Jesus to remember him when he came into his kingdom, and was reassured that, on that very day, he would be with Jesus in paradise.

So… fire, suffering, division: these have always been a part of life. The question is what do we do about it? It has been said that Christianity is caught, more than it is taught. Pope Paul VI said that the people of our day listen to witnesses more than to teachers, and if they listen to teachers, it is because they are also witnesses.

The best thing we can do is to keep growing in our faith, expanding our ability to continue to love, even when it is difficult. Let the people you love see you living your faith—quietly, humbly, convincingly.

God’s Spirit will be at work at the same time. Remember, on the first Pentecost, when the Spirit descended on the first believers, it was with tongues of fire. That encounter with the Spirit set the disciples on fire, and they began to live their faith with remarkable dedication and courage. As a result, many joined them.

What we are about, ultimately, is God’s work. If we are successful in anything we do, it is because we surrender and respond, hope burning within us with the very fire of God. Let us do our job, living the faith as best we can. And let us trust that God is always doing his job: getting people’s attention, and setting their hearts on fire by the power of his unquenchable love.

Homily for the Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time August 10, 2025

Sun, 17 Aug 2025 10:21:46 GMT

Putting Off for Tomorrow.

Homily for the Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

August 10, 2025

I came across a poem that made me stop and think. It’s called Tomorrow.

He was going to be all that he wanted to be—Tomorrow.

None would be kinder or braver than he—Tomorrow.

A friend who was troubled and weary, he knew,

Who’d be glad for a lift, and who needed it too,

On him he would call and see what he could do—Tomorrow.

Each morning, he stacked up the letters he’d write—Tomorrow.

And thought of the folks he would fill with delight—Tomorrow. …

The greatest of disciples this man would have been—Tomorrow.

The world would have hailed him if he had seen—Tomorrow.

But, in fact, he passed on, and he faded from view,

And all that he left here when he was through,

Was a mountain of things he wanted to do—Tomorrow!

In today’s Gospel Jesus advises his disciples to be “like servants who await their master’s return from a wedding, ready to open immediately when he comes and knocks. Blessed are those servants whom the master finds vigilant on his arrival.”

A little later on, he adds, “You also must be prepared, for at an hour you do not expect, the Son of Man will come.”

Do you have a tendency to procrastinate, to put things off? I thought about that the other day, concluded that I had been procrastinating, and decided to do something about it: I scheduled long over-do appointments to update my will, have an eye exam, and see a specialist my regular dentist wanted me to consult with. Just making these appointments gave me a sense that I was taking control of my life.

Of course, Jesus is talking about our spiritual life, our taking care of what is truly most important: our relationship with God, our love of God, and our love of one another. He’s asking us not to put that off, not to let things slide. “You also must be prepared,” he says, “for at an hour you do not expect, the Son of Man will come.”

So, concerning our spiritual life, I made a list of things for us to consider:

· A regular time each day for prayer and Bible reading

· When was the last time for confession

· Donation of food for the poor

· Visiting a sick friend or lonely neighbor

· Forgiving / asking for forgiveness

· Working for justice / fairness

· Speaking up for the voiceless

· Demonstrating about the abuse of political power

This is a pretty broad list. We may not be comfortable with some of the things on the list. But these are positive ways in which we can grow personally, help the community in its mission, and reach out to those who are hurting. And I’m not talking about a one-time thing; I’m speaking of a way of life—a life lived with God in it. And, as we listen to the urgency of the Gospel, I’m not talking about tomorrow.

The Dali Lama famously taught that there are two days on which we can do nothing: yesterday, for it’s gone; and tomorrow; for it’s not here. That leaves today.

Homily for the Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time July 27, 2025

Sun, 17 Aug 2025 09:59:05 GMT

Persistence in the Face of Evil.

Homily for the Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

July 27, 2025

In 1987 an 8.2 earthquake almost flattened Armenia, killing over thirty thousand people in less than four minutes. In the midst of utter devastation and chaos, a father left his wife securely at home and rushed to the school where his son was supposed to be, only to discover that the building was as flat as a pancake.

After the traumatic initial shock, he remembered the promise he had made to his son, “No matter what, I’ll always be there for you!” Tears began to fill his eyes. As he looked at the pile of debris that once was the school, it looked hopeless, but he kept remembering his commitment to his son….He started digging through the rubble.

As he was digging, other forlorn parents arrived, clutching their hearts, saying: “My son! My daughter!” Other well-meaning parents tried to pull him off of what was left of the school saying, “It’s too late….” To each parent he responded with one line, “Are you going to help me now?” [The fire chief and police personnel tried to stop him.] To which this loving, caring Armenian father asked, “Are you going to help me now?”

Courageously, he proceeded alone because he needed to know for himself. “Is my boy alive or is he dead?” He dug for eight hours…twelve hours…twenty-four hours…thirty-six hours, in the thirty-eighth hour, he pulled back a boulder and heard his son’s voice. He screamed his son’s name, “Armand!” He heard back, “Dad!?! It's me, Dad! I told the other kids not to worry. I told ‘em that if you were alive, you’d save me, and when you saved me, they’d be saved. You promised, ‘No matter what, I’ll always be there for you!’ You did it, Dad!”

And Jesus said, “And I tell you, ask and you will receive; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you….What father among you would hand his son a snake when he asks for a fish? Or hand him a scorpion when he asks for an egg?” Ask and you will receive, seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.

But…here’s the problem. The father in the story illustrates persistence very well. But there were 30,000 people killed in that earthquake. Wouldn’t that mean that a lot of other prayers were unanswered, that evil appeared to triumph over good? Don’t a lot of people lose faith, give up on God because prayers don’t seem to be answered, or God seems to be deaf, or maybe there is no God after all?

Our faith has an answer. It may not be the answer we immediately want or prefer, but it is an answer, nonetheless. The answer our faith gives is: Easter. Jesus, as the Son-of-God-made- human, takes suffering and death to himself and brings it to the cross. And then, on Easter, when he rises from the dead, all that suffering, all that evil, and ultimately death itself—all these are smashed to pieces, and eternity of life prevails. And so, we have a home waiting for us. We have a God waiting for us with open arms. God doesn’t take away suffering, but in Jesus, he transforms it. God doesn’t take away death, he takes away its power. God doesn’t always give us what we want, but he gives us something better, something to believe in, something to hope for—Someone to trust, to seek, to put our faith in.

Homily for the Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time July 20, 2025

Sun, 17 Aug 2025 09:50:16 GMT

Overcoming Anxiety.

Homily for the Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

July 20, 2025

The director of religious education was showing off the First Communion class for the benefit of the pastor. She tried to gauge her questions to their intelligence level so that each child could make a good showing.

“Johnny,” she said to one of the boys, “is there anything that God cannot do?” “Yes, sister,” Johnny replied confidently. “Think again, Johnny,” she repeated. “Is there anything God cannot do?”

“Yes, Sister, there is,” came the same reply with more emphasis than before. “O.K., Johnny, what is it?” asked the sister in exasperation. Johnny replied triumphantly, “God can’t please everybody.”

We see this in today’s gospel. Hospitality was very important in the culture of that day. And so, Martha, is rushing about, trying to put everything together for such an important guest (and probably a number of Jesus’ inner circle, as well). So Martha, exasperated, bi-passes her sister, and takes her complaint higher: Jesus, fix my sister; I’m working to the point of exhaustion, and she won’t lift a finger to help me.

It's very clear that not even Jesus could please everybody. He tries to explain to Martha that the purpose of his visit wasn’t to create anxiety. He’s come as a friend, probably to relax, catch up on what’s happening in his friends’ lives, and to offer some teaching to help them with their faith life.

This passage has been interpreted in various ways down through the centuries. Some have said, for example, that Mary represents nuns, who have a calling to pray and get close to the Lord. Others have suggested that Jesus is calling for some balance in life between action and building a relationship with God through prayer. Still others point out that in the society of Jesus’ day it was the role of men to sit and listen. Women were supposed to do the chores, which Martha was doing. And so, in defending Mary, Jesus was raising up the role of women in his kingdom.

But I like the insight of Johnny, the boy who was going to make his First Communion: God can’t please everybody. So, how do we deal with disagreements, with different personality types, with those who see things in black and white, with those who insist there’s only one way (namely, their way)?

Many years ago, John XXIII was remembered as a kindly Pope and pastor of the church. He wanted to tone down the rhetoric, to be more understanding and inclusive, to show love rather than condemnation. And here’s how he summarized it: in essentials, unity; in non-essentials, diversity; but in all things, charity.

It seems to me that in a lot of our dialogue these days, whether it be within the home, in the community, or in political life, it’s the charity that is missing. In our life of over-stimulation and busy-ness, we can put our relationship with God on the back burner. And so we lose our balance, we approach each other without love, we adopt the ways of the world rather than the ways of God. And like Martha, we are filled with anxiety and frustration. Jesus wants to bring us healing and peace, but sometimes, we’re just too uptight to listen.

So…what do you need to learn from this gospel? Are you overly anxious and upset? Do you make time for God? Are your speech and actions rooted in love?

Homily for the Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time July 13, 2025

Sun, 17 Aug 2025 09:32:08 GMT

How to be a Neighbor.

Homily for the Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

July 13, 2025

This is a story about a woman’s experience at a children’s hospital. She was asked by a teacher from her church to tutor a boy with some schoolwork while he was in the hospital. The woman didn’t realize until she got to the hospital that the boy was in a burn unit, in considerable pain and barely able to respond. She tried to tutor him, stumbling through the English lesson, ashamed at putting him through such a senseless exercise.

The next day, when she returned to the hospital, a nurse asked her, “What did you do to that boy?” Before she could finish apologizing, the nurse interrupted her: “You don’t understand. His entire attitude has changed. It’s as though he has decided to live.”

A few weeks later, the boy explained that he had completely given up hope until this young woman arrived. With joyful tears he explained, “They wouldn’t send a tutor to work on nouns and verbs with a dying boy, would they?”

In our gospel reading today, we have two very different approaches to what it means to be a neighbor. The scholar of the law was looking for a precise definition of whom he was required to love and to have concern for. His attitude is reflected in the story by the two religious figures who see the man lying in the ditch, but ignore him and keep going. For them, he was not a neighbor; he was a stranger. And so, they were under no obligation to help or to get involved.

The Samaritan, who was both a political and religious “stranger” or “enemy”—responds with compassion to the total stranger in the ditch. Seeing a common humanity with the unfortunate person, he doesn’t diminish the definition of neighbor; he expands it.

One of the ultimate questions of life is: why am I here? Why was I created? What is my purpose in life? Sometimes, as in the case of the woman tutoring the boy in the hospital, we don’t plan for it. Instead, it’s as if life itself questions us. Even if you do not understand, will you help? Even if you owe nothing to a person, or if someone is a complete stranger, will you help, will you get involved, will you get inconvenienced, will you not leave it up to someone else, will you do something?

The man beaten and lying in a ditch, and the young boy lying in the hospital: in both cases they have the good fortune of being helped by complete strangers. Try putting yourself into the story. The genuine human being is the one who shows compassion, the one who hears the cry of the poor and responds.

Or you might think of it this way: what if you were the beaten person lying in a ditch? How would you feel if no one cared, if no one stopped to help?

Well, sometimes the message of Jesus is perfectly clear. The point Jesus wants us to get from the story of the Good Samaritan is: go and do likewise! Be a neighbor!

Homily for the Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time July 6, 2025

Sat, 12 Jul 2025 10:14:24 GMT

Responding to Real Needs.

There’s a story about a young missionary who spotted a woodcutter at work in a forest. “What a perfect opportunity for me to make a convert for Jesus,” he thought when he learned the woodcutter had never heard of Jesus Christ.

All day as the man chopped wood, carried it to his wagon, and walked back to chop another load, the young missionary spoke to him about Christ. Finally, near the end of the day, he asked, “Well, are you ready to accept Jesus Christ?”

“I don’t know,” replied the woodcutter. “All day you spoke to me of this Jesus who helps us with all our burdens, yet you never helped me with mine.”

In today’s gospel reading, Jesus sends his followers to the places he intends to visit. The instructions are clear: they are not to weigh themselves down with a lot of stuff. There is an urgency that is evident. There is both a practical side, and a more spiritual side to the message: on one hand, they are to cure the sick, and on the other, they are to proclaim, “The kingdom of God is at hand for you.”

The psychologist Abraham Maslow analyzed the types of needs that people have, and he came up with a “hierarchy of needs,” beginning with the most basic, and then spelling them out in order.

Physiological needs : Basic necessities

like food, water, and shelter.

Safety needs : Security, stability, and

protection.

Love and belonging : Social connections,

relationships, and a sense of belonging.

Esteem : Self-esteem, recognition, and

respect from others.

Self-actualization : Fulfillment of one's potential and personal growth.

The young missionary in the story with which I began had a wonderful message, I’m sure. The problem was that, in his inexperience, he didn’t understand human nature. If he had offered to help the woodcutter to do his job and provide for his family, that would have (hopefully) opened the door, not only to the wood cutter’s head but also his heart. The missionary would thus have shown that he cared about the woodcutter in the concrete, and not just in the abstract.

I think there is a powerful message for us as Christians today. Recent activity in Washington appears to be leading to cuts in programs that have provided assistance to the poorer members of our society, including children. For example, articles in local newspapers report that food insecurity in our area is on the rise by about 13%.

Now, if we, as modern-day missionaries, not in some distant place, but right here where we live—if we want to bring the Christian message to the world, we need to keep the hierarchy of needs in mind. We feed the hungry, and we do so because we are followers of Jesus Christ. When others see our concern, and the practical help we want to offer, then they will see love in action.

Here’s an interesting biblical passage that makes the point. In the Letter of St. James we read, “My brothers [and sisters], what good is it to profess faith without practicing it? If a brother or sister has nothing to wear and no food for the day, and you say to them, ‘Good-bye and good luck! Keep warm and well fed,’ but do not meet their bodily needs, what good is that? So it is with the faith that does nothing in practice. It is thoroughly lifeless” (James 2:14-17).

We in this parish are known for our hospitality and our outreach and support for our neighbors in need. But I have a feeling that the demands are going to grow. And that puts a challenge before us. Will our response grow with the need? Will more of us put our faith into action? Will we leave it up to someone else, or will every one of us get involved to the extent we are able?

Consider the possibilities. Many bring food items on a regular basis, wanting to share some of their bounty with those who have little. One day I was in Aldi’s and I saw boxes of diapers on sale: seventy-five diapers for about $13.50. While I have never bought a diaper in my life, I picked up three boxes, sizes 4, 5 ad 6, to be given out to those who need them at Community Meals. On another occasion, Fr. Goni and I were in JC Penney. I noticed a whole rack of winter coats and jackets that were on sale. So, rather than shopping for ourselves, we bought the whole rack of coats and jackets: over $1,400 worth of clothing for around $400. Again, we gave the coats to the Community Meals volunteers to distribute. I was told that one man marveled at getting a brand-new winter jacket. It was the first new one he had ever had.

So, do you see? The opportunities abound if we think in practical terms about what our poorer neighbors might need. Clearly the need is great—growing all the time. It will take a huge commitment, and much love, on our parts to respond. But together, we can make a difference.

Homily for the Solemnity of Peter & Paul June 29, 2025

Wed, 02 Jul 2025 18:47:16 GMT

Peter & Paul: Not Quite Perfect.

Many years ago, there was a huge oil refinery fire. Flames shot hundreds of feet into the air. The sky was thick with grimy, black smoke. The heat was intense—so intense that firefighters had to park their trucks a block away and wait for the heat to die down before they could begin to fight the fire. However, it was about to rage out of control.

Then all of a sudden, from several blocks away came a fire truck, racing down the street with its brakes screeching. It hit the curb in front of the fire. The firefighters jumped out and began to battle the blaze. All the firefighters who were parked a block away saw this, and they jumped into their trucks, drove down the block, and began to fight the fire, too. As a result of that cooperative effort, they were just barely able to bring the fire under control.

The people who saw this teamwork thought, “My goodness, the man who drove that lead truck—what an act of bravery!” They decided to give him a special award to recognize him for his bravery in leading the charge.

At the ceremony the mayor said, “Captain, we want to honor you for a fantastic act of bravery. You prevented the loss of property—perhaps even the loss of life. If there is one special thing you could have—just about anything—what would it be?”

Without hesitation, the captain replied, “Your honor, a new set of brakes would be dandy!”

Today’s celebration is a feast of leadership. The two great apostles, Peter and Paul, are honored together for two reasons. First, they were tremendously committed to giving witness to their faith, to carrying on the mission of Jesus, and to building up the early church community. The second reason is that both happened to die in Rome, the capital of the Empire, the place that would become the center for the universal church.

But there’s more to the story. Both Peter and Paul felt a bit like the firefighter who asked for a new set of brakes. Both Peter and Paul would say that they do not deserve the honor being paid them.

Peter, you may recall, lost his courage on the night Jesus was arrested and taken into custody. Just as Jesus had predicted, Peter denied even knowing him, not once, but three times. After the resurrection, Jesus asked Peter, three times, do you love me—once for each denial. Peter declared his love, and was given the mission of tending Jesus’ flock. And even though Peter became a great leader, he never got over his sense of unworthiness. Tradition has it that, when it was time for him to be crucified, he asked to be crucified upside down—unworthy of a crucifixion exactly like the Lord’s.

Paul was the great missionary of the early church. He went on three long journeys, proclaiming the message to all who would hear, bringing about many conversions to the faith. And yet, Paul never forgot that, before this, he had been a persecutor of Jesus’ followers, considering them heretics. As an illustrious Pharisee, Paul wrote that he prided himself for being more zealous than the others. He had the power to imprison, and even put to death, those who were followers of Jesus Christ. And so, even though he was dramatically chosen by the risen Lord for his new mission, he never forgot that he had been an enemy of the gospel.

In the story I began with, the noble firefighter was humble enough to admit that he became a hero due to faulty brakes. In a similar way, even though Peter and Paul rose to the top, they never lost touch with their shortcomings. That made them humble, human and compassionate. Like Jesus, they were servant leaders.

What a great lesson, leaders who can admit that they are less than perfect. Leaders who can dispense forgiveness because they know they need forgiveness themselves.

And I think there’s a lesson in this for all of us. Many years ago, Pope Saint Paul VI stated that people are attracted to witnesses more than to teachers. And if they are attracted to teachers, it is because they are witnesses as well. Each of us has the ability to influence others, not necessarily in extravagant ways. Our influence comes from the fact that we care, that we have compassion, that we’re willing to lend an ear, or lend a hand. We don’t have to be perfect to make a difference. Peter and Paul weren’t perfect, but Jesus chose them anyway.

Homily for the Solemnity of the Holy Body and Blood of Christ June 22, 2025

Wed, 02 Jul 2025 18:39:04 GMT

The Eucharist Inside and Outside the Church. 

As we reflect on the Holy Eucharist today, I wanted to share with you a part of an article by Bishop Mark Seitz, the bishop of El Paso Texas, and the Chair of the Bishops’ Committee on Migration. In part of the article he connects the immigration issue with our celebration of the Eucharist.

Bishop Seitz writes, “I’m a Christian and a priest. Every day I celebrate the Eucharist with the community in my diocese, and during that prayer we ask that our sacrifice of reconciliation might bring about…the peace and salvation of all the world. This living vein of compassion in which we find ourselves as a community is the context for that prayer. I offer the Eucharist that the Lord might bring peace and salvation to this people, my people. In my diocese, that includes those who approach and pass through seeking a better life, and oftentimes just bare life. They, too, are part of us, for we were once one of them. The many immigrants who are dying in the desert are part of my community and are also worthy of the Lord’s peace and salvation. My community also includes the more than fifty thousand persons in my diocese who do not have the benefit of documents. They, too, are just as much a part of my community. One in three of them live with a U.S.-citizen child. A campaign of mass deportation would represent a moral and deeply social crisis in my diocese, one that would tear at the heart of who we are. And as I have traveled the country in my role as chairman of the USCCB Committee on Migration, beyond just the economic and political damage, I have seen that the reverberation of such a hateful campaign would also threaten our identity as a nation.

“These are the perspectives of a Christian and a priest….

“In the social tinderbox of our country right now, there must be a credible response of faith. Our Christian faith must give us something to say to the world at this moment….Allow me to offer a framework for a short-term response….

“To state it clearly, the actions that I have described to close the border to the vulnerable, to deprive hundreds of thousands of persons of legal status, to broaden the state of exception and deny due process, and to move in the direction of mass deportations, are all morally indefensible from a Catholic perspective. These actions will divide families, divide communities, undermine the rule of law, and increase the numbers of those dying at borders” (Bishop Mark J. Seitz, DD, “The Living Vein of Compassion,” Commonweal, June 2025, p. 29).

What does all this have to do with the Eucharist? If we go back to the biblical accounts of Jesus’ earthly ministry, he was often accused of eating with the wrong people. A statement we hear many times is, “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.” And it wasn’t just sinners. He touched lepers, he welcomed tax collectors, he went to people outside of Israel, such as the Samaritans. He told stories that made foreigners the heroes (such as the “Good Samaritan,” who stopped to help a man beaten and left for dead, when others failed to do so).

One of the songs we have sung, especially since we brought people together into one parish, is All Are Welcome. Do you remember? “Let us build a house where love can dwell and all can safely live. A place where saints and children tell how hearts learn to forgive. Built of hopes and dreams and visions, rock of faith and vault of grace; here the love of Christ shall end divisions: All are welcome, all are welcome, all are welcome in this place.”

The Eucharist is all about what unites us, brothers and sisters of Jesus Christ, and children of the one God. The Eucharist reminds us of who we are; and it challenges us to become who we say we are.

There can’t be two sets of rules: welcome and love inside the church, then divide and hate in our society, our nation, our culture. If the celebration of the Eucharist somehow fails to nourish, challenge and change us, then it’s only a pretty ceremony, but not a life-giving Sacrament.

Homily for the Solemnity of the Holy Trinity June 15, 2025

Tue, 17 Jun 2025 10:40:32 GMT

Filling the Holes in the Universe.

A religion teacher brought a large poster to class one day. The picture was covered with newspaper. She took scissors and cut the covered poster into fifteen pieces. She then gave each student a piece of the puzzle. “Take your piece home,” the teacher said, “but don’t peek at it. Remember to bring your piece to the next class.”

The following week the teacher had the students gather around a table to put the pieces back together. Excitedly they fit them together to see what the mystery poster looked like. When all the students had placed their pieces on the table, they discovered something terrible. The poster had two gaping holes; two parts were missing. Two students forgot their pieces of the poster puzzle.

The teacher made this a teachable moment by explaining to the class, “Jesus told us to be his disciples. And when one fails to do his or her part, Jesus’ witness in the world loses some of its luster, just like the poster with two of its parts missing.”

In baptism each disciple of Jesus was given a piece of the puzzle. The question is what each of us has done with our piece. Do we know what it is? Do we know where it is? It’s possible that, if each of us isn’t doing our part, we’re leaving a big gaping hole in the world.

Today we celebrate the solemnity of the Holy Trinity, namely that while there is but one God, God’s very being is to be a perfect community of persons in which love eternally flows from the Father to the Son and back again in the power of the Holy Spirit. The very nature of being is thus communal, and the creative engine that drives everything—God and the universe—is love.

Of course, it’s a gigantic universe. We live in a world with a huge, mind-boggling population. We may feel quite insignificant, but the truth is that we have love to give. And if we don’t give it, the world is a poorer place.

We don’t have to be a missionary in a far-away place to be a disciple. We just need to look around and find a place where love is lacking, or a place where, if some love were added, it would make a difference. If you know a person who lives alone and craves human contact, that’s a hole to be plugged. If we know people in our own neighborhood who are having a hard time feeding their family, that’s a hole to be plugged. If we know people who are living in fear, in poverty, in neglect, our job as disciples, created in the image of the Holy Trinity, is to make the love flow.

Trinity is basic. We begin our prayers in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. We baptize people in the name of the Trinity. When we do that, we profess our belief that life is about community. We give witness that we are children of God when we try to plug holes in our part of the universe.

No one can do it all; there are too many holes to think we can be effective on our own. That’s why we have a community, a church of committed disciples. Think of how many holes can be plugged when love is multiplied. By being baptized in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, we become part of the infinite, life-giving flow of love that comes from the depths of God.

We are made channels of God’s love and peace. Where there is hatred, we bring love; where there is injury, pardon; where there’s doubt, faith; where there’s despair, hope, where there’s darkness, light; where there’s sadness, joy. Like God, we plug the holes where love is absent. In God’s name, we pardon, we give, we console, we strive to understand, and we love with all our souls. It is only when we fail to do our part that holes remain, like a tear in the fabric of God’s universe, a tear in the fabric of love.

Deacon Joe Bucci Funeral Homily

Fri, 13 Jun 2025 18:25:15 GMT

Deacon Joe Bucci Funeral Homily - June 10, 2025

We have been blessed with the ministry of deacons for many years now, but some of us may not be familiar with how the diaconate came about in our Church. The roots of the story can be found in the sixth chapter of the Book of Acts. As the early community grew, a complaint was raised that some of the Greek-speaking widows were being neglected in their practical needs. And so, the twelve Apostles ordained seven men to make sure that pastoral care would be extended, fairly and equally, among those in need.

The deacon from that original group with whom we are most familiar is Stephen. As a matter of fact, our first reading two Sundays ago dealt with the witness of Stephen’s death—the first martyr, the first to give his life for the faith. But before that, Stephen was known for his holiness, his defense of the faith, and great “signs and wonders he performed” among the people (cf. Acts 6:8).

What is striking about Stephen’s death is how closely it mirrored that of Jesus. After being accused of blasphemy and sins against the law of Moses, Stephen was dragged outside the city and stoned to death. As he lay dying, he prayed, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” And he cried out, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” In both life and death, Stephen faithfully imitated his Master, who had come, not to be served, but to serve; his Master, who taught that we are to forgive even our enemies.

In the third century, there was another deacon who was a shining example of faith and courage. His name was Lawrence. It was during the time of Emperor Valerian, who hated all Christians, especially those with property. Lawrence began, then, to give away church property. Valerian offered Lawrence a way out of certain death. If he would show him where the Church’s gold and silver were located, an order of clemency would be issued.

Lawrence then asked for three days in which to gather all the gold and silver of the Church in one central place. For those three days, Lawrence went throughout the city and invited all the poor, the handicapped and the misfortunate to come together. When Valerian arrived, Deacon Lawrence presented him with the true gold and silver of the Church, the poor. The emperor was so enraged that he ordered Lawrence to be burned alive. It was not an easy time to be a deacon.

In the years prior to Vatican II, the diaconate was experienced as a stepping stone, a transitional phase in which those on their way to priesthood would first be ordained deacons. Then, after the Second Vatical Council, the permanent diaconate, open to married as well as single men, was restored. This added a whole new richness and depth to the position. Many of these new deacons would have a dual, bridge-like role, being ordained as deacons, and also being married and having a family.

When Deacon Joe first met with me some ten years ago, he made it very clear that I was getting a package deal: three, not just one. If I was having a dinner in the rectory, or the Women’s Group was having a breakfast, there were to be three seats at the table: Joe, Kay and Joanna. When we went to the Chrism Mass, it would be the four of us—to the ceremony first, and then to Olive Garden, or another, pre-approved, sufficiently Italian, restaurant for dinner.

I want to reflect on Deacon Joe’s life and ministry in light of the powerful example of Deacons like Stephen and Lawrence. If you spent even a few moments with Joe, you would find that, for him, the diaconate was not so much a role to be played as a person to become. Since his ordination in 1997, Joe became a living embodiment of Jesus Christ, his Master, who came not to be served, but to serve.

In his first Sunday appearance at the window in Rome, the new Pope Leo XIV said, “In the Gospel, Jesus says that he knows his sheep and that they listen to his voice and follow him” (cf. John 10:27). He then quoted Pope Saint Gregory the Great, who taught, people ‘respond to the love of those who love them.’” (Homily 14:3-6).

That’s the kind of authenticity Deacon Joe had. People responded to him in love because they knew he loved them. When he first came to this parish, I asked some of our youth what they thought of him. They immediately said, “Oh, he's an OK guy.” I heard that, when Joe worked at the Erving Elementary School, he was one of the most important people in the building because the students confided in him. They knew instinctively that he loved them.

On Sundays, after our morning Masses, I would want to have dinner and then take a siesta, but not Deacon Joe. He had certain people he had to visit, in their homes, in the nursing home, at the hospital—he came with Communion, a parish bulletin, and a desire to serve. They knew in their hearts that Deacon Joe loved them.

The truth is that Joe would know how to start things, but not how to stop them. He became interested in Scouting, as many men do, when they want to pass on wholesome values to their sons. But Joe just kept on doing that, helping boys and young men to become self-sufficient, well-rounded and well-grounded. Many youth learned survival skills, collected merit badges, and went on to become Eagle Scouts—all because Joe didn’t know how to stop. They loved him because they knew Joe loved them.

During his career of service in the military, Joe became very proficient at fixing things, particularly the electronics on military planes. Well, he never knew how to stop that either: over the years, if something needed fixing, recalibrating, or redesigning, Joe was our man.

Joe and his family became very much involved in making sure that services and opportunities would be provided for those with special needs. Joe and Kay became advocates and fought for many of the programs that are now such a blessing for many. The same was true of services for the elderly. And projects of the Knights of Columbus. Joe saw a need and jumped in.

Deacon Joe became a special friend to many members of our Spanish-speaking community. Not only did he help them to feel welcome here at our parish, he also became a practical curator of their dreams. There are young families who now have their own homes because Joe knew how to navigate the process and find the practical and financial help needed. They loved Joe because they knew he loved them.

During Holy Week this year, cancer was already taking its toll on Deacon Joe. But he was here for all the liturgies. He sang his heart out during the solemn intercessions on Good Friday. He could not carry the Easter candle, but he still sang, “Christ, our light!” And on Easter Sunday morning, he made sure that Fr. Goni and I received the traditional frittata for our breakfast.

In a homily he prepared for Palm Sunday, our late, dear Pope Francis noted, “Jesus’ passion becomes compassion whenever we hold out our hand to those who feel they cannot go on, when we lift up those who have fallen, when we embrace those who are discouraged. Brothers and sisters, in order to experience this great miracle of mercy, let us decide how we are meant to carry our own cross during this Holy Week…” (L’Osservatore Romano, May 2025, p. 55).

We all saw how Deacon Joe carried his cross during Holy Week. But then, there was the final week that he made holy by the way he carried his personal cross. On May 17 ^th , he was here for the celebration of Confirmation. On Monday, the 19 ^th , he was admitted to the hospital, and on Friday the 23 ^rd he died. During that time, he carried his cross with patience and courage. He surprised those who came to minister to him by giving them a blessing. To the end, he imitated his Master. He came, not to be served, but to serve. He lived and died, a Deacon to the end. And we loved Joe because we knew he loved us. May he rest in the eternal embrace of the Shepherd whose voice he heard, and followed so faithfully, to the end.

Homily for the Solemnity of Pentecost June 8, 2025

Fri, 13 Jun 2025 18:03:13 GMT

Re-creating Our World.

There was a parish Bible study group that was studying personalities of the Bible. In the study guide they were asked to tell who they would like to be.

One woman said, “Ruth.” Another, “Mary.” An older man said, “King Solomon.” A young man replied, “Paul.” A young woman chimed in, saying, “I would like to be Lo.”

Everyone was puzzled, not recalling anyone named Lo in the Bible. They quizzed her on the passage. She said, “Lo, I am with you always.”

This story actually puts us into the heart of the Bible. For example, when the Hebrew people had escaped from slavery in Egypt, while they were making their way through the desert, they started to run out of food. In their anguish, they asked, “Is the Lord with us or not?”

During difficult historical moments for the nation of Israel, and in the desperate moments faced by individuals who were suffering greatly, that question was raised, time and time again: Is the Lord with us, or not?

There is an interesting fact relating to the original languages of the Bible. In the story of creation found at the beginning of Genesis, of course, we find that the language in which it was written is Hebrew.

Today, of course, we are celebrating the descent of the Holy Spirit, the third person of the blessed Trinity, upon those gathered in prayer. In the original Hebrew, the word Ruah can be rendered either spirit or breath or wind. In the opening lines of the Bible we read, “In the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless wasteland, and darkness covered the abyss, while a mighty wind swept over the waters” (Gen 1:1-2). God’s creative Spirit was at work creating the universe.

In the story of Pentecost in the Acts of the Apostles we read, “Suddenly from up in the sky there came a noise like a strong, driving wind which was heard all through the house” (Acts 2:2). God’s Spirit was at work once again, creating anew, re-creating the community for its mission of changing the world.

This Solemnity of Pentecost brings the fifty days of the Easter Season to completion. The gospel reading thus takes us back to Easter, with the risen Jesus appearing to the disciples in the locked room, showing them the wounds of his crucifixion, and declaring, “Peace be with you.”

And then, he says it again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” The text then explains, “And when he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit. Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them, and whose sins you retain are retained.’”

So, we find all these images for the powerful, explosive creative energy of God: Spirit, wind, and breath. God wants to be the wind beneath our wings, as close to us as every breath we take, the Holy Spirit that motivates, inspires, helps us to forgive, and teaches us how to love.

Let us complete this Easter season in a personal way by asking the Holy Spirit to come upon as anew, setting lukewarm souls on fire, so that we might re-create our world to become more welcoming and forgiving, filled with justice, and working for peace. Otherwise, the promise of Easter is only a memory.

Homily for the Sixth Sunday of the Year May 25, 2025

Tue, 03 Jun 2025 10:47:29 GMT

Seeking Peace That Only God Can Give.

There is a story related to the Old Testament tradition concerning the Exodus of the Israelites from Egypt. Picture the scene of the Israelite nation led by Moses, fleeing from slavery and bondage. Their Exodus is stopped on the shores of the Red Sea and the people are glancing back over their shoulders. God has promised them liberation and freedom. They know that, and they believe it, but now they are standing on the shore of the sea and Pharaoh’s army is in hot pursuit.

Moses raises his arms and voice in prayer for God to lead the people to safety. He gestures with his staff over the water, but nothing happens. Indeed, nothing happens until the first person actually steps into the water and shows, through that simple act, that he has faith in God’s promise of salvation. When that first step of courage is taken, the sea parts, and the people cross over into freedom and liberation.

In today’s gospel reading Jesus gives us a wonderful gift. He says, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you.” He also qualifies the gift: “Not as the world gives do I give to you.” And he suggests that this gift of peace should have a remarkable effect in our lives: “Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid.”

But we are living in a world in which we find lots of troubles, lots of reasons to be afraid. It seems that, each day, the news gets worse for one group or another. It feels as if everyone is at war with just about everyone else. Immigrants, colleges and universities, people relying on Medicare, Medicaid, food stamps, people wanting their neighborhoods to be free of violence…and on and on it goes. We’re being robbed of a feeling of peace.

So what should we do? Let’s imagine that we’re driving a car that runs on peace. And we notice that the tank is almost empty. Up ahead, there are some peace stations where we can refill the tank. One is labeled “The Congress of the United States.” A second, “The White House.” The third, “Jesus Christ, the Conqueror of Sin and Death.” Oh, I almost forgot, there’s a fourth that says, “Lottery.”

Jesus says he gives peace, his peace—a peace the world cannot give, or take away. He says we should not let our hearts be troubled or afraid. It’s a peace based on a right-relationship with God. If we don’t feel that peace, it may mean that we’re filling up at another station, expecting the world to give a gift it cannot give.

Let us consciously and persistently turn to Jesus. Let us find healing in his promises: Do not let your hearts be troubled. Have faith in God, who knows what we need before we even ask. Seek his kingdom, and his righteousness, do his will and you will find peace.

During this Easter Season we are reminded that Jesus Christ is our Savior—not Congress, not the White House, not the Lottery. If you feel anxious or afraid, seek the peace that only God can give. Seek the peace that the world cannot give. Be brave! Take that first step into the water of God’s love and protection.

Homily for the Fifth Sunday of Easter May 18, 2025

Tue, 03 Jun 2025 10:47:26 GMT

Love in a New Way.

The “ovenbird” is common to Argentina. It gets its name from the fact that it builds its nest in an oven-like shape.

Several years ago a pair of these birds built their mud-and-straw nest on top of a monument that adorns a main plaza in Buenos Aires. A crew of workmen removed the nest. The next year the birds returned and rebuilt the nest. Again, workmen removed the nest. Once again, the birds returned and rebuilt the nest. This time citizens insisted that the workmen let the nest stay.

In our gospel reading Jesus gives a commandment that he calls “new”—and yet, it sounds quite ancient: love one another. But then, he qualifies what he means by saying, “As I have loved you, so you also should love one another.” Now, this adds something to his instruction, does it not? But what, precisely, makes this commandment new?

We get some indications from the teaching of Jesus. For example, in the famous Sermon on the Mount, he says, “You have heard the commandment, ‘You shall love your countryman but hate your enemy.’ My command to you is: love your enemies, pray for your persecutors…If you love those who love you, what merit is there in that? Do not tax collectors do as much? And if you greet your brothers [and sisters] only, what is so praiseworthy about that? Do not pagans do as much?” (cf. Matthew 5:43-47)

Another indicator of what Jesus’ love looks like can be found in the account of Jesus’ crucifixion. There we read, “Father, forgive them; they do not know what they are doing” (cf. Luke 23:34).

So, Jesus definition of love includes loving everyone, even our enemies. And it includes a radical forgiveness, spoken and modeled during the agony on the cross.

And there is another aspect of God’s love that is important, very important. The poet Francis Thompson published a poem in which he described God’s love as persevering as a hound bounding toward its goal. Perhaps from an English class from long ago you remember the famous opening lines: “I fled Him, down the nights and down the days; I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him…”

The point is that we can forget God, but God never forgets us. We can be indifferent towards God, but God is never indifferent toward us. We can look for love in all the wrong places, but God never withdraws his love. We can stop going to church, we can royally mess up our lives, but the hound of heaven never stops pursuing us.

And if we allow God in, when we finally stop running, how sweet that can be. A great example of that is St. Augustine, one of history’s most brilliant minds. Augustine was known for being somewhat of a playboy, indulging in the many pleasures of life. His mother Monica prayed for years for his conversion. And then, once Augustine connected with God, everything changed. Here’s the powerful and beautiful way in which he described his encounter with love:

“Late have I loved you, Beauty so ancient and so new, late have I loved you!

Lo, you were within,
but I outside, seeking there for you,
and upon the shapely things you have made
I rushed headlong – I, misshapen.
You were with me, but I was not with you.
They held me back far from you,
those things which would have no being,
were they not in you.

You called, shouted, broke through my deafness;
you flared, blazed, banished my blindness;
you lavished your fragrance, I gasped; and now I pant for you;
I tasted you, and now I hunger and thirst;
you touched me, and I burned for your peace.

When at last I cling to you with my whole being there will be no more anguish or labor for me, and my life will be alive indeed, alive because filled with you.”

Augustine had turned away from God. But God never turned away from Augustine. God simply is love. We don’t have to jump through some hoops; God already loves us. We don’t have to climb to the summit of perfection; God’s love is already with us. We can stumble and fall, again and again, but God’s love for us doesn’t change. God is not a fair weather friend. He loves us, even in the storms.

So, I think we can say that the type of love Jesus offers, the type of love Jesus asks us to have, is unshakeable and enduring. It’s challenging, to be sure. If we’ve given up on somebody, if we have hatred in our hearts, if we refuse to forgive—it’s understandable, we’re only human. But if we open our lives and our hearts to Jesus, the fire of his love can change us. It takes time, but his love is patient. We may have built protective walls and stony barriers, but his love is like a fire, like a laser that can burst through all that. And it can happen even at the last moment. Think of the “good thief” who repented while hanging on a cross: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” And Jesus’ beautiful response: “You will be with me, this day, in paradise.”

“Love one another, as I have loved you”

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Easter May 11, 2025

Tue, 03 Jun 2025 10:29:11 GMT

Learning from the Good Shepherd.

One part of the newspaper I seldom miss is the comics section. I find that those who produce the cartoons are wonderful observers of human nature. And, although it may be in cartoon form, there’s a lot of truth to be found there.

Let me share one example, a favorite. Several years ago, a “Dennis the Menace” comic strip caught my attention. In the first panel, Dennis with his dog Ruff, at is side, is walking along with Margaret. Dennis is merrily pulling a red wagon, while Margaret, clutching her doll, is jabbering to the wind.

In the second panel, Dennis gives Ruff a slinky, side-long glance while Margaret’s prattle continues. However, she is now speaking directly in Dennis’ ear.

The third scene shows Margaret wildly pelting Dennis with her doll, saying, “Dennis, you’re not listening to me when I’m speaking to you.”

The final panel has Dennis turned towards Margaret saying, “Margaret, I’m listening to you, it’s just that I’m not paying any attention.”

In today’s Gospel, Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice; I know them, and they follow me.” There’s a three-step process here: hearing, knowing, and following. In order to have successful communication, all three are needed. We have to hear: that takes a certain amount of silence. If we need some kind of noise all the time, chances are Jesus can’t get through. If we don’t communicate in a substantial way, giving it the time it deserves, we’re not really going to get to know Jesus. And, if we’ve truly listened, and really get to know the Shepherd, do we respond by actually doing something, committing ourselves, following his lead?

This is really important to consider, because if it’s not Jesus that we’re hearing, knowing and following, there will be someone or something else that takes its place. Our ears and our minds are like sponges, soaking up the messages that are all around us.

So, let’s consider how we can improve our contact with the Good Shepherd, so that we’re consciously listening to him, getting to know him and his teaching, and then striving to actually follow him—and not just paying lip service.

One of the stories Jesus tells may be helpful. It’s the one about the farmer sowing seed… You may recall that the farmer’s seed landed in different places: on a footpath, on rocky ground, among thorns, and finally on good soil.

Jesus goes on to explain the parable’s meaning. The seed that fell on the footpath: a person hears the message without understanding it; it’s easily taken away by the “evil one.” The seed on patches of rock: a person hears the message and at first receives it with joy. But it has no roots, and only lasts for a time. The seed that fell among thorns: a person hears the message, but then “worldly anxiety” and the “lure of money” choke it off. And, of course, the seed that fell on the good soil: a person hears the message and takes it in, bringing about successful results: hearing the message, getting to know the messenger, and following the Good Shepherd, the Lord of the harvest.

Every day, it’s as if we are immersed in tales of woe, of disheartening news, of threats to various groups and individuals. We hear of immigration personnel taking away some of our neighbors, leaving others living in fear. We hear about what tariffs will do, and are doing, to the price of various goods we need. We hear of worries about jobs, 401K’s, Social Security, and Medicaid. So much seems unsettled; so much to become anxious about. So much of this around the clock.

Ask yourself: what is all this disturbing news doing to me? Is a steady diet of this stuff good for my psychological health? I’m not suggesting that we shut our eyes and close our ears to what is going on. I am suggesting that what we are doing here in this church is more important than ever. When we feel powerless, when we are overcome by anxiety or depression, when much that is good about our world seems to be falling apart—that’s when it’s all the more important to turn to Jesus Christ, the Good Shepherd, who wants to speak to our heart, who is asking us to trust him, who is leading us to God and to each other, who is asking us to be there for each other during tough times. Just as Jesus will not abandon us, he asks us not to abandon each other.

Jesus asks us to defend those who are weak, to speak up for the voiceless, to take care of the poor, to fight for our rights, and to reassure each other that, come what may, there is nourishment here for our souls.

Listen, really listen to his words: “My sheep hear my voice; I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish. No one can take them out of my hand.” Do you hear this? Do you really hear this? We belong to the Lord, now and forever. Let us listen, strive to know him more and more through prayer, reading the Bible, receiving the Sacraments, encouraging each other, contributing from our surplus to help those who are really struggling. Nothing can scare us from our responsibility, our mission as Christians. And no one can separate us from our lifeline, Jesus, our Good Shepherd.

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Easter May 11, 2025

Wed, 14 May 2025 11:10:37 GMT

Learning from the Good Shepherd.

In the second panel, Dennis gives Ruff a slinky, side-long glance while Margaret’s prattle continues. However, she is now speaking directly in Dennis’ ear.

The third scene shows Margaret wildly pelting Dennis with her doll, saying, “Dennis, you’re not listening to me when I’m speaking to you.”

The final panel has Dennis turned towards Margaret saying, “Margaret, I’m listening to you, it’s just that I’m not paying any attention.”

Homily for Easter April 20, 2025

Fri, 25 Apr 2025 19:37:24 GMT

His Kingdom Will Grow Here.

A friend of mine reflects on an experience he had during his time of formation for the priesthood. His house of studies was located in a large metropolitan area. There wasn’t much of a backyard. Actually, it was a stone-covered dirt parking lot with no extra space. However, they actually planned a garden, taking into account the area that would receive optimal sunshine.

He and two fellow students approached the superior with a plan for a small area to plant some squash, tomatoes and cucumbers. The only real cost involved was to rent a rake, a pick-ax and a hoe. However, getting the superior’s permission was still difficult. None of them will ever forget his response to the request. With a slightly bored, tilting of his head he replied, “You’re wasting your time. Nothing will ever grow there! But go ahead if you still want to.”

My friend wrote, “We had received permission from on high! So what if it wasn’t enthusiastic. We rented tools; raked four inches of stones into neat walls outlining the garden; hoisted the pick-ax and struck what must have been a former refuse area. A gardener’s dream—dark, composted, fertile soil just sitting there waiting to be discovered. We looked at each other with broad grins and repeated in unison, ‘Ah, nothing will grow there.’

“As you might have surmised by now, things did grow there, in our garden. In fact, twice we re-staked the tomatoes, topping them off, finally, when they were seven feet tall. They seemed more like tomato trees than plants.”

Here's my friend’s conclusion to the story: “Isn’t it amazing how much can be learned from planting a garden—about life, about people? How often have you said to another person, whether elderly, middle aged, a teenager, or a child, that nothing will ever grow there? Perhaps all that is needed is for someone to help that person rake away some of the stones that are covering up the rich, fertile soil-of-life, just waiting to be discovered.”

Now, on that first Easter Sunday, Mary Magdalene goes to the tomb and finds that the stone has been rolled away! But she’s convinced that nothing much will come of it. As a matter of fact, she thinks there has been a grave robbery: “They have taken the Lord from the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him.” No, she didn’t think much would grow from the story of an empty tomb.

When Jesus was crucified, and then buried, I’m pretty sure that the wind was gone from their sails. They loved the Lord; they believed in him. They even declared that he was the long-awaited Messiah. But now, things were different. Their hero had been put to death, and they hid in fear, not only discouraged and disappointed, but probably worrying that the same thing would happen to them because they were Jesus’ followers.

In recent months, I’ve observed an increase in anxiety, and even panic, among those who are fearful about what is happening to our government and our society. Even for people who are not anxious, I think you still have to admit that the situation we find ourselves in is not normal. When people tell me that they’re not looking forward to Easter dinner with extended family because they just can’t talk to each other anymore, I think that is a problem.

I found a thoughtful, brief reflection in a magazine I get by a Vietnamese professor of New Testament. He writes, “In these uncertain times, I look for witnesses who will guide me to a more hopeful future. I do so because I cannot overcome my anxieties alone. I recognize the affective, spiritual and communal dimensions of healing and recovery. When we heal and witness together, we are emboldened to witness the life-giving hope of the divine with the other more than ever” (Dong Hyeon Jeong, “Lions, Jackals, and a Bloodied Lamb,” Sojourners, April 2025, p. 48).

“I look for witnesses who will guide me to a more hopeful future.” I believe we find such witnesses in the early community, when the followers of Jesus had to find their faith again. They didn’t try to renew their hope in isolation. They came together, gradually found their bearings, and realized that their hope for the future had burst forth from a tomb. That’s where we find hope: in their sacred story, which we read and share, together; in their anxieties and fears brought into the daylight for calming reassurance; in finding their purpose and their mission in life of bringing the message to all who were living in the dark of gloom and despair.

Jesus is risen! And so, we can’t believe that nothing will grow here! Let’s get to work, rake away the stones of death and despair, and plant some seeds that will grow into a society, a government, a nation, and a world where love and compassion once again rule the day. God is love. God is compassion. God is mercy. That’s our future. That’s the future of the universe. So, let us—together—refuse to be imprisoned in the tomb of fear, anxiety and despair. We have a kingdom to build: Thy kingdom come! Thy will be done, on earth as in heaven! Give us this day, and every day, the bread of hope, and kindness, and love. Jesus is risen! And if we welcome him, his kingdom will grow here.

Homily for Holy Thursday April 17, 2025

Fri, 25 Apr 2025 19:29:53 GMT

Hungry No More.

One of my favorite stories is about two brothers who worked together on the family farm. One was married and had a large family. The other was single. At the day’s end, the brothers shared everything equally, produce and profit.

Then one day the single brother said to himself, “It’s not right that we should share equally the produce and the profit. I’m alone and my needs are simple.” So each night he took a sack of grain form his bin and crept across the field between their houses, dumping it into his brother’s bin.

Meanwhile, the married brother said to himself, “It’s not right that we should share the produce and the profit equally. After all, I’m married and I have my wife and my children to look after me for years to come. My brother has no one, and no one to take care of his future.” So each night he took a sack of grain and dumped it into his single brother’s bin.

Both men were puzzled for years because their supply of grain never dwindled. Then one dark night the two brothers bumped into each other. Slowly it dawned on them what was happening. They dropped their sacks and embraced one another.

Tonight, we celebrate the institution of the holy Eucharist, the meal that Jesus left us, the Body and Blood he sacrificed for us, in a never-ending supply of self-giving. Besides the passages that deal with the Last Supper, we have other biblical stories that add to our understanding.

For example, in the Old Testament there is the story of the prophet Elijah who, during a severe drought, stayed with a poor widow and her son (Cf. 1 Kings 17:7-16). When he arrived, the holy man asked the widow for a drink of water and a small cake of bread. The woman told him that, because of the drought, her resources had run out. She was collecting some sticks to start a fire, bake one final loaf of bread, and then that was it: no more flour, no more oil. She and her son were facing the lot of many of the world’s poor: starvation and death.

But Elijah promised the widow that, if she shared what she had with him, she would never run out of either flour or oil. And, miraculously, that is what happened. In the sharing, and with God’s abundant blessings, she and her son, and the holy prophet were able to live for a long time. God can take the little we have and, when it is shared in love, the love is multiplied.

We find the same idea in the New Testament story about Jesus’ miraculous feeding of thousands of people (Cf. Matt 14:13-21)—a kind of preview of what he would do in the Eucharist. It had been a long day of preaching and teaching, and the crowd was famished. After doing an inventory, they found a young boy had come with a small amount of bread and fish. Jesus took those meager gifts, blessed them, and the crowd of thousands of people were fed until they were full. There were even twelve baskets of crumbs left over.

In the Acts of the Apostles, where we find stories about the early Christian community, we find the story of a believer who owned a farm (Cf. Acts 4:32-37). In a spirit of generosity, he sold the farm and gave the proceeds to the Apostles, who then used what he gave as a resource so that there was enough for everyone. No one went hungry—all because they followed the pattern of what we celebrate in the Eucharist—a total, complete and loving giving of self.

You see, the Eucharist is not meant to be just a ritual to be carried out in a pious manner—although it is that. But there’s so much more. It’s meant to be a pattern for our very being. Like the two brothers, life is blessed in the giving, not in the hoarding. Love shared is love multiplied. If we follow God’s pattern, which we commemorate tonight, we’ll not run out of what we need.

But if we get scared and think only of ourselves, afraid that what we have will run out, that’s when life becomes sterile. It adds and adds material things, but it never multiplies love, which, by definition, is not about self. It’s in the sharing that all are fed. It’s in the giving, symbolized by the crucifix, giving with the last drop of blood, giving with the last ounce of devotion, that ensures that we’ll never run out. Like God, we love each other too much to let that happen. We are fed a whole way of life: it is in giving that we receive, and in dying to a self-centered life that we are hungry no more.

Homily for Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion April 13, 2025

Fri, 25 Apr 2025 19:24:40 GMT

Love’s Triumph over Evil.

In 1901 the famous inventor, Thomas Edison, was searching for a reliable supply of nickel that he needed for building storage batteries. He staked out claims around the small Canadian town of Falconbridge, near Sudbury, Ontario. When the exploratory drilling hit quicksand, Edison turned to other sources, and the mining claims lay idle until the 1920s.

That’s when a man named Thayer Lindsley came along. As the founder of a company aptly named Ventures, Lindsley was so sure of finding ore that he bought the old Edison claims for a seemingly enormous sum of $2.5 million. It turned out to be a paltry investment compared to what became Falconbridge, one of the largest mining concerns in the world.

Now, if we turn our attention to the Passion account we have read, things look pretty dismal. If there was a company named Jesus Christ, Inc, it’s pretty safe to say that there would have been a massive selloff. Looking at Jesus, dead on the cross, his company looked dead.

But, as it turns out, the shareholders pulled out too soon, in a kind of mass panic. The story wasn’t over. Just as the proverbial phoenix rises out of the ashes, so Jesus Christ would rise from the tomb. And his fledgling flock would be back in business again.

Sometimes we react too quickly, especially when we are in panic mode. Many have walked away from the Church because it is all too human and all too sinful. Many have declared that democracy in this country is done for, that compassion is finished, that the poorest members of our society will be unprotected, and that the hard-fought fight for justice lies on the ash-heap of history.

But here’s the thing. Our God is known as a God of love, justice, compassion and a special love for the poor. God is not limited by our discouragement or by those who have called it quits. We are in God’s hands, and we know who will win in the end (even death cannot derail God’s plans).

So, stick around, pluck up your courage, join together, turn to God for healing and strength. The universe is made by love and, ultimately, is guided by love. Jesus Christ Inc. is alive and well, and this is no time to sell off our stock in panic. Love crushes death. Love will triumph over evil.

Homily for the Fifth Sunday of Lent April 6, 2025

Fri, 25 Apr 2025 19:17:25 GMT

Compassion Wins Out.

It was a bitter, cold evening in northern Virginia many years ago. The old man’s beard was glazed by winter’s frost while he waited for a ride across the river. The wait seemed endless. His body became numb and stiff from the frigid north wind.

He heard the faint, steady rhythm of approaching hooves galloping across the frozen path. Anxiously, he watched as several horsemen rounded the bend. He let the first one pass by, without an effort to get his attention. Then another passed by, and another. Finally, the last rider neared the spot where the old man sat like a snow statue. As this one drew near, the old man caught the rider’s eye and said, “Sir, would you mind giving an old man a ride to the other side? There doesn’t appear to be a passageway by foot.”

Reigning his horse, the rider replied, “Sure thing. Hop aboard.” Seeing the old man was unable to lift his half-frozen body from the ground, the horseman dismounted and helped the old man onto the horse. The horseman took the old man not just across the river, but to his destination, which was just a few miles away. As they neared the tiny, but cozy cottage, the horseman’s curiosity caused him to inquire, “Sir, I notice that you let several other riders pass by without making an effort to secure a ride. Then I came up and you immediately asked for a ride. I’m curious why, on such a bitter winter night, you would wait and ask the last rider. What if I had refused and left you there?”

The old man lowered himself down from the horse, looked the rider straight in the eyes and replied, “I’ve been around these parts for some time. I reckon I know people pretty good. I looked into the eyes of the other riders and immediately saw there was no concern for my situation. It would have been useless even to ask them for a ride. But when I looked into your eyes, kindness and compassion were evident. I knew, then and there, that your gentle spirit would welcome the opportunity to give me assistance in my time of need.”

The horseman replied, “I’m most grateful for what you have said. May I never get too busy in my own affairs that I fail to respond to the needs of others with kindness and compassion.” With that, Thomas Jefferson turned his horse around and made his way back to the White House.

I find great wisdom in this story. And as I reflect on today’s gospel, I try to imagine what this poor woman, caught in the act of adultery, saw in the eyes of the people around her. Those who brought her to Jesus certainly had no compassion; it says they made her stand there in front of everyone. Most of the crowd that was gathered was probably indifferent to her plight. Maybe they jeered and joined others in calling for punishment. And finally, the woman looked into Jesus’ eyes. His words to her gave expression to what was in his heart. These men who were using you are really no better than you are. I do not condemn you. Jesus then probably lifted her up, dried her tears, embraced her, and sent her, with his encouragement, love and support, to live the rest of her life—a changed woman because her innate dignity as a human being was respected and valued.

I was reminded of this Gospel passage earlier this week when I read in the newspaper that immigration officials had removed four workers from a local farm. According to the article, one of the men had some kind of immigration problem on his record. It said that the other three were “collateral damage”—picked up, probably because they were family, or they protested, or they simply got in the way.

And I was also reminded by the Thomas Jefferson story that we have been blessed with some truly good and compassionate leaders throughout our history. Jimmy Carter comes to mind. I’m pretty sure he would treat people with dignity and respect. John McCain, who was a military hero and a person of principle, did the right thing when his vote mattered. Joe Biden was an excellent consoler-in-chief when people experienced death or disaster. These were leaders who showed compassion and were able to put people ahead of politics.

In light of today’s Gospel, I believe that we have to examine our own hearts and actions. Are we, at times, judgmental like the scribes and Pharisees? Are we quick to condemn others, while forgetting our own faults? Do we try to lift up those who are being beaten down? And do we respect everyone’s human dignity and human rights—or do we go along with the crowd, timidly sitting by when we see injustice? It doesn’t take much to make all the difference, as we see in today’s gospel: a kind word, a smile, a hand held out. Let’s be that difference!

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Lent March 30, 2025

Mon, 31 Mar 2025 18:52:52 GMT

God’s Ways vs. the Devil’s Doing

There’s an old European legend about a traveler who came upon a barn where the devil had stored seeds that he planned to sow in the hearts of people. There were bags of seeds variously marked “Hatred,” “Fear,” “Lust,” “Despair,” “Unforgiveness,” “Envy,” “Greed,” “Drunkenness.”

Out from the shadows, the devil appeared and struck up a conversation with the traveler. He gleefully told the traveler how easily the seeds sprouted in the hearts of men and women everywhere.

The traveler asked, “Tell me, are there any hearts in which these seeds will not sprout?” Glancing about carefully, the devil slyly confessed, “These seeds will never sprout in the heart of a kind, generous, thankful and joy-filled person.

Do you remember the old show, The Smothers Brothers? One of the things that sticks in my memory is the complaint by one of the brothers, “Mom always loved you best.”

The story Jesus tells in today’s Gospel includes two brothers. As we heard, the two brothers are not madly in love with each other; they won’t even speak to each other.

But that situation is as old as time, isn’t it? We have in the book of Gensis the story of two brothers, named Cain and Abel. Both offer sacrifices to the Lord, and God seems to like Abel’s best. This makes Cain so jealous that he kills his brother. When God comes looking, and asks Cain where his brother is, Cain gives the famous answer, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”

The interesting thing about Jesus’ story is that we don’t know how it ends. We know how it got to this stand-off between the brothers. The younger one lives for the moment, asking for his share of the inheritance even before his father is dead. He then goes through the money and ends up friendless, and working among the pigs (a terrible fate for Jews, who do not eat pork).

Then he comes back to the homestead, contrite and humbled, ready to be treated as a hired hand. But the father is so happy that he is alive and safe that he immediately overlooks the young boy’s flaws and restores him to his former place in the family.

The older son is angry. He is the dutiful one, who obeys his father and seemingly never steps out of line. He hates the fact that the father so easily whitewashes the younger son’s deplorable behavior, and forgives him on the spot. He wants punishment; he wants justice, not mercy.

Then the father tries to reason with his older son. He tells him that the young returnee is not just his son. Looking into the old son’s eyes, he reminds him that this is his brother. Aren’t you relieved that he’s back safe and sound? That he wasn’t injured or killed?

So, we’re left hanging. We don’t know what will happen next. And I think that is intentional. I believe Jesus wanted those who hear this story to enter into it and wrestle with it. Specifically, if we are like the older brother, how will we respond? What will we do?

Once again, as with all Jesus’ stories, the greatest command is love. The greatest demand is forgiveness from the heart. Here’s the thing: the father is asking the older son to party with someone he feels is not worthy of his love.

And the remarkable message of the story is that God is willing to party with those who fall short, with those who do wrong, with those who come to their senses and realize that God’s heart is big enough to love everyone.

What’s the older son’s problem? We can choose a number of seeds the devil has sown in his heart. There’s definitely unforgiveness, and maybe envy, and possibly hatred. Those seeds of evil, as the fable suggests, can be planted because the older brother seems not to have a heart that is kind, generous, thankful and joy-filled.

In the Sermon on the Mount Jesus asked if we love only those who love us, what’s so great about that? He then goes on to challenge his followers to love our enemies, to pray for our persecutors, and to care about brothers and sisters who fail to live up to our expectations.

That’s the whole point of today’s story: are we ready to party with those we don’t consider particularly worthy of our love?

This is clearly true on a personal level. But I think it can apply in other ways. Can we love those who need help in providing food for their families? Can we love those who are from a different race, culture or heritage? Can we feel the pain of those worrying about being picked up and deported, and separated from the rest of their families? Can we empathize with those who worry about losing their Social Security benefits or Medicaid?

We don’t know how Jesus’ story ends. We don’t know if the older brother goes to the party. But we know how the father feels: “But now we must celebrate and rejoice, because your brother was dead and has come to life again; he was lost and has been found.”

Kindness, forgiveness, generosity and joy: it is such hearts the father looks for. Unforgiveness, envy, and hatred: those are the devil’s doing.

Homily for the Second Sunday of Lent March 16, 2025

Thu, 20 Mar 2025 10:55:14 GMT

A Preview of Coming Attractions.

Do you remember the rich fare you could get for very little at the movie theater years ago? Main features, additional short films, cartoons, and previews of coming attractions. Often, there would be “cliff hangers”—a stop in the action at a critical point, you wouldn’t know how it ended unless you came back the next week.

Well previews of coming attractions, or trailers, are pretty sophisticated now, but the idea is pretty much the same: to give us enough of a taste of what the film is about to get us to watch the movie. Of course, previews of coming attractions are now shown, not just at the theaters, but also on television and other forms of media.

The reason I bring this topic up is that what we have in today’s Gospel reading is basically a preview of coming attractions. You have quite a cast of characters, including Jesus, Moses (who, by the way, had died some 1,200 years earlier), Elijah (who died or was taken up to heaven some 800 years earlier). And those who get to see the preview: Peter, James and John.

In this preview of coming attractions, God displays Jesus’ divinity, a kind of fore-taste of the Resurrection, and gives his seal of approval: “This is my chosen Son; listen to him.” Scripture scholars say that the purpose of this preview was to strengthen the disciples for the tough days ahead, including the crucifixion. And through today’s proclamation of this gospel, this preview of coming attractions is given to us.

Now, of course, we are able to make choices. And I believe that our minds are playing previews of coming attractions all the time. In conversations during the past few weeks, I’ve heard about some of these previews. Let me share a few…

Some have been watching the preview that asks the question: What if they take away my Social Security? How am I supposed to live?

Others have been watching the preview: What if they take away Medicaid? Is grandma going to be evicted from the nursing home?

Of course, still others are rewinding and watching previews that were instilled in them when they were quite young: You’re no good! You’ll never amount to anything! Or…You’re not smart, you’re not pretty, you’re not popular. You’re a loser, and you always will be.

Why do you suppose that God gave this biblical preview of coming attractions? It was to teach that the story doesn’t end with the crucifixion. You see, that’s really a kind of cliff hanger, and if you don’t come back to get the rest of the story, you may think it all ends right there. The preview, in which Jesus’ glory is shown, and in which he’s talking to two people long considered dead, is meant to get our attention and convince us to stick around and get the full version of the story: Easter, not crucifixion. Life, not death. Hope, not failure. God in control, not us.

Now, there’s no denying that plenty of bad things happen in life. People are not always respected or affirmed. Some people do terrible things to others. For many, there’s a life of drudgery and poverty. And in the days ahead, we will do all in our power to support, encourage, and take care of the needs of all who are treated unjustly.

But the question is, which preview of coming attractions is playing in your mind? Do you believe you’re a nobody? That all there is waiting for you are pain and death? That they might make life difficult, especially for the poor who are struggling already? Pretty depressing stuff. And the threats are, indeed, very real.

But today we are offered God’s preview. He’s introducing someone very special: This is Jesus, my chosen Son. Listen to him. In the midst of all the fears and rumors, in the midst of people obsessed by power, listen to him. He’s with you. He’s going to see you through. He struggled through Good Friday and knows what’s on the other side. Whenever you feel overwhelmed or afraid, God says, play my preview. Don’t forget why you come to Church in the first place, to hear my side of things. You get enough of the world’s message out there, and it can be pretty depressing. So, listen to my message. Don’t lose your courage. Have faith. Trust me on this. You’ll love what I have in store for you.

Homily for the Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time March 2, 2025

Mon, 03 Mar 2025 19:57:48 GMT

Where Is Your Faith in All This?

Today I want to do something different, mainly because several members of our community have told me about the anxiety they are feeling in light of everything that’s going on in our nation.

We should note that there are several news reports in recent days that are challenging and depressing. Here’s what I mean (from local newspapers this past week):

· Why have abortions increased despite bans?

· Donald Trump believes Putin will keep his word, and is quoted as saying, “We had to go through the Russian hoax together.”

· Tariffs on Canada and Mexico will go into effect Tuesday, and the 10% tariff on goods from China will be doubled. As a result, the “global economy is in turmoil,” and there are concerns about inflation worsening and auto sector possibly hurting

· HUD proposed budget cuts could be felt here, homeless providers say

· Measles outbreak totally avoidable

· Former defense chiefs call for hearting on firing of military leaders

· USAID (Agency for International Development) … 90% of contracts are being terminated

· Talks between President Trump and President Zelenskyy end in shouting match

· Student loans questionable

I want to emphasize that I’m not looking at all of this solely in political terms, but on the human effects of policy, and the moral issues being raised.

Let me focus in depth on one issue by way of example and analysis. The other day my cousin, who lives in rural New Hampshire, told me that immigration authorities went into a local restaurant and took away three Hispanic men who were working there.

I said, “I’ll bet the community is up in arms about that?” “No,” he said, “most people in this area are cheering that it was done.”

I’ve thought a lot about that. I tried to imagine the possible consequences of such an act. I tried to imagine that I was an eight-year-old boy, and that one of those men was my father. Earlier that day he had dropped me off at school. He said, “Study hard, because that’s the way you get ahead in life. I love you.” “Love you, too, dad,” I responded.

Then I tried to imagine what it would feel like to return to my home later that day, and find my mother in tears. “They’ve taken your dad,” she says, “and we have no idea where.”

In last week’s gospel, Jesus taught, “Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.”

Well, I want to take another look at that. Certainly, I don’t want to set myself up as judge and jury of what other people are thinking, or why they act as they act. That kind of judgement belongs to God, for God sees the heart, and I only see the appearances.

But what about actions? What about when a man working in a restaurant is suddenly taken away and a family is broken up? What should I say to the man’s eight-year-old son? What should I think about the neighbors, some of whom who are presumably Christians, that they should feel gleeful, and rejoice that three men and three families are impacted, maybe forever?

While I don’t presume to judge someone else’s conscience, I still need to ask questions about actions such as this that are being taken. And I feel that I need to bring the perspective of God, the teaching of Jesus Christ, and the guidance of the Church to bear on how I answer.

A couple of weeks ago, I took a look at the deportation issue, and I shared parts of a very strongly worded letter by Pope Francis to the American bishops. Because of snowstorms, many of you missed that. Here’s a part of Pope Francis’ guidance:

Pope Francis recently sent a strongly worded letter to the Catholic bishops of the United States in which he denounced the mass deportation of migrants…The letter also stated that Francis disagrees with identifying the illegal status of migrants with criminality, and called on the bishops to “walk together” and defend the human dignity of the migrants in their country. He told the bishops that “the rightly formed conscience cannot fail to make a critical judgment and express its disagreement with any measure that tacitly or explicitly identifies the illegal status of some migrants with criminality…. The act of deporting people who in many cases have left their own land for reasons of extreme poverty, insecurity, exploitation, persecution or serious deterioration of the environment, damages the dignity of many men and women, and of entire families, and places them in a state of particular vulnerability and defenselessness…. The act of deportation is not a minor issue.” He emphasized that “an authentic rule of law is verified precisely in the dignified treatment that all people deserve especially the poorest and most marginalized.”

The dignified treatment that all people deserve especially the poorest and most marginalized!

There’s the love God is looking for. There’s the compassion. There’s what Jesus would say and do. He certainly wouldn’t be gleeful with mass deportations and the destruction of families.

I want to be clear. I’m not doing a political analysis. I’m doing a moral appraisal. There are certain things that should not, cannot, be done simply because you have the power to do so. When you watch the news or read the newspaper, be aware of what’s going on. And remember to ask: Where’s the love? Where’s the compassion? Where’s the humanity? That’s what God asks of us. We shouldn’t just go blindly along and support actions that are clearly immoral and inhumane.

One final note. What to do if you are feeling stressed. Many years ago, the great psychiatrist Karl Meninger was asked what to do if you feel a nervous breakdown coming on. He said we should get up, get out of the house, cross the railroad tracks, and find a person worse off than you, and do something to help that person.

In other words, don’t just stew about it. Get your feelings out, talk with others, write down what you are feeling in a journal, contact your congress people, look for demonstrations taking place.

To all of this I would add: do you remember the Gospel story about the disciples in the boat? Jesus is fast asleep after a tough day of teaching and healing. A storm arises, and the disciples are afraid that they will drown. In a panic, they finally remember that Jesus is in the boat with them. They wake him and ask, “Don’t you care that we’re going to perish?” Jesus calmly calms the storm, and asks, “Where is your faith? Why are you terrified?” So… place yourself in that boat. Remember who’s there with you. Talk to him about your fears and listen to what he says. Where is your faith in all this?

Homily for the Seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time February 23, 2025

Tue, 25 Feb 2025 12:33:22 GMT

Condemnation, Judgment and Forgiveness.

According to an ancient fable, there was a Persian king who wanted to discourage his four sons from making rash judgments. At his command, the eldest son made a winter journey to see a mango tree across the valley. When spring come, the next oldest son was sent on the same journey. Summer followed, and the third son was sent. After the youngest son made his visit to the mango tree in autumn, the king called them together and asked each son to describe the tree.

The first son said it looked like an old stump. The second disagreed, describing it as lovely—large and green. The third son declared its blossoms were as beautiful as roses. The fourth son said that they were all wrong. To him it was a tree filled with fruit—luscious, juicy fruit, like pears.

“Well,” each of you is right,” the old king said. Seeing the puzzled look in their eyes, the king went on to explain. “You see, each of you saw the mango tree in different seasons, thus you all correctly described what you saw. The lesson,” said the king, “is to withhold your judgment until you have seen the tree in all its seasons.”

In today’s Gospel, Jesus teaches, “Stop judging and you will not be judged. Stop condemning and you will not be condemned. Forgive and you will be forgiven.”

In the Old Testament book of 1 ^st Samuel, the prophet Samuel is sent to the home of a man named Jesse in Bethlehem, where he will find the future king of Israel. Jesse presents seven sons, strong, handsome—and surely, good prospects from which to pick a king. But Samuel learns that God has rejected all seven. And so, Samuel asks if these are all the sons Jesse has. Jesse informs him that the youngest is tending the sheep. Samuel tells Jesse to send for him, and when the youth arrives, God declares that he is the one for Samuel to anoint as the king of Israel. The final son’s name is David, who went on to become one of the greatest kings of Israel.

The reason I refer to this story is this: Samuel is convinced that each of the seven sons is the one who is fit to be king. But God says to him: “Do not judge from his appearance or from his lofty stature, because I have rejected him. Not as man sees does God see, because man sees the appearances but the Lord looks into the heart” (1 Sam 16:7).

One other passage I want to look at is taken from the prophet Isaiah, and is the first reading for Good Friday. It has to do, in this case, with the appearance of Jesus on that day: “Who would believe what we have heard? To whom has the arm of the Lord been revealed? He grew up like a sapling before him, like a shoot from the parched earth; there was in him no stately bearing to make us look at him. He was spurned and avoided by people, a man of suffering, accustomed to infirmity, one of those from whom people hide their faces, spurned, and we held him in no esteem.”

“Not as man sees does God see, because man sees the appearances but the Lord looks into the heart.” God could choose David, the eighth son, the runt of the litter, to become the king of Israel. And God could look upon the man despised and beaten, sentenced to a shameful death on a cross, and see instead the face of his beloved Son.

The point of the matter is that God has not set any of us as judge and jury over the human race—or over any of God’s children, for that matter. We are not qualified. We do not see individuals in all the seasons of their being or their personality. We simply do not know why people are as they are.

And in today’s Gospel, God offers us a pretty good deal, if only we are wise enough to accept its terms. “Stop judging and you will not be judged. Stop condemning and you will not be condemned. Forgive and you will be forgiven. Give, and gifts will be given to you…”

I think it’s a very good offer on God’s part. The problem may be that the path from our eye-to-our-brain-to-our-tongue may be lightning fast. And before you know it, we’re judging. In the twinkling of an eye, we’re condemning. In the stubbornness of our heart, we’re not forgiving.

And then, the deal’s off.

But the good news is that God doesn’t then take back the deal for all eternity. He offers it again. He offers it today. And God waits to see if there are any takers…

Homily for the Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time February 16, 2025

Sat, 22 Feb 2025 02:16:16 GMT

Words Have Consequences.

Let’s begin with a story…

History was made in the baseball world in 1947. It was in that year that Jackie Robinson became the first black player in the major leagues. The Brooklyn Dodgers’ owner, Branch Rickey, told Robinson, “It’ll be tough on you. You are going to take a lot of abuse, be ridiculed, and receive more verbal punishment than you ever thought possible.” Rickey continued, “But I’m willing to back you all the way if you have the determination to make it work.”

In short order, Robinson experienced Rickey’s gloomy prediction. He was abused verbally and physically as players intentionally ran him down. The crowed was quick with racial slurs and deriding comments. Opponents, as well as his own teammates, ridiculed Robinson.

Around mid-season, Robinson was having a particularly horrendous day. He had fumbled several grounders, overthrown first base, and batted poorly. The crowd that day was especially nasty. Then something miraculous happened. In front of the critical crowd, Pee Wee Reese, the team captain, walked over from his shortstop position and put his arm around Jackie Robinson.

Robinson later reflected, “That simple gesture saved my career. Pee Wee made me feel as if I belonged.”

In today’s Gospel, Luke’s version of the Beatitudes, Jesus says: “Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude and insult you, and denounce your name as evil on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice and leap for joy on that day! Behold, your reward will be great in heaven. For their ancestors treated the prophets in the same way.”

Racial and cultural discrimination are nothing new. They are as old as the Bible. And, the names and faces and circumstances may change, but hatred never seems to disappear.

Earlier this week, I received an interesting email that contained information that could easily be distributed—information about constitutional rights in our nation. In both English and Spanish, the information is printed on little cards that offer the following advice…

---------------------------------------------------------

You have constitutional rights:

· DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR if an immigration agent is knocking on the door.

· DO NOT ANSWER ANY QUESTIONS from an immigration agent if they try to talk to you. You have the right to remain silent.

· DO NOT SIGN ANYTHING without first speaking to a lawyer. You have the right to speak with a lawyer.

· If you are outside of your home, ask the agent if you are free to leave and if they say yes, leave calmly.

· GIVE THIS CARD TO THE AGENT. If you are inside of your home, show the card through the window or slide it under the door.

On the reverse side of the card, it says…

I do not wish to speak with you, answer your questions, or sign or hand you any documents based on my 5 ^th Amendment rights under the United States Constitution.

I do not give you permission to enter my home based on my 4 ^th Amendment rights under the United States Constitution unless you have a warrant to enter, signed by a judge or magistrate with my name on it that you slide under the door.

I do not give you permission to search any of my belongings based on my 4 ^th Amendment rights.

I choose to exercise my constitutional rights.

---------------------------------------------------------

Pope Francis recently sent a strongly worded letter to the Catholic bishops of the United States in which he denounced the mass deportation of migrants…The letter also stated that Francis disagrees with identifying the illegal status of migrants with criminality, and called on the bishops to “walk together” and defend the human dignity of the migrants in their country. He told the bishops that “the rightly formed conscience cannot fail to make a critical judgment and express its disagreement with any measure that tacitly or explicitly identifies the illegal status of some migrants with criminality…. The act of deporting people who in many cases have left their own land for reasons of extreme poverty, insecurity, exploitation, persecution or serious deterioration of the environment, damages the dignity of many men and women, and of entire families, and places them in a state of particular vulnerability and defenselessness…. The act of deportation is not a minor issue.” He emphasized that “an authentic rule of law is verified precisely in the dignified treatment that all people deserve especially the poorest and most marginalized.”

As you can see, Jesus’ teaching has consequences. His words are not meant to be stored in some kind of religious museum. The words he uses—“hate,” “exclude,” “insult,” and “denounce”—such words contradict everything Jesus and his teaching stand for. Such teaching doesn’t apply only to the inside of a church. They point especially to the attitudes and convictions we bring with us when we exit these hallowed doors. The primary commandment to love means that we must denounce words and actions that lead us to hate, exclude, insult and denounce. In Jesus’ name we refuse to hate. No, we Christians love, include, speak well of others, and raise them up. The surest way that others will know we are Christians is by our love. Otherwise, the words Jesus uses and teaches are merely words on a printed page, nothing more.

Homily for the Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time February 9, 2025

Fri, 14 Feb 2025 01:05:04 GMT

A Million Bucks…or Insufficient Funds.

There’s a comic strip called Mother Goose & Grimm (by Mike Peters; The Republican, 2/5/25, p. B2). In a recent one, you have two animals comparing their experiences. One announces, “I woke up feeling like a million bucks! How about you?” The other one responds, “I woke up feeling like insufficient funds.”

In today’s gospel passage we find a kind of emotional roller coaster on the part of Peter and the other disciples. They, of course, are the experts; they’ve been fishing all their lives. They’ve been hard at it and caught nothing. Maybe the waters were being over-fished. Maybe it was an off-night. Whatever it is, they probably experienced disappointment, if not outright panic. After all, this was their livelihood. How were they going to feed their families? And how were they ever going to make enough profit to pay their taxes? So, I can imagine Peter thinking, “I’m coming off this night’s work feeling like insufficient funds!”

But then, Jesus steps in and makes a suggestion. Peter has his doubts, but he agrees to give it a try. And then, they have this enormous load of fish, so that their nets are tearing and a second boat is needed. Now they’ll be able to feed their family. Now they’ll be able to show some profit. Now they’ll be able to pay their back taxes. And does Peter feel like a million bucks?

Well, maybe some…but now he begins to feel that he has insufficient funds of another sort. In his astonishment, he says, “Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.”

This reminds me of a classic book entitled The Idea of the Holy by a scholar named Rudolf Otto (published in 1917). Otto argued that, in the presence of the holy or of a mystery, there is something that fascinates, but also something that causes fear. This catch of fish is like that for Peter: he stands before Jesus and acknowledges both the mystery and the fear. He is convinced that Jesus is holy, and—almost instantaneously—he bears his soul (“I am a sinful man”). He knows in his heart that, if he were to be judged at that moment, he feels that he has insufficient funds.

But Jesus feels confident that he can work with that. Yes, Jesus says: you have insufficient funds, but I don’t. I can keep filling you, if only you empty yourself and allow me to fill you.

In conclusion, I ask you to meditate on these verses from Psalm 127:

Unless the Lord build the house,

they labor in vain who build it….

It is vain for you to rise early,

or put off your rest,

You that eat hard-earned bread,

for he gives to his beloved in sleep.

Homily for the Second Sunday in Ordinary Time January 19, 2025

currietnc@gmail.com (Charlene Currie) — Fri, 14 Feb 2025 01:05:00 GMT

The Secret of Success—and Then Some!

A successful businessman once was asked the secret of success. His reply summed up success in three words: AND THEN SOME. He learned early in life that the difference between average people and the truly successful could be simply stated in those three words. Top people did what was expected and then some!

These words could apply to our lives in various ways. Practice your faith faithfully—and then some. Give generously of your time—and then some. Greet those you meet with a smile—and then some. Meet your obligations; be dependable—and then some. Do your best in all things and at all times—and then some.

In today’s Gospel reading we find Jesus practicing this approach to life. When his mother points out the embarrassing problem of the hosts running out of wine at a wedding feast, Jesus at first seems reluctant. He says his hour has not yet come, probably meaning that he isn’t quite ready to start his public ministry. Maybe he’s got more praying or more planning to do. But Mary kind of ignores his protest, and simply tells the waiters: Do whatever he tells you.

Well, Jesus does something remarkable. John, the author of the Gospel, says this is Jesus first “sign”—his first indicator of who he is, what kind of power he has, and why people should believe in him. And Jesus goes overboard! Can you imagine, it’s something like 120 to 180 gallons of wine. That must have been some wedding.

But it is the way Jesus operates. It’s as if he’s saying: You want some wine? I’ll give you some wine—and then some! And it’s not just the quantity. The headwaiter lets us in on a catering secret: best wine first, then when people are tipsy, the cheap stuff. But now he marvels: this new wine that is presented to him isn’t cheap; as a matter of fact, it’s the best—top shelf.

We find this same approach by Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew’s Gospel. For example, he teaches, “You have heard the commandment, ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ But what I say to you is: offer no resistance to injury. When a person strikes you on the right cheek, turn and offer him the other. If anyone wants to go to law over your shirt, hand him your coat as well. Should anyone press you into service for one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the man who begs from you. Do not turn your back on the borrower.

“You have heard the commandment, ‘You shall love your countrymen but hate your enemy.’ My command to you is: love your enemies, pray for your persecutors. This will prove that you are children of your heavenly Father…. If you love those who love you, what merit is there in that?” (Matthew 5:38-46).

So, you see? Jesus’ approach is like that of the successful businessman: and then some. Don’t do the least you can possibly get away with. Become more active. Show that you care. There are so many people hurting today. We just had a meeting of our Justice and Peace Committee. The numbers of people who come for Community Meals each week is well over 200. We’re being told that some people wouldn’t make it without our help. At our schools, if there weren’t free lunches, many would have nothing to eat.

When it comes to hospitality, welcoming the stranger, and making people feel at home; and when it comes to reaching out to offer help, to make life a bit more bearable for people who are struggling: I’m proud of all that we’re doing. But there’s always more that can be done. If you can volunteer, let us know. If you haven’t donated food in a while, please consider it. If you can contribute warm winter clothing, there’s a great need.

Don’t settle for a lukewarm faith. Don’t respond with half a heart. If you want to imitate the lavish generosity and compassion of Jesus, try to make a difference. Do what you can—and then some!

Homily for the Baptism of the Lord January 12, 2025

marguerite1393@yahoo.com (Marguerite Noga) — Mon, 13 Jan 2025 21:09:32 GMT

Take the Ball, and Run with It !

There once was an important football game between two rivals. One team was much bigger than the other. The larger team was dominating the game and beating the smaller team. The coach for the smaller team saw that his team was not able to contain or block the larger team. So his only hope was to call the plays that went to Calhoun, the fastest back in the area, who could easily outrun the larger players once he broke free.

The coach talked to his quarterback about giving the ball to Calhoun and letting him run with it. The first play the coach was excited, but Calhoun did not get the ball. The second play was again signaled for Calhoun, but once again Calhoun did not get the ball. Now the game was in the final seconds with the smaller team’s only hope being for Calhoun to break free and score the winning touchdown. The third play and again Calhoun did not get the ball. The coach was very upset so he sent in the play again for the fourth and final play. The ball was snapped and the quarterback was sacked, ending the game. The coach was furious as he confronted the quarterback: “I told you four time to give the ball to Calhoun and now we’ve lost the game.”

The quarterback told the coach, “Four times I called the play to give the ball to Calhoun. The problem was that Calhoun didn’t want the ball.”

Today, as we celebrate this unique event, the baptism of Jesus, I thought it would be good for us to reflect on our baptism. Now, it all began with Jesus’ final instruction to his disciples: “Go out to all the world and share the good news, baptizing people in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

And for 2,000 years now, the Church has done that. Our official entrance into the Church is marked by our baptism. As in every Sacrament, there is a visible aspect and an invisible one. In baptism we use water, which has a rich and primal meaning to it. Without water, we would surely die; and without water, we wouldn’t be very clean. That’s the visible part. What it symbolizes, the part we cannot see, is that we are being given the gift of life, not just for here and now, bur for eternity. We are being baptized into the dying and rising of Jesus, going down into the tomb with him (symbolized by his going into the Jordan river), and then rising with him from the tomb (out of the Jordan’s waters). And, we are being spiritually cleansed of the effects of sin, the spiritual smog of our world, so that we can live a new life in God.

So that’s what happens to us—only once. Once we’ve been properly baptized, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, that’s it. When someone, for instance, has been baptized in the name of the Trinity as a Protestant, if that person wishes to become a Catholic, we do not rebaptize.

But here’s the thing: does our being baptized make a difference for how we live? Using the imagery of our opening story, in baptism God gives us the football. The question then is, do we want to run with it? Do we take up the Christian faith in such a way that we are changed, each and every day, to become more like Christ? If we have the opportunity to help somebody, do we run with it? Do we do something? If someone asks for forgiveness, or if we need to ask for forgiveness, do we actually do something? If we’ve been angry at someone, whether it’s been a day or fifty years, do we try to be reconciled? Do we take the ball and run with it?

What are we doing to actualize our baptism? In the early days of the Church, outsiders could point at Christians and marvel, “See how they love one another.” Can they say that about us? Is our baptism something that is lived, that is struggled with, that is taken seriously, or are we Christian in name only?

So, here’s the question to think about: When God wants to hand us the ball, do we run with it?

Homily for the Solemnity of the Epiphany January 5, 2025

Thu, 09 Jan 2025 10:59:22 GMT

Journey to a Life with God.

A student found a cocoon one day and brought it to his homeroom which was in the biology lab. The teacher put it into an unused aquarium with a lamp to keep the cocoon warm. About a week went by when a small opening began to appear on the underside of the cocoon. The students watched as it began to shake. Suddenly, tiny antennae emerged, followed by the head and tiny front feet. The students would run back to the lab in between classes to check on the progress of the cocoon. By lunchtime it had to struggle to free its listless wings, the colors revealing that it was a monarch butterfly. It wiggled, shook, and struggled, but now it seemed to be stuck. Try as it might, the butterfly couldn’t seem to force its body through the small opening in the cocoon.

Finally, one student decided to help the butterfly out of its difficulty. He took scissors from the table, snipped off the cocoon’s restrictive covering, and out plopped an insect-like thing. The top half looked like a butterfly with droopy wings, the bottom half, which was just out of the cocoon, was large and swollen. The butter-pillar or cater-fly never flew with its stunted wings. It just crawled around the bottom of the aquarium, dragging its wings and swollen body. Within a short time it died.

The next day the biology teacher explained that the butterfly’s struggle to get through the tiny opening was necessary in order to force the fluids from the swollen body into the wings so that they would be strong enough to fly. Without the struggle the wings never developed and the butterfly could not fly.

I refer to this story because the trip undertaken by the Magi from the East took some doing. They had to study the stars to figure out where they should go. They had to anticipate how long it would take and pack supplies accordingly. They had to be ready for a difficult journey across a forbidding desert. They had to be humble enough to ask for directions when they were lost. They had to discern what was safe and what wasn’t. And they needed grit and determination when the journey became difficult.

In the journey of the Magi, I see a parallel to the struggle of the Monarch butterfly to become fully developed. And I see a parallel to every life, including our own. And so, we have a lot of food for thought.

· How well do we prepare for the future, especially for rainy days and times of uncertainty?

· Do we plan ahead, so that we will have enough resources for the days ahead?

· How determined are we? Do we try to solve problems, work through difficulties, and create a better outcome for ourselves? Or do we give up when the going gets tough?

· In the midst of all the preparations, all we need to do to be ready, to have security, to have happiness and a bright future, do we include God in our search, or for all intents and purposes, do we ignore the role of God in our life?

· If we see that a major adjustment is needed, and a course correction is required, are we willing to follow a detour, intent on getting to our goal, or do we just turn around and go home?

Ultimately, the struggle pays off for the fully developed Monarch butterfly. And the journey paid off for the Magi from the East. They found the new-born King and it reoriented their lives; it changed everything (they went back by another route).

In this New Year are we going to take our relationship with God seriously—searching more, listening more, praying more, coming to Church more? Do we have what it takes to struggle to become more fully human, more alive, more like what God had in mind when he called us into being? Or do we settle for a half-life, like the half-butterfly, or like those who never considered the journey to a life with God all that important?

Homily for the Feast of the Holy Family December 29, 2024

Mon, 30 Dec 2024 19:48:40 GMT

Being Stubbornly Holy.

Some years ago, a Japanese magazine had a picture of a butterfly on one of its pages. The color was dull gray until it was warmed by a person’s hand. The touch of a hand caused the special printing inks to react, and the dull gray was transformed into a flashing rainbow color.

When we think about the story of the Holy Family, and the details of the first Christmas, I think we find a lot of dull grays. When Mary and Joseph arrived in Bethlehem, there was no room at the inn. The place was so crowded that the best they could find was a place where animals were kept and fed. Then, when the young couple brings the new-born child to be presented in the temple, the old man Simeon, who spent much of his time praying there, informed them that there were dark days of suffering ahead, and that Mary’s heart would be pierced, as with a sword.

When astrologers from the East arrived, searching for the newborn, they went for directions to the palace of King Herod. That seems logical: when searching for a newborn king, what better place to begin than at a palace? Unfortunately, the news of a newborn king unhinged Herod, and he decreed that all the boys under age two in the Bethlehem area should be slaughtered. And so, Jesus, Mary and Joseph are forced to become refugees, leaving their native land, and crossing the border into Egypt.

And then, there’s the story of Jesus as a young adolescent, left behind in a crowded city, exposed to dangers that he might not be able to handle. Can you imagine the panic and trauma that Mary and Joseph must have felt?

And yet, with all these threats, all these negative experiences, all these dull grays in our story, we also find some warm colors. Born in poor circumstances, that child, who understood poverty from the inside, would become the Savior who champions the cause of the poor, identifies with them, and gives us the mission of serving their needs, thus providing hope for the vast majority of the world’s population. And again, by becoming a displaced emigrant, Jesus knows what it is like to flee persecution and to endure the injustice caused by the rich and powerful. Thus, those who are displaced by war, violence, natural disasters, and drug wars, know what it is to live with panic, always on the watch, hoping for a better future. Those who live on the edges of civilization and the peripheries of nations know that the Savior understands them, and will bring them to justice in the end.

And that sword of violence, pain and death, alluded to by Simeon, that ultimately brings Jesus to his passion and cross. And it is by laying down his life that Jesus reveals the depth of his love, his solidarity with the human race, and his mastery over sin and death. It is thus that the Savior gives hope to the entire human race. By dying and rising again, Jesus turns the somber grays of death into the unimaginably beautiful colors of an eternity with God.

And so, we honor the family called “holy.” That doesn’t mean that their life was somehow easier, or that they knew how it would all play out ahead of time. They had to survive. They had to summon up their courage. They had to take bold steps. They had to suffer. And through it all, they had to trust that God would see them through. It is that trust, that ability to believe that God could “write straight with crooked lines,” that makes them holy, enables them to serve as an example of patient endurance and undying grit, and helps us to face our fears and carry our burdens. The Holy Family we honor today does not consist of well-scrubbed and pious figures in our manger, but human beings of flesh and blood who teach us what it is to be extraordinarily human and stubbornly holy.

Homily for Christmas December 25, 2024

Mon, 30 Dec 2024 19:48:37 GMT

What Our Christmas Candles Proclaim.

This year, I did something new and significant with the candles we have in the rectory windows. I bought LED bulbs, which promise a long life of illumination. This way, I won’t have to go scrambling for bulbs in stores that never seemed to have quite the number I needed.

Do you know how the custom of placing candles in windows started? One account I read says that the custom was brought to America by Irish immigrants. The historical background is interesting. When religion was suppressed throughout Ireland during the English persecution, the people had no churches in which to worship and celebrate Mass. Priests hid in forests and caves, secretly visiting farms and homes to say Mass during the night. It was the dearest wish of every Irish family that at least once in their lifetime a priest would arrive at Christmas to celebrate Mass during the Holy Night. For this grace they hoped and prayed all through the night.

When Christmas arrived, they left all the doors unlocked and placed burning candles in the windows so that any priest who happened to be in the vicinity would be welcomed and guided to their home through the dark night. Silently the priest would enter through the unlatched door, wherein he would be greeted by the devout with fervent prayers of gratitude and flowing tears of happiness that their home was to become a church for Christmas.

To justify this practice in the eyes of the English soldiers, the Irish used to explain: “We burn the candles and keep the doors unlatched so that Mary and Joseph, looking for a place to stay, will find their way to our home and be welcomed with open doors and open hearts.” The English authorities, finding this Irish “superstition” harmless, did not bother to suppress it. Candles in the windows have always remained a cherished custom of the Irish, although many of them have long since forgotten the earlier significance.

And so, we have this beautiful custom of candles in our windows at Christmas time. Now, I think we should reclaim their spiritual significance. Let the lighted candle be a sign that our hearts and homes are open to the presence of God. Let them serve as reminders that the best place for Jesus to be born is in our hearts and our families. Let the lighted candles mean that our faith is strong enough not to allow the darkness of our society and our politics to overcome it. Let our burning candles proclaim that we want to be the light of promise and hope for a world at war, a world continually dealing with violence, prejudice and hate, a world in which some are hungry, thirsty, naked, lonely and homeless, a world in which some of God’s children are relegated to poverty, abuse and neglect. Let our burning candles speak of our hospitality and welcome—not just for Jesus, Mary and Joseph, but for all who are forced to live on the peripheries of compassion and on the margins of abandonment and neglect…for on this Christmas light still comes into our world, and the darkness will not overcome it.

Homily for the Second Sunday of Advent December 8, 2024

Tue, 10 Dec 2024 15:25:28 GMT

The Call to Repentance.

As an old man lay dying on his deathbed, his pastor could see clearly that something was bothering him. Finally, the elderly man broke the silence: “When I was a youngster,” he said, “I played a prank that haunts me to this day. One day I twisted the highway route signs in opposite directions, so the arrows would direct travelers in the wrong direction.

“I wonder, as I lie here now, how many people I misdirected by that action—and, I wonder, how many I misdirected by the actions of my life.”

One of the great Advent figures we encounter in scripture each year is John the Baptist, whose job it was to prepare the way of the Lord by calling people to repentance. The story of the changing the direction of the arrows is a good one because repentance has to do with changing direction, turning your life around. Abandoning whatever is sinful or self-destructive, and doing a U-turn toward God.

The Bible is a very honest book, and it includes not only stories of goodness and triumph over evil, but also accounts of horrible, sinful actions. There are also powerful stories of repentance, people who turned their lives around. Let me share some examples.

The prophet Jonah, you may recall as the guy who got swallowed by the whale (or large fish). The reason that happened was that Jonah was actually running away from God. God wanted him to go to the great pagan city of Nineveh and warn the people that, unless they changed their ways, their city would be destroyed. Jonah wanted Nineveh to be destroyed; it was the capital of Assyria, and an enemy of Israel. Well, Jonah finally ran out of running room. God caught up with him, and off he went, warning the people there. The king decreed that all people needed to put on sackcloth and ashes, mend their ways, and start living rightly. Because of their repentance, Nineveh was spared.

A powerful personal story is that of King David, who fell in love with Bathsheba. The problem was that Bathsheba was already married. Bathsheba became pregnant, and to try to cover that up, David had her husband, who was a soldier, to be put into a defenseless position on the front lines and be killed. When David’s sin was found out, he admitted his sinfulness, repented and, ultimately, was forgiven.

A final example, a story that was very popular down through the centuries (it is depicted in the art of various early churches) is that of the so-called “Good Thief” who was crucified along with Jesus. As he hung there dying, he repented, turned to Jesus, and prayed, “Lord, remember me when you enter into your kingdom.” And Jesus accepted his repentance and responded, “This day, you will be with me in paradise.”

Now John the Baptist was a powerful figure who didn’t mince words, and told people what they needed to hear. When soldiers asked, for example, “What should we do?” he replied, “Don’t bully anyone and start acting justly.”

I tried to imagine, if John the Baptist were to walk into this church today, what might he ask of us. Here’s what I came up with—a list of questions that we can use in this time of Advent preparation:

· Have you fed the hungry lately?

· Do you worship God in Spirit and in truth, or only because you feel you have to?

· Are you building people up with words of encouragement?

· Are your treasures stored in heaven or in a safety deposit box?

Homily for the First Sunday of Advent December 1, 2024

Wed, 04 Dec 2024 12:02:14 GMT

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.

Homily for the Twenty-Ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time October 20, 2024

Tue, 22 Oct 2024 21:04:25 GMT

Serving from the Bottom Up.

Fr. Goni and I have been watching and listening to classical music on YouTube. It got me thinking about the late great conductor and composer Leonard Bernstein. Once Bernstein was asked which instrument in the orchestra was the most difficult to play.

The maestro gave a surprising answer. “Second fiddle,” he said promptly. “I can get plenty of first violinists. But to find someone who can play second fiddle with enthusiasm—that’s a problem. Yet, if there is no one to play second fiddle, there is no harmony.”

I was reminded of Bernstein’s insight when I read today’s gospel. James and John want to play first violins in this new kingdom Jesus is inaugurating. They want to be concert masters, sitting in the chairs of authority. And this seems to be true, not just of James and John. We read, “When the ten heard this, they became indignant at James and John.” In other words, they’re all jockeying for position. In Bernstein’s terminology, they all want to play first violin. And as a result, there is no harmony in that group of Apostles.

Getting ahead, achieving, wanting to get to the top, trying to be better than everybody else: that seems to be in the DNA of a lot of people. Now, wanting to do your best, wanting to use your God-given talents—there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s exemplary. It’s only when we want to step on others, only when we’ve thought of nobody but ourselves, only when we’ll do anything to get to the top that it’s a problem.

And for Jesus it is a problem. He tells them that they can’t be “lording” over others. That’s an interesting word to use, is it not? Wanting to lord, wanting to be the Lord. That job has already been taken.

But Jesus then goes further, taking his disciples in exactly the opposite direction from the one they seem to want to go. “It shall not be so among you,” he says. “Whoever wishes to be great among you will be your servant; whoever wishes to be first among you will be the slave of all.”

And guess what? That job has already been taken, as well. “For the Son of Man [that is, Jesus] did not come to be served but to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many.” To serve, from the bottom up, not from the top down. Serving, not lording: that’s key. Serving, not lording. This is who Jesus is, and this is who his followers are called to be.

Someone who, I think, really got this message was Mother Teresa of Calcutta, now officially a Saint within the Church. I came across an interesting quote from Mother Teresa, a statement about why she did what she did, and what gave her the strength to do it. Here’s the quote: “To those who say they admire my courage, I have to tell them that I would not have any if I were not convinced that each time I touch the body of a leper, a body that reeks with foul stench, I touch Christ’s body, the same Christ I receive in the Eucharist.” [Donald H. Calloway, MIC, Eucharistic Gems, Marian Press, Stockbridge, MA 2023, p. 95]

Mother Teresa was able to reach down, to be the servant of all, to be the slave of all, because it is precisely when she touched the bottom of humanity, that’s where Jesus was—serving from the bottom up, not from the top down. Like Jesus, Mother Teresa never wanted to play first violin.

Which makes you think, doesn’t it? It makes me think, what kind of attitude adjustment do I need when I see someone begging at a busy intersection? When I encounter people that are not high achievers? When I think about people from other nations, many poor, many fleeing for their lives? If Jesus saves from the bottom up, and we insist on getting to the top by putting others down, we’ve got things upside down, don’t you think?

Homily for the Twenty-Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time October 13, 2024

Tue, 15 Oct 2024 10:57:49 GMT

The Old, Dusty Bible.

Imagine Bill’s disappointment when, on the eve of his 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 news of his father’s death that brought Bill back home again.

In today’s gospel, we read about the man who went away sad “for he had many possessions.” In doing so, he defined and declared what his true wealth was, and, you might say, he flung away the chance to have a life of intimacy with Jesus. I wonder if, later on, he thought about that encounter. And with whatever choices he had made in life, was he truly happy and fulfilled in the end?

Over the years, I’ve met several people who, like the young man in the story, flung the Bible and walked away. There were people who had lost a loved one to cancer, and they wanted nothing more to do with God again. There were people who had made bad investments, lost their fortunes, and never came to church again. There were people who were passed over when they thought they deserved a promotion where they worked, and they became bitter about it, and made others feel pretty miserable, and were angry because of the injustice and unfairness of life, and of God, as well.

Now the beautiful part of the story with which we began is that, when the son returned to his family home, the father had not thrown out anything. The Bible with the check still in it was still there. He could have cashed the check, or stopped payment on it, or torn it to pieces. But he didn’t do that. And in the end, the son could discover that his father had loved him all along. And that kind of love, that’s precious.

It says in the text of today’s gospel that Jesus, looking at the man before him, “loved him and said to him, ‘You are lacking one thing…’” Jesus loved him. The advice he offered wasn’t some kind of punishment; it was wisdom. If money, or power, or prestige have become the most important things in your life, you’re missing out on the greatest gift of all! Let God be your treasure. The other things will still be there, but in their proper place.

If you want to see what an excessive love for money, power and prestige can do, just look at many of the people in Washington. Think of what power and corruption and the love of money have done to them. Think of the values they are now modeling for our children. We’re now living in a world of hatred, division, violence, indifference, cruelty and lying just to get ahead. Just to get more money and more power.

It’s easy to throw the Bible away, or to ignore it, or re-interpret it so that it’s more convenient, and more in line with your thinking. But Jesus didn’t come into this world to be re-interpreted! He spoke the truth, in the name of God, and the rich and powerful didn’t like it, so they killed him. But the truth survived, and it’s still here, waiting, not only to be heard, but to be lived. It’s never too late. An old, dusty unused Bible can still be opened, with all its riches still inside.

Homily for Twenty-Seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time October 6, 2024

Mon, 07 Oct 2024 19:08:52 GMT

The Church’s Teaching on Marriage and Divorce.

One of my all-time favorite stories comes from a city in Germany named Weinsberg. Overlooking the city, perched atop a hill, stands an ancient fortress. The townspeople of Weinsberg are proud to tell about an interesting legend concerning the fortress.

After some negotiations, the enemy commander also agreed, on his word of honor, to let each woman take with her the most valuable, personal treasure she possessed, provided she could carry it out herself.

You can imagine the enemy commander’s consternation and surprise when the women began marching out of the fortress…each one carrying her husband on her back.

Today’s readings take us into a consideration of the biblical teaching on marriage. Of course, these passages were written in a patriarchal society, and so, the man is given first place. But commentators on the book of Genesis note that in the creation account, the bone taken from the man to be formed into a woman was not from the head or the foot—suggesting domination or enslavement. Rather, it was from a rib, which came closest to the man’s heart, that established the basis for mutual sharing of life.

What I like about the Weinsberg story is that it is the women who carry the husbands out. Isn’t it true that, often, it is the woman who takes the lead in the art of making a marriage work? It seems to me that, more often than not, men can be clueless, and it takes a woman, who tends to be better at relationships, to make things work out.

Now, I don’t want to be labeled a sexist or…well, to tell the truth, I don’t want to be labeled anything at all. But as we consider the biblical teaching on marriage, it is noteworthy that God builds into human nature the need for equality, sharing life’s work, building a home, having children, nurturing and providing for their needs, and making love the foundation for everything.

Of course, that’s the ideal. And Jesus stresses that it today’s gospel. God intended people to be happy, and to have relationships that work out. How could a loving God desire anything different? We all know how painful the breakup of relationships can be for everyone involved. And so, following the lead of the Bible, we hold marriage to be sacred, noble, a beautiful gift.

In practice, of course, things don’t always work out. We are all weak and imperfect human beings. One or another ingredient required for a true, lasting, until death do you part, marriage just isn’t there. Sometimes, staying together even becomes dangerous and life-threatening.

That’s why in recent years the Church has come to accept annulments. Based on the findings of psychology, we now know that it takes a lot more than just an “I do” or the signing of a contract to create a strong, life-long bond. And so, there’s a kind of delicate balance: on the one hand, upholding the ideal of the permanence and sanctity of marriage, for the good of the spouses, the family and the society—and on the other hand, also acknowledging that often a key element was missing, a necessary ingredient was absent, and a lasting bond couldn’t be created and maintained.

One of the key statements of today’s readings is found in today’s first reading from Genesis. God realized that it was not good for a person to be alone, to live in isolation. Whether in marriage, in family, or in friendship, we need other people to thrive, to escape loneliness, to be healthy human beings. “It’s not good to be alone” is thus an invitation from our God. We have the power, do we not, to be there for others, especially when they are all alone, or confused, or defenseless, or aged, or new in town. We have the power to keep others from being alone! It’s the human thing to do, to reach out and help. All the more, it’s the responsibility of the Church to continue to do what Jesus did: to welcome people, to build bridges, to make people feel loved, respected and wanted, to build a community in which we are less alone, less vulnerable, less poor, less loved. We have the power to keep others from being alone! Are we using that power? Or are there people in our community suffering from neglect?

Homily for the Twenty-Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time September 15, 2024

Fri, 27 Sep 2024 18:09:01 GMT

Trying to Correct God.

Trying to Correct God

Homily for the Twenty-Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time

September 15, 2024

There is a story of a man who was bothered with continual ringing in his ears, bulging eyes, and a flushed face. Over a period of three years he went to one doctor after another. One took out his tonsils, one removed his appendix, another pulled his teeth. He even tried goat-gland treatment in Switzerland—all to no avail. Finally, one doctor told him there was no hope—he had six months to live.

The poor fellow quit his job, sold all his belongings and decided to live it up in the time he had left. He went to his tailor and ordered several suits and shirts. The tailor measured his neck and wrote down “16 ½.” The man corrected him. “It’s 15 ½,” he said. The tailor measured again: 16 ½. But the man insisted that he’d always worn a size 15 ½. “Well, all right,” said the tailor. “Just don’t come back here complaining if you have ringing ears, bulging eyes and a flushed face!”

It’s amazing how much we are influenced by our preconceived ideas and sometimes wishful thinking. We find that in today’s gospel passage. Jesus teaches the disciples that he would “suffer greatly and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and rise after three days.”

We find that this just doesn’t fit Peter’s expectations. A Messiah, a Savior, a Son of God simply should not act in this way or allow mockery, rejection, suffering and death to be a part of the picture. And Peter steps in, arguing that this rejection, mockery, suffering and death stuff will not go over well. If he keeps talking in this way, he’s going to alienate a huge percentage of potential followers.

But Jesus, in a particularly forceful way sticks to his teaching and his job description, and expands on it. “Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross and follow me.” And what’s worse, “Whoever wishes to save his life will lose it!”

I believe that many of us are like Peter. We tend to develop a notion of what God is like—or what God should be like. In our prayer we often tell God what God should do, as if, like Peter, we were a Pope. I from time to time encounter someone claiming to be an atheist, finding belief in God impossible. When I question the person about it, I find that what has happened is that the person has defined God, like Peter tried to do, and when it doesn’t fit his thinking, rejects the idea of God.

In difficult situations, such as a cancer diagnosis, the suffering or death of a love one, a world in which the innocent suffer so much, a world full of poverty and injustice—well, a real “God” wouldn’t allow such stuff. Notice Jesus’ response: “You are thinking not as God does, but as human beings do….Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross and follow me.” For whatever reason, the world doesn’t always revolve around our wishes.

But we shouldn’t lose sight of the ultimate goal of Jesus’ teaching…that “the Son of Man must suffer greatly and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed”—all this horrifyingly nasty stuff. But he then adds, “and rise after three days.” Through suffering and death, Jesus identifies with the lot of the human race, with all its tragedy, its ignoring the needy, its trampling on justice—and he shows us a pure act of love. There is no greater love, he teaches, than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. But Jesus’ teaching doesn’t end there. Nor do cross and tomb have the final say. He will “rise after three days.” Jesus destroys our ultimate and final enemy: death.

So, there’s kind of a tough situation here. The question is: do we adjust to the reality of Jesus teaching as it has been handed on to us? Or do we, like Peter, try to correct God and argue that our way is better? If like the man in the story, we can’t accept the truth of our neck size, will that also be our approach to God—trying to correct the truth?

Homily for the Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time August 18, 2024

Fri, 27 Sep 2024 17:39:43 GMT

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Practicing Gratitude and Manifesting Abundance.

Homily for the Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time

August 18, 2024

Some years ago, a successful businessman reflected on his life and thought of all the people who had been influential in helping him become who he was. He decided to write each person a thank you card telling him or her of his gratitude for their influence on his life.

One day, he received a return letter from his former teacher. She apologized for not replying sooner, but stated that his letter took some time getting to her, since she had moved in with her daughter after retiring from teaching grade school for sixty-six years. She told him how thankful she was to receive his card and how it cheered her to find out he had learned so well his lessons in excellence. She went on to say that in her sixty-six years of teaching, this was the first thank-you card she had ever received, and how grateful she was that he had taken the time to remember her.

For a month now, our Gospel reading has been from St. John’s Bread of Life discourse, reflecting on Jesus as the true Bread from heaven, who satisfies our every need, giving us food for the journey of life, and promising eternal life. Jesus teaches that those who follow him will never hunger again.

Today, I’d like to focus on our second reading from Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. There, he instructs the community of the faithful, “Be filled with the Spirit, addressing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and playing to the Lord in your hearts, giving thanks always and for everything in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ to God the Father.”

“Giving thanks always and for everything”—this goes very well with our reflections on the Eucharist because Eucharist comes from a Greek word meaning thanksgiving or giving thanks.

There is a commercial for Progressive insurance in which a man, with his fully insured RV, finds a beautiful lake and stands there awestruck. He states that it will remain that way until the public discovers the spot. And sure enough, all of a sudden, there is a long line of people waiting to see the lake. A young woman asks the man if he is through. She then takes a selfie of herself with the lake in the background. She then comments, here I am at this beautiful lake, “practicing gratitude and manifesting abundance.” The impression I get is that her gratitude is kind of trendy, and her abundance comes from the photo with her in it—a photo she can now share with her world.

Well, when we gather for the Eucharist, we are practicing gratitude and manifesting abundance, but what we do here is neither shallow nor trendy. Rather, we are digging down to the deepest level of our being, recalling that God is the Source of everything, including our very lives and countless gifts we have received. Were it not for God, we wouldn’t even be here, our burdens would be too heavy to bear, and we would be arrogant and thoughtless, thinking we did it all ourselves.

The school teacher in our opening story had taught sixty-six years, and had received only one thank you note. God has been at it far longer, done far more, and probably been ignored or taken for granted a far greater number of times.

But we gather for the Eucharist, a great offering of thanksgiving to God, through Jesus Christ, and in the power of the Holy Spirit. A great offering of gratitude for the abundance we have all received: our lives, our gifts and abilities, our faith, our community and the promise of life eternal.

Psychologists say that practicing gratitude on a regular basis is healthy. It can make you more positive, less depressed, more joyful and less disappointed in life. So, what we do here is not trendy, and it is not a matter of mere habit or obligation. We are here to give thanks for all we have and all we are.

Pope Francis is fond of reminding Christians that we are not to be sourpusses, always looking down and depressed and overcome by the challenges of life. No, we are joyful, at peace, loving, forgiving, and full of faith—gathering to give thanks in a banquet of gratitude. We have listened to the words of Wisdom in our first reading, “Come, eat of my food, and drink of the wine I have mixed! Forsake foolishness that you may live; advance in the way of understanding.” Stop being sourpusses, be grateful, and never stop giving thanks for all that God has done for you. Become the Eucharist you celebrate!

Homily for the Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time-August 4, 2024

Fri, 27 Sep 2024 17:13:38 GMT

Follow the Leader.

Homily for the Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

August 4, 2024

Are you familiar with the story of lemmings? They’re rugged little animals about the size of mice, and according to stories in Europe, they occasionally migrate by the millions for days and nights until they reach the coast. When they reach the sea, they just keep going, swimming straight out until they drown.

We wonder why such a thing happens. One theory is that this is nature’s way of controlling the population of lemmings—which scientists have said is not true. So why do the lemmings “follow the leader” and don’t think about where they are going?

That happens to people, as well, I think. We can start to follow someone—a family member, a friend, a political leader, a popular entertainer or sports figure—and not really stop to think about where the journey will end.

I remember when I was a teenager and I wanted to do something that my parents didn’t immediately approve. I would argue, “But all the others can go.” And my mother would say something like, “If the others jumped into the canal in the middle of winter, would you follow them?”

Another thing I remember about being a teenager: I had a voracious appetite, and it seemed I could eat and eat without gaining a pound. Did you ever open the refrigerator door, feeling hungry, and stare and stare, not finding anything in particular that you wanted to eat? Or did you eat something salty, like ham, and then drink glass after glass of water, but it wouldn’t get rid of the thirst?

Well consider what Jesus says in the gospel: “I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me will never hunger, and whoever believes in me will never thirst.” Of course, we hunger and thirst for a lot of things, not just food and water. We hunger to feel loved, we thirst for acceptance, we pray that we might find a way to end loneliness, we want to fit in, feeling that life is worth living and we mean something to somebody. Sometimes, we look here, look there, try this, try that, and still feel a deep hunger, a monumental thirst, an ache to feel contented and satisfied.

I find that, if I’m facing a problem, or dealing with a dilemma, or just feeling that life in our times is one big mess—I find that, if I pray, something as simple as slowly saying the Our Father, my attitude begins to change. And asking what Jesus would do, or what Jesus would have me do, in this situation—it makes a difference. I see things more clearly, from a larger perspective—and then, I am less hungry, less thirsty, less confused.

It’s all about knowing whom to follow. Certainly, we can get involved in political parties, or various social groups, and our opinions can differ. But, at a deeper level, our relationship with the Lord can help us to have deeper insight, make sure we have the right attitudes, and move us to live in accord with the values of God’s kingdom. And let’s not forget the offer the Lord makes: “I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me will never hunger, and whoever believes in me will never thirst.”

Homily for the Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time June 30, 2024

Mon, 01 Jul 2024 15:14:00 GMT

Are you familiar with the Old Man of the Mountain in the White Mountains of New Hampshire? Some years ago, we got the sad news that the stone face fell off the mountain. Well, I recently came across a charming story about a great stone face...

In a pleasant, sunny valley surrounded by lofty mountains, lived a boy named Ernest. On the side of one of the mountains, in bold relief, nature had carved the features of a gigantic face.

From the steps of the cottage, the boy used to gaze intently upon the stone face, for his mother had told him some day a man would come to the valley who would look just like the Great Stone Face. His coming would bring happiness and prosperity to the entire community.

“Mother,” said the boy, “I wish it could speak, for it looks so kind that its voice must be pleasant. If I were to see a man with such a face, I would love him dearly.” So, Ernest continued to gaze at the Great Stone Face for hours at a time.

Several times the rumor spread that the long-looked-for benefactor was coming, but each time when the man arrived, the rumor proved to be false. In the meantime, Ernest had grown into manhood, doing good wherever he could. The people in the village loved him. Everyone was his friend. And as he became an old man, Ernest was still looking for the arrival of the long-expected one.

One day a poet came into the valley. He had heard the prophecy about the Great Stone Face, and at evening, when the sun was setting, he saw Ernest talking to some people. As the last rays of light flooded the massive outlines on the distant mountainside, they fell on Ernest’s face. The poet cried aloud, “Behold! Behold! Ernest himself is the likeness of the Great Stone Face.”

Then all the people looked, and sure enough, they saw that what the poet said was true. By looking daily at the Great Stone Face, Ernest had become like it.

The author concludes the story by suggesting, “If we gaze intently on Jesus as our Teacher and Example, we will become more like him.”

In our gospel reading today, we’ve heard the story of two desperate people, a woman who has had a debilitating hemorrhage for twelve years, and a man whose daughter is critically ill, at the point of death. What did these desperate people do? They sought out Jesus.

Imagine the faith of the woman, who made her way through the large crowd around Jesus, thinking, “If I but touch his clothes, I shall be cured.” And imagine the faith of the father saying, “My daughter is at the point of death. Please, come lay your hands on her that she may get well and live.” For these ardent seekers of healing, these desperate searchers, their faith in Jesus pays off. To the man who learns that it’s too late, his daughter has died, Jesus says, “Do not be afraid; just have faith.”

And so, the challenge of these readings has to do with our faith. Perhaps when life becomes difficult and we are desperate, looking to Jesus comes naturally. But what about other times when we’re just coasting along. To whom do we look? Who is our model, our idol, our hero? Who forms us, gives us wisdom, helps us to discern our values? Especially now, when everything seems so divisive, when everything gets politicized, people seem to become more and more like the person they are following. Many have told me that they are worried about the direction of our country, about what life may hold in store for their children and grandchildren. It the midst of this storm of confusion and fear, I would ask: where is Jesus in the mix of life swirling around us?

The beginning of today’s gospel speaks of Jesus getting out of a boat. Do you remember last week’s gospel? Jesus is asleep in the boat, and a major storm comes, and the disciples panic, thinking they’re going to die? Jesus is in the boat with them, and they forget that. He is the calm in their storm, the anchor of their life, and they’re scared to death. “Where is your faith?” Jesus asks. And that’s the same question we must wrestle with: where is our faith? Whom do we trust? Whose teaching do we follow?

If you want one line to think about, consider Jesus’ words to the man who believes his daughter has died: “Do not be afraid; just have faith.”

Homily for the Eleventh Sunday in Ordinary Time June 16, 2024

Mon, 17 Jun 2024 12:14:00 GMT

OK, Lord, give me some Miracle Grow!

I was attracted to a little story entitled, “Consider the Walnut.” Intriguing: why should I consider the walnut…?

If you compare a walnut with some of the beautiful and exciting things that grow on our planet, it does not seem to be a marvelous act of creation. It is common looking, rough, not particularly attractive, and certainly not monetarily valuable.

Besides, it is small. Its growth is limited by the hard shell that surrounds it, the shell from which it never escapes on its own. Of course, though, that’s the wrong way to judge a walnut.

Break a walnut open and look inside. See how the walnut has grown to fill every nook and cranny available to it. It had no say in the size or shape of that shell, but, given those limitations, it achieved its full potential of growth.

The author concludes by remarking: How lucky we will be if, like the walnut, we blossom and bloom in every space of life that is given to us.

In today’s gospel passage, Jesus offers stories that would be quite understandable to his audience. While they knew the hard work that went into farming, they could also appreciate the sense of wonder that Jesus expresses. You start out with a tiny seed and look at what it produces: grains for food and branches in which birds can build their nests. What a remarkable transformation!

And Jesus is saying that God’s kingdom is like that: while we eat and sleep, and go about our daily life, a miracle of growth takes place. And so it is with our very life and the many gifts with which we are blessed.

Many years ago, like many of you, I spent several summers working on a tobacco farm. One of the first things we did as the growing season began was to slide along between the rows, pull the weeds, and pull off the suckers from each plant. Suckers were little, miniature growths that would appear where each leaf met the stalk. We were told that those suckers had to come off because they would rob the mother plant of vital nutrients, and the crop would not meet its full potential. Thus, the plant knew what it had to do, but we were there to help it maximize its full potential.

And so it is, in a comparable way, with the life and gifts God has given us. Let me give you an example of what I mean.

There was a series of Doonesbury comic strips telling the story of Kim, a high school student of Asian ancestry whose hard work in school won her a coveted National Merit Scholarship.

In one panel, Kim is called into the office of the principal who tells her, “Kim, I just wanted to tell you how proud all of us are about your nomination as a Merit Scholar! It’s very good news for your family and for the school. Your accomplishment demonstrates that the failure of so many kids to learn is not just the school’s fault. It reaffirms the importance of discipline and personal motivation.” “Yes, sir,” Kim replied, “but I’m not so sure everyone in the community sees it quite that way.”

And, sure enough, in the next panels, a group of parents are at the front door of Kim’s home, confronting her father. “She’s throwing off the curve for the entire school,” they complain. “How does she do so well anyway? Couldn’t you get her to watch more TV like the other children?”

Kim’s American father calmly explains that they’ve tried to instill in their daughter her culture’s values of discipline, hard work and respect for others. The other parents are taken aback for a moment. A mother protests, “But doesn’t that give her an unfair advantage?” Another father blusters, “Yeah, this is America!”

And so it is with the talents and abilities God has given us. Let’s examine ourselves. Are there suckers that are sucking the life out of our gifts? Do we see someone in need, for instance, and turn away because of indifference? Do we see an injustice being committed, and we choose not to say anything because of fear? Do we know a lonely person aching for our visit, but we stay away because we’re just too busy with stuff that seems more important? Do we fail to spend quality time with our families or friends, even though we say they are important to us? Do we see a glaring need but do nothing because someone else can do it?

Perhaps God’s Word, which we hear week after week, has simply become part of the routine. A formality, once a week. Perhaps we need to let down our defenses and open our hearts so that God can pull off some of the suckers and pull up some of the weeds which get in the way of our living a full life, sapping our potential and leaving us feeling unfulfilled. Surely, God gives the gifts, God gives the growth, but maybe we’re not producing as we should. In that case, maybe we need to open ourselves up and pray, if you’ll forgive the pun, “OK, Lord, give me some Miracle Grow! Help me to thrive, and not just exist.”

Homily for the Tenth Sunday in Ordinary Time June 9, 2024

Mon, 10 Jun 2024 13:59:00 GMT

A House Divided Cannot Stand

In today’s Gospel reading Jesus’ enemies use various arguments to try to discredit him. They argue that he is possessed by the devil, and that it is by being in league with the devil, that he is driving out devils.

To this Jesus replies: “How can Satan drive out Satan? If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. And if a house is divided against itself, that house will not be able to stand.”

The most famous use of these verses was in a speech that Abraham Lincoln made in 1858 before a State Republican convention. Here is what Lincoln said: "A house divided against itself cannot stand. I believe this government cannot endure, permanently half slave and half free . I do not expect the Union to be dissolved -- I do not expect the house to fall -- but I do expect it will cease to be divided. It will become all one thing or all the other. Either the opponents of slavery will arrest the further spread of it, and place it where the public mind shall rest in the belief that it is in the course of ultimate extinction; or its advocates will push it forward, till it shall become alike lawful in all the States, old as well as new -- North as well as South .”

A house divided against itself cannot stand. And we know, of course, that the opponents went to war because of their divisions in the War Between the States, the Civil War, the war between brothers and sisters.

I found an intriguing story that brings that struggle between good and evil, that struggle that divides us, down to a very personal level…

A young carpenter married a building contractor’s daughter. Soon thereafter, the father-in-law decided to boost the career of his new son-in-law. “Son,” he said, “I don’t want you to start at the bottom of this construction business as I did. I want you to go out to my job-site and build the most tremendous house this town has ever seen. Put the best of everything in it, make it a showplace, and turn it over to me when you are finished.”

“Well, this is an opportunity to make a killing,” thought the son-in-law. He hurried out to slap together a building that involved the cutting of corners. He made a deal with a shady wholesaler and installed sub-standard lumber, shingles, cinder blocks, cement, etc., but billed for the “best” materials. The two cheats would split the profits from their deception. In short order the son-in-law presented his father-in-law with the keys to the newly finished house.

“Is it a tremendous showplace of the newest and best materials as I asked?” inquired the father-in-law. “It sure is, dad,” answered the son-in-law. “Is it the finest house ever built?” “You betcha, dad.” “All right, where’s the final bill? And did you include a good profit in it for yourself?” “Uh, well….Here it is,” the son-in-law replied, “and yes, I did.”

“OK. Let me write out a check. Do you have the deed with you?” As he accepted the deed, the father-in-law said, “I didn’t tell you why I wanted that house to be the best ever built. I wanted it to be something special that I could give to you and my daughter to show you how much I love you. Here, take the deed and the keys. Go live in that showplace; it’s yours now. Go live in the house you built—for yourself!”

The young man slinked away, shattered and frustrated. He thought he was making a fortune at his father-in-law’s expense by shaving money here and there with inferior materials and various shortcuts, but in the end he only cheated himself.

A house divided cannot stand. That was true of Jesus’ assault on evil. He could not destroy the devil by being in league with the devil. That was true of our nation during the time of division over slavery in Lincoln’s day. That was true of the young carpenter who acted in opposition to his father-in-law’s love and only outsmarted himself. And I believe it is true of our nation today, where it seems everything becomes divisive, controlling, cruel, destructive and poisonous. A house divided cannot stand because it is built on the basis of hate, greed and deception, rather than on the bedrock of love, decency, compassion, human dignity and the common good. A house divided cannot stand! Until enough of us believe that, until enough of us work to overcome the division, until enough of us demand an end to the hate, the house cannot stand.

On which foundation do we want to build our house? On greed, hatred, corruption and constant division, or on the wisdom of Jesus, who said, “A house divided cannot stand,” and “whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother”—a real family founded on love, not division, greed and corruption.

I found an intriguing story that brings that struggle between good and evil, that struggle that divides us, down to a very personal level…

Homily for the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ June 2, 2024

Mon, 03 Jun 2024 13:53:00 GMT

One of my all-time favorite stories is about a weary knight who rode his tired horse down an Italian country road toward his home in Assisi after an ill-advised battle with neighboring Perugia. In truth, to this soldier all battles now seemed ill-advised. After such traumatic ordeals, he no longer saw sense in violence or killing.

He came to a small village and thought, “I’ll get something to eat here and find a place for the night. He stopped in front of a small house where a woman was standing, and cheerfully asked, “Could you spare a bit of food for an errant knight?”

Sadly, the woman shook her head and sighed, “We’ve had a poor harvest. There is barely enough for my family.” With those words she walked into the house.

The soldier went to the next house where a farmer was working on his wagon. “Pardon me, do you have a place at your table for a hungry knight?” he inquired. The farmer replied, “It didn’t rain during the last month before the harvest. What little we have is needed to feed our children.” And so it went, from house to house.

Finally, the knight called the townspeople together and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, you are fortunate that I came to your village today. I have in my possession a special stone that will help feed you through the long winter months. With it you can make stone soup.”

The people responded, “Stone soup? We’ve never heard of such a thing.” “The wonder of the stone soup,” the soldier explained, “is that it not only feeds hungry people, it helps bring people together. Now who has a large iron kettle that I can use?” A large iron pot with a tripod was wheeled out. Then they filled the pot with water and started a fire. As the water began to boil, the knight dramatically raised the special stone above his head and gently placed it into the kettle.

After some time, the knight tasted the liquid. “You know, I think this stone soup needs some salt and pepper.” Some children hurried to find salt and pepper. Then, the knight tasted the mixture again and said, “This stone makes excellent soup, but it would be better if we had a few carrots.” “I have some carrots that I’m willing to share,” a farmer replied.

The carrots were added. Then the knight said, “Not bad, but stone soup is always more tasty when a cabbage is added.” “Say, I think I know where to find a cabbage or two,” a young mother said. Then, the knight said, “The last time I made stone soup at the castle of a rich merchant, he added some potatoes and a slab of beef.” A few of the people talked among themselves, and they soon returned with some beef and potatoes, as well as some milk, onions, and loaves of bread.

Well, everyone ate their fill, and then people brought out fiddles and flutes and started to dance with joy. Never had these villagers experienced such a wonderful party. And what’s more, word is that the members of that village, even to this day, have never been in want or need, ever since that day that Francis of Assisi stopped by their village and taught them the magic of stone soup.

Today we are celebrating a Feast dedicated to reflecting on, and celebrating, in a very conscious way what we are doing when we gather for the Eucharist. In light of the stone soup story, I’d like to ask: what ingredients can you offer to this special, sacred meal? Let me make some suggestions.

We know that there are people in our community who are hungry. The number coming for Community Meals has skyrocketed. During school vacations, members of our community were grateful for the lunches that were prepared and shared. Many of you are very generous with the food items you bring, both for Community Meals and for Montague Catholic Social Ministries. I thank you for bringing these ingredients of shared compassion and love.

Many of you have shared with me special concerns you have, asking that I pray for a family member or neighbor who is undergoing difficulties, having surgery, or has had to go to a nursing home. You, too, bring these prayerful ingredients of compassion and love.

Some of you have shared with me various accounts of good news: someone who was sick is now doing fine; your loved one received the financial help he needed; one of your children was able to get a job she was hoping for. You, too, bring these ingredients of gratitude and thanksgiving.

Some of you have told me that, living alone, you often feel left out and isolated, and how good it makes you feel just to come here and be welcomed, and surrounded by a community of people who are glad to see you, who let you know that someone cares. You bring ingredients of hospitality and loving support.

The magic of stone soup fed a hungry village. And, we may take it for granted, but each time we gather for the Eucharist we are welcomed, we are fed, we are affirmed, we are nourished—by Jesus’ Body and Blood, a body that was broken, blood that was poured out to the final drop, a love remembered and shared. And we imitate that love as we bring our own loving ingredients, add them to the pot, and receive back far, far more than we gave. The Eucharist, then, is the universe’s pattern for how life is to be lived: in community, in a web of caring that is inspired and nourished by the perfect love of Jesus. As we are fed, so we are called to feed others.

Homily for the Solemnity of Pentecost May 19, 2024

Mon, 20 May 2024 12:53:00 GMT

High on a hilltop overlooking the beautiful city of Santa Barbara there lived a wise old many whom people considered a sage. Legend has it that he could answer any question posed to him.

Two local boys decided they could deceive the old man and trip him up. Figuring they had a plan that was foolproof, the boys caught a small bird and headed for the mountaintop. As they approached the sage, one of the boys cupped the bird in his hands, which he held behind his back.

“Wise old man,” he posed, “can you tell me if this bird in my hands is alive or dead?”

The old many sized up the two boys, and without hesitation, answered, “My boy, if I tell you that the bird is alive, you will close your hands and crush the bird to death. And if I say that the bird is dead, you will open your hands and let it fly away.” He continued, “You see, boy, in your hands you hold the power over life and death. And it’s an awesome responsibility.”

He then went on to day, “In your hands you hold the seeds of failure, or the potential for success. Your hands are very capable, but they must be used for the right things. They must be used to reap rewards that you are capable of attaining.”

I use this story today because the ancient symbol used for the Holy Spirit was a dove. In the story of Jesus’ baptism, for example, we read, “The skies opened and the Holy Spirit descended on him in visible form like a dove. A voice from heaven was heard to say: ‘You are my beloved Son. On you my favor rests.’”

We believe that at our own baptism, something similar happened. God called us each by name, declaring, “You are my beloved son/daughter. On you my favor rests.” And we believe further that in Confirmation the gifts of the Holy Spirit are poured forth upon us once again, strengthening us so that we can live a life worthy of a child of God.

It is interesting to note that, throughout the Bible, whenever people cooperated with the will of God, great things could happen. For example, when Mary was asked if she would consent to be the mother of God’s Son, she replied, “I am the maidservant of the Lord. May it be done to me as you say.” And with that, the Holy Spirit came upon her and Jesus was conceived in her womb.

If you look at the story of the first disciples, we find the same thing. If the people were open and cooperated with God’s will, great things would happen. When they didn’t, there was often disaster. For instance, in the story of Peter walking on water, when Peter kept his eyes on Jesus, he could actually walk on the waters of the sea. But when he looked at the waves and felt overwhelmed by danger, he started to drown. Later on when he boasted that he would never deny the Lord, he failed miserably and did so three times.

After the crucifixion of Jesus, the disciples were afraid, lest they face the same fate. They were locked up in a room of fear. But when the Holy Spirit came upon them, they proclaimed the faith with courage and zeal.

The Holy Spirit has been poured into our very being. But what happens then is much like the story of the bird in the boy’s hands. It’s as if God has pumped us full of gas, but it’s up to us to start the engine. We are gifted by God, but what we do with those gifts is up to us. God never forces himself on anyone. Mary had to say yes. Peter and Andrew, James and John, had to physically abandon their fishing nets and agree to follow.

So Pentecost is powerful with the very power of God. But it’s not automatic. It still takes faith, determination, courage and a whole lot of love. God’s love is there, but it is never forced; we have to respond to it. Just as the father of the prodigal son let the boy go so that he could test his freedom, so the son had to decide for himself whether or not he would return to his father.

As the wise old man said to the boys on that mountain, “In your hands you hold the seeds of failure, or the potential for success. Your hands are very capable, but they must be used for the right things. They must be used to reap rewards that you are capable of attaining.”

Today’s Feast celebrates the many ways in which we are gifted by God. It invites us to reflect on our gifts and to ask ourselves: How well am I using my gifts? Do I use them selfishly, thinking only of myself, or do I use my gifts for others? God’s gifts are not given just once, as if poured out in baptism or confirmation and then shut off. At different stages of life we need different gifts. The gifts of God’s Spirit keep flowing, but we have to open ourselves to them. God’s love never ceases. Each day we can discover it anew. If only, like Mary and Peter and the others we say Yes!

Homily for the Seventh Sunday of Easter May 12, 2024

Mon, 13 May 2024 12:49:00 GMT

A farmer once took two stubborn mules and tied them together by a 20-foot rope. Two bales of hay lay on the ground, one at either end of the field. The animals kept straining and tugging against each other, trying to get to the bale of hay nearest it. Finally, they both collapsed and died of starvation.

Some days, when I look at the mood of our world, I feel that stubbornness has taken over! Gradually, over the past several years, positions have hardened. There was a time, for instance, when Ronald Regan and Tip O’Neil, members of opposing political parties, could fight about just about everything, but still have a beer together at the end of the day.

There was a time when Ted Kennedy and John McCain, again members of opposing parties, could sponsor bills together when they saw the needs of the people.

Now, we know that we’re all different. We’ve been blessed with many gifts and abilities. We certainly don’t all see things in the same way. But it’s as if the very air we breathe these days has become poisoned with diametrically opposed views that pull us in totally opposite directions. And as a result, we take extreme positions, seeing everything as black and white, with no possibility of compromise.

When asked to identify the greatest commandment, Jesus said that it was love: love of God above all, and love of neighbor as oneself. When Jesus was preparing to take leave of this world, he summarized everything by teaching, “I give you a new commandment: love one another as I have loved you.” And in today’s gospel Jesus prays, “Holy Father, keep them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one just as we are one. ” In other words, the one thing that we are forbidden to do is hate.

Oh, we can hate injustice when we see it. We can despise poverty. We can protest against prejudice. We can loathe the forces in our world that make children go to bed hungry. But we respond to these challenges with a desire for justice and peace, and the passion of love—not with poisonous speech or venomous hate.

Let me conclude with a story of motherly love as we celebrate Mother’s Day…

The harried young woman was beside herself when the telephone rang, and she heard with relief the kindly voice on the line, “Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”

“Oh mother,” she said, breaking into tears, “it’s been an awful day. The baby won’t eat, the dishwasher broke down. I tripped up the stairs and sprained my ankle. I haven’t had a chance to go shopping and the house is a mess. And, to top it off, we’re having company over for dinner tonight.”

“There, there, darling, everything will be all right,” the soothing voice on the line said. “Now, sit down, relax and close your eyes. I’ll be over in a half hour. I’ll pick up a few things on the way over and cook dinner for you. I’ll take care of the house and feed the baby. Also, I’ll call a repairman I know who will be at your house to fix the washer this afternoon. I’ll take care of everything. In fact, I’ll even call George at the office and tell him to come home early.”

“George” the distraught housewife exclaimed. “Who’s George?” “Why, George… you know, George, your husband!”

“But my husband’s name is Frank.”

A brief pause ensued, then the voice hesitantly asked, “Excuse me, is this 555-1758?” A tearful reply said, “No, this is 555-17 8 8.”

“Oh my, what a dreadful mistake,” apologized the embarrassed voice on the phone. “I’m so terribly sorry. I must have dialed the wrong number.”

Another brief pause before the would-be daughter asked, “Does this mean you’re not coming over?”

That’s the kind of compassionate love, with a bit of humor, that our world desperately needs. Happy Mother’s Day!

Homily for the Sixth Sunday of Easter May 5, 2024

Mon, 06 May 2024 17:02:00 GMT

There is a refrain that appears and reappears throughout today’s readings: the call to love one another. We are to love each other in the same way that Jesus loves us. Love makes us one with Jesus and the Father, and keeping the commandment of love brings us joy and peace.

In each generation, however, we have to figure out what this command to love means concretely, both individually and as a community. One such effort is the statement that Pope Francis sent to an international Arabic channel at the end of the Muslim sacred time of Ramadan (similar to our Lent). Here is part of the Holy Father’s message:

“Brothers and sisters, our father Abraham raised his eyes to heaven to gaze at the stars. The light of life, which shines all around us and embraces us from on high, calls us to leave behind the dark night of hatred, so that, in accordance with the Creator’s will, stars may shine brightly upon our world, rather than the glare of missiles lighting up the heavens and raining down fire to devastate the earth!

“God is peace and he desires peace. Those who believe in him cannot fail to repudiate war, which does not resolve but only increases hostilities. War, as I never tire of saying, is always and only a failure: it is a road leading nowhere; it does not open new vistas but stifles all hope….

“I think constantly of the families, the young people, the workers, the elderly and the children. I am certain that in their hearts, in the hearts of ordinary people, there is a great desire for peace. And that, amid the spread of violence, tears flow from their eyes and a single word issues from their lips: Enough! Enough! – I myself repeat that word to those who bear the grave responsibility of governing nations. Enough! Stop! Please, put an end to the clash of arms and think of the children, all the children, as you do your own children. Let us all look to the future with the eyes of children. They do not ask who is the enemy to be destroyed, but who are the friends with whom they can play. They need homes, parks and schools, not tombs and mass graves.

“Friends, I believe that deserts can flower: as in nature, so too in the hearts of individuals and in the lives of peoples. Yet the deserts of hatred can bring forth shoots of hope only if we learn how to grow together, one alongside the other; only if we learn to respect the beliefs of others; only if we recognize the right to existence of every people and the right of every people to have their own State; only if we learn to live in peace without demonizing anyone. That is my belief and my hope …”

This weekend, we are celebrating First Communion. Each year, when we do so, I am uplifted and renewed by the excitement, the joy and the innocence of our children. Here, in our own community, we have the opportunity to reflect on what kind of world we want them to have. As Pope Francis says, they want “homes, parks and schools,” and a loving and nurturing environment in which to grow and prosper. They are just like children in every part of the world.

In today’s gospel Jesus offers love, joy and peace—all in such a way that the world cannot give. Let us open our hearts to such a love, and to friendship with Jesus. He says, “You are my friends if you do what I command you….This I command you: love one another.” On this First Communion weekend, let us join the children of the world, and all the people of the world in echoing the word spoken by the Holy Father: Enough! Enough! to war and hatred, division and fear, violence and cruelty! Enough!

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Easter April 21, 2024

Tue, 23 Apr 2024 16:17:00 GMT

Some years ago divers located a 400-year-old sunken ship off the coast of Ireland. Among the treasures they found on the ship was a wedding ring. When it was cleaned up, the divers noticed that the ring had an inscription on it. Etched on the wide band were two hands holding a heart. Under the etching were these words: “I have nothing more to give you.” Of all the treasures found on that sunken ship, none moved the divers more than that ring and its beautiful inscription.

I was reminded of that story when reading today’s gospel with its beautiful imagery. Jesus says, “I am the good shepherd. A good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. A hired man, who is not a shepherd and whose sheep are not his own, sees a wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away, and the wolf catches and scatters them….”

Sometimes, when our life becomes challenging, when we have to endure some pain, evil, or loss, it is easy to become despondent and lose hope. At times, we may wonder where God is in all the mess we’re in. Has that ever happened to you?

Sometimes, this can happen at a larger, more global level. When we consider all the starving people in the world, or all those who are in the grips of war, or those who have to deal with childhood cancer, or those in government who have become corrupt and seem to care little for their people—when we are overwhelmed, and feel inundated by all of that, we can lose hope. We can ask: why is this happening? Where is God?

The answer the Bible proposes is: on the cross, in the middle of it all. The 400-year-old ring proclaimed a love that was absolute: When I have given you my heart, my life, my love, every breath I take, I have nothing more to give. In a similar way, Jesus says in today’s gospel, “I am the good shepherd. I lay down my life for my sheep.” I give you all my love—down to the last drop of blood. “No one takes my life from me, but I lay it down on my own. I have power to lay it down, and power to take it up again.” I give my life, so that you may have eternal life. There is no greater love.

Jesus Christ, the good shepherd, is totally committed to his flock. He gives us everything he has, everything he is. Now, the question I would like to ask is: how do we respond to such love?

I am reminded of the story of two great professors, who were discussing great thoughts on wisdom and the meaning of life. The first professor says to the second, “Henry tells me he is one of your students.” The second professor replies, “Well, Henry does attends many of my classes, but he is not one of my students.” The professor is suggesting that Henry may be a distant follower, but he is not a real disciple.

And so it was in Jesus day. Many people followed when the following was easy. But when Jesus started asking for a deeper response, when his message became more challenging, many drifted away. They may have attended his gatherings, they may have found his words powerful, they may have been astonished by the miracles Jesus performed, but when they were asked to sacrifice, to turn the other cheek, to walk the extra mile, to forgive even those who hurt them deeply, to give up their possessions so as to have a heavenly treasure, well, how could he ask so much?

Only because he loved so much. Only because he wanted his followers to discover the key to life. One of our favorite Saints, Francis of Assisi, captured Jesus’ message quite powerfully in the prayer we often sing, Make Me a Channel of your Peace: Where there is hatred, help me to bring love; where there is injury, pardon; where there’s doubt, faith; where there’s despair, hope; where there’s darkness, light; where there’s sadness, joy. For it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, it is in giving of ourselves that we receive, and it is in dying, when we have nothing left to give, that we’re born to eternal life.

Jesus gave all, laying down his life out of love. Are we loving boldly? Or only half-heartedly? Are we following from a safe distance? Or making a real commitment?

In our parish, I am proud of the many ways in which we follow our Lord and serve the needs of our community. This past week, for example, many volunteers came together to serve lunches to children who were out of school on spring vacation. Many of you donated food for the lunches. Our Women’s Group brought together all kinds of crafters from our community to check out the latest in the annual Stash Bash. Some of our parishioners are involved in the Gill-Montague Education Fund, which is having its annual concert next Saturday to support the teachers and students in our area. Whenever I visit shut-ins and parishioners in area nursing homes, they tell me that they are praying for our parish. And we have joined together in support of the Beacon of Faith Campaign, which has had a tremendous response thus far. (I’m hoping for 100% involvement in this campaign to strengthen our Church and its future.) In all these ways, and many more, we show that we are true disciples, that our faith is important to us, and that we’re not following Jesus from a safe distance. Thank you for your commitment.

Homily for Easter March 31, 2024

Wed, 10 Apr 2024 13:40:00 GMT

There was a study done by biologists in which they determined that, aerodynamically speaking, the bumble bee cannot fly. If you’ve ever taken a good look at a bumble bee, you’ll see why: the bumble bee has too large of a body mass to be supported by such puny wings. Fortunately, the bumble bee does not listen to such criticism, and it does, indeed, fly!

If you read the biblical stories that follow Jesus’ crucifixion, you will find that no one believed that there could be a happy ending. Jesus Christ had died, period. As powerful as he was, despite the many miracles he performed, the authorities who crucified him were just too powerful. The beautiful message Jesus of Nazareth brought, the hope he had created—it all vanished on a Friday afternoon.

Two of Jesus’ disciples, for example, had called it quits and were heading home to their hometown, Emmaus. When a stranger appeared and walked along with them, they said, “We were hoping that [Jesus of Nazareth] was the one who would set Israel free” (cf. Luke 24:13-35). We read that after Jesus was crucified, the disciples had “locked the doors of the place where they were” out of fear (cf. John 20:19-23). We read that Simon Peter and some others were also going back to their former way of life and their former vocation. Simon Peter said, “I am going out to fish.” The others replied, “We will join you.” And so, they went off in their boat and their prospects weren’t much better than they were when they had first met Jesus: “All through the night they caught nothing” (cf. John 21:1-14).

But then the stories take a new turn. They bring unbelievable news, perhaps even more astounding than that the bumble bee can actually fly. The stranger walking with the two disciples calling it quits turns out to be Jesus. And once they recognize him, they turn around and head back to Jerusalem. And even though the doors of the room are locked, it is the risen Jesus who enters and stands before them, wishing them peace in the midst of their fear, and showing them his pierced hands and feet and side. And the fishermen who had been at it all night long and caught nothing, encounter a stranger who points out where they can make a catch and, when they do, their nets are at the breaking point, and they recognize Jesus, now risen from the dead and fully alive.

And now, in our day, we likewise have many who don’t believe that bumble bees can fly, or that someone could rise from the dead, or that good can overcome evil. They believe that, with our nation so divided and people so hostile to each other, reconciliation is not possible. They believe that, with so much of the world at war—in Ukraine, in Gaza and Israel, in the Middle East, in so many places in Africa—Jesus can no longer bring peace into our shattered world. They believe that, with so much discrimination, abuse of the poor, racial prejudice, and selfish greed, there is no reasonable possibility of justice in our battered world. They believe that, with the scales so tilted toward evil, good no longer has a chance. They have no hope and all they see is darkness.

But we dare to proclaim something different. That’s why we’re here. We need to hear the story once again, we need to find our bearings, we need to be reminded why Easter still matters. It’s not really about chocolate bunnies, or pretty new dresses, or Easter egg hunts, or tables full of kielbasa, or ham, or prime rib. We’re here to hear the story again, to allow its power to change us, to help us to believe—to believe all that seems impossible: that bumble bees can fly, that good can triumph over evil, that life cannot be crushed by death, that the poor will still receive good news, that justice will come, that divisions can be overcome, and that the final word spoken will be love. Because we have heard the story again, we can dare to live again, we can speak of hope again, we can unlock the doors again, and proclaim again that death is dead because Jesus lives again.

Homily for Holy Thursday March 28, 2024

Wed, 10 Apr 2024 13:38:00 GMT

After a large dinner at one of Hollywood’s stately mansions, a famous actor entertained the guests with stunning readings of Shakespeare. Then, as an encore, he offered to accept a request. A shy, older priest asked if he knew Psalm 23. The actor said, “Yes, I do and I will give it on one condition: that when I am finished you recite the very same psalm.”

The priest was a little embarrassed, but consented. The actor did a beautiful rendition… “The Lord is my shepherd, there is nothing I shall want…” The guests applauded loudly when the actor finished, and then it was the priest’s turn. He got up and said the same words, but this time there was no applause, just a hushed silence and the beginnings of a tear in several eyes.

The actor savored the silence for a few moments and then stood up. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I hope you realize what happened here tonight. I knew the words of the psalm, but this priest knows the Shepherd.”

During these special days, we have the opportunity, not just to hear words about Jesus, but to try to get to know Jesus better—by reflecting on what Jesus said and did, during the last moments of his earthly life. Because Jesus knew that he was going to die, what he said and did have a special power; they are a kind of parting gift of what Jesus considered most important, what he wanted to be valued in the minds and hearts of his followers.

And so, he washed feet, a lesson in humility. Jesus stooped down and did what people who are normally in lower stations of life would do—an act of courtesy and hospitality during a time of sandals and unpaved roads and messy feet. It was a lesson in humility.

The great Christian author C.S. Lewis wrote a satirical novel entitled The Screwtape Letters. The novel takes the form of letters of instruction between two devils, Screwtape, the older, master devil, and Wormwood, the junior tempter, who is still learning the trade. In one of the Letters, Lewis takes up the theme of humility and how an up and coming young devil should deal with it.

Screwtape writes, “I see only one thing to do at the moment. Your patient has become humble; have you drawn attention to this fact? All virtues are formidable to us once the human is aware that he has them, but this is especially true of humility. Catch him at the moment when he is really poor in spirit and smuggle into his mind the gratifying reflection, ‘By Jove! I’m being humble,’ and almost immediately pride—pride at his own humility—will appear. If he awakes to the danger and tries to smother this new form of pride, make him proud of his attempt—and so on through as many stages as you please….”

Many years ago, when I was a student at Holy Cross College, I went on an eight-day retreat at a beautiful seaside Jesuit retreat house in Gloucester. There are two things I remember about that retreat. One, that it was a silent retreat: we were to do no talking during those eight days except when we gathered for prayer. Try that sometime!

The other thing I remember was a lesson in the proper understanding of humility. Up until that time, I thought it good to downplay any compliment. Oh, it was really nothing! I think you overestimate me! I inherited it all from my father! Things like that.

The insight I gained was that those statements were really untrue. The fact of the matter is that I do indeed have certain abilities, certain things that I am good at. But true humility is not denying the talents, but to humbly acknowledge who gave me those abilities—namely God. In my actions and in my life, I was not to glorify myself. Rather, I was to give the glory and the honor to God, humbly acknowledging the Source of my life and my abilities. And that changes everything: how you see yourself, how you act, how you relate to others, and how you see yourself before God.

Notice Jesus’ act of humility. He doesn’t deny who he is (“I, who am teacher and Lord…”). He is the Savior, the mighty preacher, the wonderworker who was able to do all kinds of healings, the Son of God. He was all of that. But what was the pattern of life that he sets before us? It’s washing of feet, but it really is a lot more than that.

It is well set out in the second reading for Palm Sunday. Do you remember? “Christ Jesus, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God something to be grasped. Rather, he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, coming in human likeness; and found human in appearance, he humbled himself, becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Because of this God greatly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, of those in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father” (Philippians 2:6-11).

Washing feet sure got the Apostles’ attention. Peter didn’t want any part of it. But by allowing Jesus to wash his feet, he got only to hear Jesus’ teaching, but to know the Shepherd—the one who lays down his life for the sheep, who gives his all in love, who empties himself to the last ounce of blood—and thus, bestows the way of humble service, not as a symbolic ritual but as a way of life.

So in memory of the Shepherd, we do this uncomfortable thing, this humble thing—not to take part in some kind of show, but to become more fully the one we imitate, to learn how it feels to bend down in service, to conquer our pride, and to be there especially for those who need us the most. Parents getting up in the middle of the night to feed a hungry infant know what it means. Workers at Food City who took care of our needs during the pandemic know what it means. Nurses who help people during the worst days of their life, day in and day out, know what it means. Members of this church who prepare meals to feed the hungry, who visit shut-ins, who bring Communion, who spend time with the lowly—they know what it means. And so, together, we wash feet, we know the Shepherd, we become shepherds, we know who we are.

Homily for the Fifth Sunday of Lent March 17, 2024

Mon, 18 Mar 2024 12:57:00 GMT

In today’s gospel, Jesus says, “Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat, but if it dies, it produces much fruit.”

I’d like to reflect on that one line, but since we are celebrating St. Patrick’s Day this weekend, I thought that, instead of focusing on wheat, it would make more sense to take a look at potatoes.

Many years ago Irish immigrants subscribed to the theory that they could eat all the big potatoes and keep the small potatoes for seed planting. They did this for quite some time. They ate all the big potatoes, and they planted the small potatoes. Soon, however, greater understanding of the laws of nature came to them, for while they kept up this practice, nature reduced all their potatoes to the size of marbles. The Irish farmers learned through bitter experience that they could not keep the best things of life for themselves and use the leftovers for seed. The laws of nature decreed that the harvest would reflect the planting season.

One author, reflecting on the Irish experience, noted that the mistaken thinking is still often used today. We often try to keep the best things of life for ourselves and to plant inferior things. We expect that by some crazy twist of the laws of nature our own selfishness will reward us with unselfishness. Is this not true in terms of our use of time, personal talents, serving others, sharing our faith, living according to the Golden Rule?

We need to remember what the Irish farmers learned: we cannot eat all the big potatoes and still keep on having them through the years. Truly the harvest reflects the planting season.

Jesus’ image in today’s gospel, the grain of wheat dying to itself by being planted in the ground reflects his own gift of self by a life lived for others, even to the point of laying down his life for his friends. And he invites us to make that the pattern of our life as well.

I’ve thought about this a lot lately. We are so fortunate to have plenty of food, even to the point of wasting it, when millions of people go to bed hungry each night. Many don’t seem to care about the harm we are doing to the earth to the point of handing on a severely wounded world to future generations. I worry about the job we’re doing in handing on the faith, as each week I watch children coming up the stairs from their religious education classes, and then continuing out the door with their families without coming to worship.

In Friday’s (3/15/24) Springfield newspaper, The Republican , there was a lead article about six eighth-graders from Southwick who have been charged in connection with alleged racial bullying. The article speaks of alleged series of racist and threatening social media posts aimed at two Black classmates.

A series of Snapchat posts came to light last month, leading to suspensions of some students by the school system. School officials then referred the matter to local and state police.

‘Hatred and racism have no place in this community,’ said Hampden District Attorney Anthony D. Gulluni when announcing the charges yesterday.

The middle-schoolers are facing charges of witness interference, civil rights violations and threatening to commit a crime linked to alleged bullying and bigotry.

Gulluni said the students’ chats included ‘heinous language,’ threats of violence and a mock slave auction.

A follow-up article reports that the students involved could face time in a juvenile facility.

I’m very concerned, not only about the alleged behavior, but also by the fact that we’re talking about eighth graders. Where did this kind of hate come from? These young people certainly did not somehow magically come up with these poisonous attitudes on their own. Surely, they are reflections of the attitudes of many adults in the community. Think of the political rhetoric in this nation, a rhetoric that is filled with racism, attacks on human dignity, fear-mongering, and the use of violence to solve our problems. If we contribute to this kind of fear-induced politics, we are planting attitudes that lead to this kind of behavior by middle school students.

They say that you “reap what you sow.” At all levels, personal, ecclesial and societal, we need to be very careful about our words and our deeds. Certainly, the words that come from Jesus do not lead to prejudice, fear of the other, or hate-based political slogans.

And so, as we honor St. Patrick, let us not forget the lesson his life teaches. His first experience of Ireland was a negative one. At the age of sixteen he was kidnapped from the coast of Britain by Irish raiders, and taken to Ireland as a slave. He was sold to a local king, and was forced to do all kinds of menial work. Finally, after six years, he was able to escape.

Patrick had a strong faith, and he went on to study for the priesthood, eventually becoming a bishop. And rather than hating the people of Ireland, for some thirty years he spread the faith, and is now remembered as the great patron Saint of the Irish. Despite his earlier negative experiences, Patrick planted richly, sacrificed much, and left an incredible legacy—all because he planted big potatoes of selfless love rather than prejudicial hate or revenge.

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Lent March 10, 2024

Tue, 12 Mar 2024 14:17:00 GMT

I read about a young man whose search for God led him to seek out a wise priest as a spiritual guide. The young man was told to give up his dissolute life, pray in earnest, and purify his motives. Sick of his sinful history, the youth made steady improvement and, slowly, his health, courage and joy returned.

One day the director was called away, leaving the young man on his own. When the priest returned, he sought his promising protégé out and asked, “How’s it going?” The youth’s face clouded over. He admitted having given up all his prayerful practices, and of slipping back into his old habits.

The priest asked, “But why? What happened?” The boy answered sadly, “I opened the door, and found the light was too bright.”

In today’s gospel reading Jesus says, “And this is the verdict, that the light came into the world, but people preferred darkness to light, because their works were evil. For everyone who does wicked things hates the light so that his works might not be exposed. But whoever lives the truth comes to the light, so that his works be clearly seen as done in God.”

Sometimes, what the Lord asks of us may just seem too much. For example, on one occasion a man came running up, knelt down before Jesus and asked, “Good Teacher, what must I do to share in everlasting life?” Jesus then refers him to the Ten Commandments, which we heard about in last week’s readings. The man replies, “Teacher, I have kept all these since my childhood.” Then Jesus looked at him with love and told him, “There is one thing more you must do. Go and sell what you have and give to the poor; you will then have treasure in heaven. After that, come and follow me.” We then read that the man went away sad, for he had many possessions.

This man was searching, wanting to do the right thing, but when the final door was opened, he found that the light was too bright, the demands were too great, and he simply went back to the way things were.

Now, you might wonder why Jesus was so demanding. We know that in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus sharpened the Commandments, going to their heart.

No adultery? ……. No lust!

No killing? ………. No anger!

Love your countryman? …Love your enemy!

But what was the deal with the young man with all the possessions? Evidently, Jesus saw that the possessions had come to possess the man. The great commandment is that we are to love God above all else. And the first of the Ten Commandments states that we are not to have any other god, except the one and only God. Could it be that for the man who approached Jesus, money and possessions had become the be-all and end-all of his life? He may not have worshipped one of the idols, one of the gods present in the world at that time—but maybe the possessions had become idols, and money more important than almighty God.

I refer to this incident about the rather demanding Jesus because the lesson it teaches is a powerful one, and one that still applies to our time. The first commandment is indeed that we shall have no other gods. And we probably thought of it in its context within the time of the Bible. There were many foreign tribes all around Israel, and they did indeed worship other gods—perhaps the sun-god as in Egypt, or the god of thunder as in Greece and Rome, or the gods represented by carvings made out of wood or stone. It was a world of many gods, and the belief in the one and only true God was unique. Judaism, Christianity and Islam are known as the three monotheistic religions, meaning the belief in and worship of only one God.

But the story of the rich man reveals another danger: making money and possessions the central focus of one’s life. It’s a danger very much present in our day. I’ve known many brothers and sisters, siblings who loved each other and got along well—until the parents died and the will was read. And then, all of a sudden, if one got a dime more than the others, God help us!

Jesus told another story about a rich man who had everything and feasted lavishly every day. At his gate was a poor beggar, starving and covered with sores, and the rich man gave him not a penny, not a scrap of food. When he died, it did not go well for the rich man.

There’s a funny saying, but it’s nothing to laugh about: “I’ve never seen a U-Haul following a hearse!” That’s ironic, isn’t it? What it signifies is the fact that the only riches we can take with us are what you have given away.

So, it’s something to think about, something to take seriously: What is our relationship with money and possessions? Do they become a consuming concern for us? Do they become so important that they blind us? Do they prohibit us from loving properly? From putting God at the center? From expressing love and compassion for others?

Homily for the Third Sunday of Lent March 3, 2024

Tue, 12 Mar 2024 14:13:00 GMT

I have a favorite anecdote about Mark Twain…

A nineteenth century industrial baron once said to Mark Twain, “Before I die I mean to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I will climb to the top of Mt. Sinai and read the ten commandments aloud.” Mark Twain responded, “Why don’t you stay home and keep them?”

And then, there’s the story of a student who had a complaint about a particular teacher. She had just finished a midterm exam and said, “Her tests are impossible! I have to study so much harder for her tests just to keep up my grades.”

The student’s advisor asked, “But do you learn more from all that studying for her tests, or from the teachers who are not so difficult?” “Well, yes, I do seem to understand her course better,” the student replied.

So the advisor asked her if she knew how to sharpen a knife. “Yes,” she said, “my dad taught me how to sharpen a knife when we were on a family camping trip.” The advisor asked, “Did you use a stone or a towel?” “What?” she questioned. “You can’t sharpen a knife on a towel!”

“Exactly!” the advisor answered. “You can’t sharpen a knife on a towel. A knife can only be sharpened on a hard surface so that it will be sharp enough to fulfill its purpose and cut what needs cutting. Students, and children, too, cannot be sharpened on soft surfaces. They are sharpened on the hard surfaces of teachers and parents, so that they will be sharp enough to ‘cut it’ in life and fulfill their life purpose.”

And so we have the presentation of the famous Ten Commandments in our first reading today. I have heard it said that, in our time, these commandments have been watered down so much that they should be called the Ten Suggestions . So, let’s take a look…

First of all, let’s put commandments into a larger context. When Jesus was asked what the greatest commandment of the law was, he didn’t point to any of the ten, but rather, taught that the greatest has to do with love: love of God above all else, and love of neighbor as oneself.

And then, we should note the context within which the commandments were presented. At the time of Moses, God was entering into a special relationship with the people—a relationship called a “covenant.” And it is all about relationship, about making it work through love of God and neighbor.

So, if you want to safeguard and protect your relationship with God , you have the first three commandments: (1) no other gods; (2) respect God’s name; and (3) keep one day a week, the Lord’s Day, focused on God and striving to be holy.

The other seven commandments are meant to make life in society possible, creating the proper conditions for our relationships to blossom (love of neighbor as oneself): honor parents and elders (4); do not kill (5); do not commit adultery (6); do not steal (7); do not bear false witness or lie (8); don’t desire your neighbor’s spouse (9); don’t desire things that are not yours (10).

And then, there’s one more section of the Bible to consider, the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew’s Gospel. There Jesus takes up the ancient commandments and sharpens them by getting to their inner workings, their spirit.

For example…

(cf. Matthew 5:21-48)

So you see, Jesus is sharpening the commandments, and he’s not using a towel to do the sharpening. He wants us to aim higher, not to settle for the minimum, but to grow in love, loving those we find it difficult to love, loving those we don’t want to love, loving those we have refused to love.

But more than this, during the Lenten season, we are asked to look inward at the attitudes and dispositions behind our actions, things like anger, lust, impatience, lack of compassion, pride, or the inability to forgive. That’s how we can sharpen our focus, going to the heart of the commandments, and getting to the roots of who we really are—and what we can still be. We don’t have to do it all at once, but pick one that truly matters. Pray about it. If there’s one attitude that sabotages your relationships, either with God or with others, would you be willing to work at it?

Homily for the First Sunday of Lent February 18, 2024

Mon, 19 Feb 2024 10:28:00 GMT

A young boy sat on the front porch of a farmhouse with his grandfather. They heard a car coming down the seldom traveled dirt road. When the driver of the car, bearing out-of-state plates, saw them on the front porch, he stopped to ask directions to a nearby town.

After receiving directions, the driver walked back toward his car, and then turned and asked, “Say, mister, what are folks like around here?”

“Why do you ask?” the grandfather responded.

The stranger said, “I just left a town where the people were a bunch of snobs. I’ve never been around people who were less friendly in my life. Why, I lived in that town for over a year, and never once did I feel a part of the community.”

The old man replied, “I guess that’s about the way you’ll find folks around here.”

A few hours later, another car stopped in front of the farmhouse where the two still sat on the porch. The driver, with a big smile on her face, strolled up the front walk and asked, “Tell me, what are the folks around here like?”

Once again the old farmer questioned, “Why do you ask?”

“You see,” she replied, “I’m moving here from one of the nicest little towns you could ask for. The people made me feel so much at home there. The neighbors were so friendly. I felt I had lived there all my life.”

“Well,” said the old man, “you’ll find the people around here pretty much the same.”

The woman got into her car and drove off. The boy turned to his grandfather with a puzzled expression and asked, “Grandpa, why did you give those strangers opposite answers to the same question?”

The grandfather put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and answered, “Because, laddie, it’s a person’s attitude toward a community that determines how people will respond to them.”

A person’s attitude toward community has a lot to do with how that person sees, understands and interacts with people. I think it might be the same with the image we have of God. And as we get into this Lenten season, I’d like to consider this question: What is our attitude toward God? How do we see, understand and interact with God?

For example, in our first reading today we have heard part of the story of Noah and the ark. We’re probably most familiar with the God of the flood, the God who punishes evil by wiping it out and starting all over again. But today we have heard the end of the story: not the God of the flood, but the God of the rainbow. God enters an agreement, or a covenant with humanity, promising “never again shall there be a flood to devastate the earth.”

Our Responsorial Psalm takes us in the direction of the God of the rainbow: “Your ways, O Lord, are love and truth to those who keep your covenant.” And in the verses we have words like: teach me your paths…compassion…love from of old…kindness…goodness…good and upright…teaching the humble.

So, here, at the beginning of Lent, it feels good to ask ourselves: What is my image of God? The God of the flood? Or the God of the rainbow? As you go through the Bible you find both, but as you go along, there is a development that takes place. Whenever anyone came up to Jesus and asked for forgiveness, Jesus never refused. Even at the last hour, in the case of the so-called “good thief,” Jesus promised that “This day you will be with me in Paradise.” The ones Jesus seemed to have problems with were the ones who believed that they had no need of forgiveness, that they were better than everyone else. It was those with an arrogant attitude that were often condemned.

If you stop to examine the attitudes of the self-righteous, it seems that they believed in the God of the flood, the God of punishment and damnation—but for everyone else, and not themselves. They felt they were too good to be stuck with such a God. Their attitude poisoned the way they saw and interacted with the community. For example, in the story of the two men who went up to the temple to pray, it was the humble one, who beat his breast and asked for mercy, who was justified. The arrogant one bragged about himself to the God of the rainbow, but condemned the other man to the God of the flood. And Jesus taught that the judgment you pass on others will be the judgment passed on you. You can’t have it both ways, the God of rainbows for yourself, and the God of the flood for those you consider less deserving.

So spend some time this week, praying over your attitude, both toward people and toward God. Which is it? The God of the flood? Or the God of the rainbow?

Homily for the Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time February 11, 2024

Tue, 13 Feb 2024 17:30:00 GMT

I recently read an interesting story about some people who were at the seashore, watching some lobsters that had been brought in, in a bucket. They noted the strangest thing. From time to time, one of the lobsters would start to climb its way out of the bucket. But then, inevitably, one of the other lobsters would grab ahold of the one trying to escape and haul it back in.

The odd thing is that the lobsters probably could have escaped from that bucket, if not on their own, at least with a little help from one of the others. But instead of helping, they kept pulling each other down.

Two of our readings today deal with a subject that is not a normal part of our experience: leprosy. The first, from Leviticus, a book that contains various laws and codes, sets out how leprosy was to be dealt with. If there was a suspicious scab or blotch on the skin, the person was to be presented to the priests, who were the experts for dealing with the issue at that time.

We have now experienced what it is like to have a highly contagious, lethal disease in our midst, namely COVID. We had a taste of how much our lives were changed, and how careful we had to be. So, maybe we can begin to imagine what the lepers of biblical times felt like. The instructions in Leviticus are quite severe: “The one who bears the sore of leprosy shall keep his garments rent and his head bare, and shall muffle his beard; he shall cry out, ‘Unclean, unclean!’….He shall dwell apart, making his abode outside the camp.”

Now, turning to the Gospel, a leper approaches Jesus, and says something very humble and low-key: “If you wish, you can make me clean.” If you wish? The problem was that it was not allowed to touch or have any kind of contact with a leper. Doing so would not only endanger yourself, but it would also make you technically unclean, and you would have to go into isolation yourself (like we had to if a family member or someone we were in contact with developed COVID).

Mark is very specific in his description of what happens. “Moved with pity, he [Jesus] stretched out his hand, touched him, and said to him, ‘I do will it. Be made clean.’ The leprosy left him immediately, and he was made clean.” Jesus risked touching the outcast, but out of compassion touched and healed him, nonetheless.

Now you may wonder what all this has to do with my story about lobsters. Well, here’s the point. Sometimes, it’s easy to treat someone who is different from us like a leper. Whatever issue you consider these days, people seem to be divided. Gay people/straight people, democrats/republicans, Kansas City Chiefs/San Francisco Forty-niners, pro-life/pro-choice, getting vaccines/not getting vaccines, people with homes/homeless people, middle class/poor people, skinny people/fat people, people with good complexions…well you get the idea. It’s very easy to start treating certain people like lepers just because they are different. And lots of times, we become like the lobsters, pulling each other down, rather than building each other up.

Today’s gospel shows that Jesus wasn’t like that. Rather than dividing, he built community. Rather than putting up walls, he created bridges. Rather than humiliating the outcasts, he embraced them. Rather than putting people down, he loved them. And he taught us to do the same. Now I know that a lot of people like lobsters, right? What I’m suggesting is that we should eat them, but not act like them.

Homily for the Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time February 4, 2024

Wed, 07 Feb 2024 17:20:00 GMT

One of my favorite stories about the power of art…A well-known sculptor had a burning ambition to create the greatest statue of Jesus Christ ever made. He began in his Oceanside studio by shaping a clay model of a triumphant, regal figure. The head was thrown back and the arms were upraised in a gesture of great majesty. It was his conception of how Christ would look: strong and dominant. “This will be my masterpiece,” he said, on the day the clay model was completed.

Droplets of moisture had formed on the model creating an illusion of bleeding. The head had drooped. The facial expression had been transformed from one of severity to one of compassion. And the arms had dropped into a posture of welcome. It had become a wounded Christ-figure.

Now, let’s take a look at today’s readings. If you’re feeling down or depressed, I don’t recommend today’s first reading from the Book of Job. “Is not one’s life on earth a drudgery? …. I have been assigned months of misery, and troubled nights have been allotted to me. If in bed I say, ‘When shall I arise?’ then the night drags on; I am filled with restlessness until the dawn. My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle; they come to an end without hope. Remember that my life is like the wind; I shall not see happiness again.”

Depressing, isn’t it? The Book of Job is one long meditation about one pain after another, one disaster after another, one loss after another. And there are times when our lives can feel like that, times of prolonged illness, the loss of a loved one, a sense of doom if you listen to too much news about the state of the world… It’s easy to despair and give up hope.

But then, let’s turn to the Gospel reading. By contrast, it’s full of healing and hope. Simon Peter’s mother-in-law is seriously ill. Jesus takes her by the hand, and she’s immediately cured. Word gets out, and then the whole town gathers at the door. Jesus performs many healings, curing diseases and driving out demons. Jesus is so powerful and popular that we learn in one of the Gospels that the people want to make him a king. But he refuses to allow that to happen. Why do you suppose he did that?

If we turn the pages of our Bible to the account of Jesus’ crucifixion. There we read, the jeering statement, “He saved others, but he can’t save himself! He’s the king of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him” (Matthew 27:42).

I think what’s happening is that Jesus is rejecting the first image with which our sculptor began—the triumphant, regal figure. “The head was thrown back and the arms were upraised in a gesture of great majesty. It was his conception of how Christ would look: strong and dominant.” Instead, Jesus saw himself in the second sculpted image: The fog and sea water had created an image of one who was bleeding. The head had drooped. The facial expression had been transformed from one of severity to one of compassion. And the arms had dropped into a posture of welcome. It had become a wounded Christ-figure.

When you think about Jesus’ ministry of healing, he showed that he had the power to heal. And during his lifetime on earth, he healed, how many? Hundreds, maybe thousands. But what is that, compared to the billions of people that have existed on this planet? What Jesus chose to do was to take on the suffering itself—all suffering, and not just that of a few. The humble, wounded, but all-powerful Christ took on our human suffering, experiencing the worst of it: innocent suffering, humiliation, cruelty, beating, mockery, torture, and death at the age of thirty-three. Jesus took all of that with him to the cross, all the suffering of humanity throughout the ages, and he took away its power, its finality, its hopelessness. He’s gone through it. And now, he offers to go through it with each of us, and with everyone who has ever lived and suffered: “Come unto me, all you who are weary and find life burdensome, and I will refresh you. Take my yoke upon your shoulders and learn from me…Your souls will find rest, for my yoke is easy and my burden light” (Cfr. Matthew 11:28-30).

Our faith doesn’t give us an abstract answer as to why human beings suffer. Instead, our questions are answered by a concrete act of love: crucifixion, death and resurrection. A wounded figure, bleeding, full of compassion, arms open in welcome, saying, Come unto me; don’t try to carry your burden alone. Come unto me.

Homily for the Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time January 28, 2024

Mon, 29 Jan 2024 13:16:00 GMT

One of my all-time favorite cartoons (I’ve used this before) was Dennis the Menace . One I’ll never forget has Dennis with his dog, Ruff, at his side, walking along with Margaret. Dennis is merrily pulling a red wagon, while Margaret, clutching her doll, is jabbering to the wind.

In the second panel, Dennis gives his dog Ruff a side-long glance while Margaret’s prattle continues. However, she is now speaking directly into Dennis’ ear.

The third scene shows Margaret wildly pelting Dennis with her doll saying, “Dennis, you’re not listening to me when I’m talking with you.”

The final panel has Dennis turning toward Margaret saying, “Margaret, I’m listening to you, it’s just that I’m not paying any attention.”

In the gospel today, Jesus seems to have everyone’s attention. The people are amazed because he “taught them as one having authority and not as the scribes.” In other words, he’s not quoting Rabbi So-and-so, or religious authority what’s his name. He’s speaking on his own authority, with the authority of God.

Furthermore, the passage says that even the so-called “unclean spirits” are paying attention to Jesus, asking, “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us?” And in their case, they seem to know, even ahead of the people, precisely who Jesus is: “I know who you are—the Holy One of God!”

At this the people ask one another, “What is this? A new teaching with authority. He commands even the unclean spirits and they obey him.” And we’re told that Jesus’ “fame spread throughout the region.”

So, unlike Dennis the Menace, who’s paying no attention to what’s being said, everybody in today’s Gospel is definitely listening—and paying attention.

What about us? Are we listening? And, more importantly, are we paying attention? What does it take for what we hear really to sink in?

Many years ago, there was one time in an English class in which I had not paid attention, and evidently neither had anyone else, because the teacher announced, “OK, we’re having a surprise quiz.” Believe me, after that, I paid attention in that class.

When it comes to more ultimate things, like God or our eternal destiny, I found through much of my life, I simply breezed along, taking a lot of things for granted. There were certainly times when life shook me, such as when my father died suddenly when I was sixteen years old. Then, four years ago, when I was in the hospital at Christmas time with a serious infection, and they weren’t sure if I was going to live—well then, I was really paying attention. God was the most real he’d ever been, and he had my full attention.

I think this is rather normal. From what I’ve read, and from my experience of talking with a lot of people in all kinds of situations over the years, that seems to be how life works. We go about our life, making all kinds of plans, doing all sorts of things large and small, taking care of most of our needs, and not worrying so much about tomorrow. Until something happens to get our attention.

To be honest, I still become deaf, I still sin, I don’t always put God first, I don’t always do God’s will. But I remember that time when I really had to pay attention. And it wasn’t bad. It was actually OK to give God control of the universe. It felt pretty good to know I was in God’s hands—not mine. I didn’t have to worry so much about the fate of the country or the world. I often forget, but it sure felt good when God had my attention and I didn’t have to sweat the small stuff. I had learned that God loved me, even when I’m not so perfect.

Homily for Christmas December 25, 2023

Wed, 27 Dec 2023 12:24:00 GMT

To probe and reflect on the essential meaning of Christmas, I want to begin with two stories…

Story #1

Once upon a cold Christmas Eve, a man sat in reflective silence before the flames flickering in the fireplace, thinking about the meaning of Christmas. “There is no point to a God who became human,” he mused. “Why would an all-powerful God want to share even one of his precious moments with the likes of us? And even if he did, why would God choose to be born in a stable? No way! The whole thing is absurd! I’m sure that if God really wanted to come down to earth, he would have chosen some other way.”

Suddenly, the man was roused from his musings by a strange sound outside. He sprang to the window and leaned on the sash. Outside he saw a gaggle of snow geese frantically honking and wildly flapping their wings amid the deep snow and frigid cold. They seemed dazed and confused. Apparently, due to exhaustion, they had dropped out of a larger flock migrating to a warmer climate.

Moved to compassion, the man bundled up and went outside. He tried to “shoo” the shivering geese into the warm garage, but the more he “shooed,” the more the geese panicked. “If they only realized that I’m trying to save them,” he thought to himself. “How can I make them understand my concern for their well-being?”

Then a thought came to him: “If for just a minute, I could become one of them, if I could become a snow goose and communicate with them in their own language, then they would know what I’m trying to do.”

In a flash of inspiration, he remembered it was Christmas Eve. A warm smile crossed his face. The Christmas story no longer seemed absurd. He visualized an ordinary-looking infant lying in a manger in a stable in Bethlehem. He understood the answer to his Christmas problem: God became one-like-us to tell us, in human terms, that we can understand, that he loves us, that he loves us right now, and that he is concerned about our well-being.

Story #2

One winter day, a little boy was standing on a grate next to a bakery, trying to keep his shoeless feet warm. A woman passing by saw the frosty-toed child and her heart ached. He had on only a lightweight jacket and no shoes, and the air was chilly, the wind sharp.

“Where are your shoes, young man?” she asked. The boy reluctantly admitted that he didn’t have any. “Why don’t you come with me and we’ll see what we can do about that?” the woman said. Taking his hand, she led him into a nearby department store and bought him a new pair of shoes and a warm jacket.

When they came back out onto the street, the little boy was so excited that he immediately started to run off to show his family his gifts. Suddenly he halted, turned around and ran back to the woman. He thanked her and then asked, “Ma’am, could I ask you a question? Ma’am, are you God’s wife?”

The woman smiled and said, “Oh, no, I’m not God’s wife, just one of God’s children.”

The little boy grinned and nodded enthusiastically, “I knew it! I just knew you were related!”

----------------------------

The point of these two stories? Love. Christmas is the celebration of what is called “incarnation” or enfleshment—God taking on human flesh so that God could show us, on our own terms, how much God loves us and wants us to be filled with joy by following his teaching and his example.

And the point of the second story? Also love. You can understand the meaning of Christmas in theoretical terms. But you can’t show love theoretically. Love doesn’t go walking down the street abstractly. Love needs incarnation! Love needs to be lived. Love needs to be given flesh. It is only when we do that, can we say that Christmas is real for us. Not just an idea. Not just a warm, nostalgic feeling. Not just an image on a Christmas card. Christmas needs to be made real by the ways in which we make love incarnate. The birth of Jesus, then, is not just a memory. It is a model, a pattern, for us to imitate by showing love in the flesh. That’s how the world will know that we and God are related. Like Jesus, we are one of God’s children.

Homily for the Second Sunday of Advent December 12, 2023

Wed, 13 Dec 2023 11:33:00 GMT

A Greek philosopher and teacher ended a lecture by asking, “Are there any questions?” One student asked, “Dr. Papaderos, what is the meaning of life?” Some laughter followed, and some started to leave, but the professor held up his hand, saw that the question was meant as a serious one, and said, “I will answer your question.”

Then taking out his wallet, he fished out a very small, round mirror, about the size of a quarter. Then he said, “When I was a child, during the war, we were poor and lived in a remote village. One day, on the road, I found several broken pieces of a mirror from a wrecked German motorcycle. I tried to find all the pieces and put them back together, but it was not possible, so I kept only the largest piece. This one. And by scratching it on a stone I made it round.

“I began to play with it as a toy and became fascinated by the fact that I could reflect light into dark places where the sun would never shine—in deep holes and crevices and dark closets. It became a game for me to get light into the most inaccessible places I could find. I kept the little mirror, and as I went about my growing up, I would take it out in idle moments and continue the challenge of the game. As I became a man, I grew to understand that this was not just a child’s game, but a metaphor for what I might do with my life . I came to understand that I am not the light or the source of light. But light—truth, understanding, knowledge—is there, and it will only shine in many dark places if I reflect it.

“I am a fragment of a mirror whose whole design and shape I do not know. Nevertheless, with what I have, I can reflect light into the dark places of this world—into the dark places in the hearts of people—and change some things in some people. Perhaps others may see and do likewise. That is what I am about . This is the meaning of my life.

In two of our readings today we find biblical characters who lived in dark times. Isaiah the ancient prophet was announcing comfort for his people, who had been defeated and driven into exile, forced to live far from their native land. And John the Baptist started preaching to people at a time when they were being oppressed by the occupying Roman army, being forced to pay tribute in the form of taxes and receiving very little in return.

Isaiah and John try to shine light into the darkness of the lives of people they loved. A light that originated in God, and in what God was about to do: in one case, to allow the people to return to their native home from which they had been exiled; and in the other, to announce the coming of a Savior.

What I find especially intriguing about the Greek professor’s story was that he was using an object of war—part of a smashed mirror of a German motorcycle—and crafting it into a source of new light. And he saw that as his calling: to acknowledge that there is indeed darkness in the world and in the human heart, but not to be defeated by that darkness. Rather, his job was to allow the light to bring hope, new meaning, compassion, and the enlightenment of faith.

The Gospel reading for Christmas Day is the marvelous prologue of the Gospel of John. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came to be through him, and without him nothing came to be. What came to be through him was life, and this life was the light of the human race; the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

This was the message of Isaiah, and John the Baptist, and the Greek professor. And now, the message is handed over to us. We are called to be messengers of light, proclaiming that, no matter how dark our world may be, with all the wars, all the violence, all the hatred and division, all the political corruption, all the oppression and greed: in the midst of all that, there is light. We did not create the light, but we are called to reflect it, to bring it into the little nooks and crannies where we live, with the conviction: “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

Let’s not sit in the dark. Let’s not be afraid of the dark. Let’s not be overpowered by the dark. Jesus Christ, the mighty one proclaimed by the Baptist, is real; he lives in us; we are his servants. And we dare to believe and to proclaim to all the frightened hearts of our world: “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness will not overcome it.”

Homily for the First Sunday of Advent December 3, 2023

Mon, 04 Dec 2023 12:58:00 GMT

Hoping to find a few days’ work, a traveling portrait painter stopped in a small town. One of his first clients was a person with a dirty, unshaven face and bedraggled clothes, and his breath smelled of alcohol. Nonetheless, he sat for his portrait with all the dignity he could muster. After the artist had labored a little longer than usual, he lifted the painting from the easel and presented it to the man.

“That isn’t me,” the astonished man argued as he studied the smiling, well-dressed man in the portrait.

The artist, who had looked beneath the man’s exterior appearance and seen his inner beauty and created dignity, thoughtfully replied, “But it is the person you could yet become.”

At the end of our first reading, the ancient prophet Isaiah makes the statement that God is the potter, and that we are the clay, the work of God’s hands. The beauty of the image is that a potter works with a soft material, clay, and that, if it’s not turning out just right, with an adjustment of the pressure applied, the clay can still be reshaped before it hardens into the final product.

As we begin this Season of Advent, we are in the darkest time of the year. With the beautiful autumn leaves now at an end, our world is rather dull, with a lot of gray. It’s a perfect time for reflection and introspection.

The story of the portrait painter is a reminder that, like the artist, God can see how we can still grow, and who we can still become. Like a potter, God can gently refashion us, so that we become the work of art, the priceless, one-of-a-kind treasure that we are.

Isaiah is speaking at a time when the people of his generation had forgotten their Maker. Things were not going well for them. And so there is a powerful yearning in Isaiah’s words: “O that you would rend the heavens and come down”—O that you would tear things open and make our lives better. And there is a wish that Isaiah speaks for his people, a wish that is still timely, that still applies in our day: “Would that you might meet us doing right, that we were mindful of you in our ways!”

I believe we find here a good, healthy and worthwhile map for a fruitful Advent. At Christmas, God did tear things open, God did come down from the heavens. The eternal God came among us, as Isaiah had prayed. How will we respond to that ancient, but ever-new prayer: would that you might meet us doing right, that we are mindful of you in our ways! How might the world be different, how might we be different, if only we allowed God to paint our portrait, to reshape us, so that we might be all that we might yet still become?

Homily for the Thirty-Third Sunday in Ordinary Time November 19, 2023

Mon, 20 Nov 2023 11:37:00 GMT

Three neighborhood boys, Salvator, Julio and Antonio, lived and played in Cremona, Italy, around the mid-1600s. Salvator had a beautiful tenor voice and Julio played the violin in accompaniment as they strolled the piazzas. Antonio also liked music and would have loved to sing along, but his voice squeaked like a creaky door hinge. All the children made fun of him whenever he tried to sing. Yet, Antonino was not without talent. His most prized possession was the pocketknife his grandfather had given him. He was always whittling away on some piece of wood.

One day, during a festival, the boys happened to meet a man named Amati, who happened to be a great violin maker, probably the best in all of Italy or even the entire world….Eventually, Antonio found his way to Amati’s house and knocked on the front door. When a servant opened it, the great master heard Antonio’s squeaky voice and came to see what he wanted so early in the morning.

“I brought these for you to see, sir,” replied Antonio, as he emptied his pockets of the assortment of items that he had carved. “I hope you will look at these and tell me if I have enough talent to learn how to make violins, too.” Amati asked the boy, “And why do you want to make violins?” Antonio replied, “Because I love music, but I cannot sing with a voice that sounds like a squeaky door hinge.” The great violin maker then said, “The thing that matters most is the song in the heart. There are many ways of making music—some people play the violin, others sing, still others paint wonderful pictures. Each helps to add to the splendor of the world. You are a whittler, but your song shall be as noble as any.”

Antonio apprenticed himself to Amati and, over a period of several years, learned every aspect of violin making. Then, when he was good enough at it, he labored many years, making 1,100 violins, trying to make each one better than the one before. Antonio’s last name was Stradivari, and anyone who owns a Stradivarius violin owns a true treasure.

With the story Jesus tells in today’s Gospel, he invites his followers to use the gifts they have received from God. Not everyone receives the same gift—for that would make for a very boring world. But those who dared to use their gifts productively are praised. It is the one who hid his gift out of fear that is condemned.

The Stradivarius story reminds us that even someone who has a voice like a squeaky door hinge still has something to offer the world. As the great Amati said, there was a song in his heart that needed expression, according to his God-given gift, even though it was different, and perhaps less obvious, than that of his two friends.

The point is that our God has blessed us. Written into our very being is some song in our hearts, as it were, some gift, some talent, that is meant to be used, to be invested for the betterment, not only of oneself, but of others. Our gift is not meant to be selfishly guarded, buried, or hidden away for safe keeping.

Our gifts are varied, different—not necessarily better or worse than anyone else’s, but unique, especially tailor-made for us by God. It can be as simple as being compassionate, willing to spend time with a lonely person, sending a note of encouragement to someone who is suffering, taking a coat out of our closet to share with someone who has none, making a child feel special because someone cares.

It’s as if God has placed a song in our heart, and it is meant to add to the beauty of life, the harmony of existence, the symphony of love. It is meant to be used, to be let out, for others to benefit, to be enjoyed—indeed, to make a difference.

Homily for the Thirty-First Sunday of the Year November 12, 2023

Mon, 13 Nov 2023 14:54:00 GMT

I came across an intriguing story told by a monk who lived many hundreds of years ago:

A middle-aged woman went to a distant monastery for her first weekend retreat in many years. When she arrived at the guest house one of the monks approached her and surprised her with a brusque question, “Why not?”

“That was the first thing he said,” she relates. “He had never seen me before. I hadn’t even said a word. ‘Why not?’” he questioned. “I knew he had me. After all, he was the retreat master.”

“I brought up excuses: It was a long trip…I’m tired…the kids…the people I have to work with…not enough time…I guess it’s my temperament.”

The retreat master took a long sword off the wall and gave it to the woman. “Here, with this sword, you can cut through any barriers you have.” She took the sword and slipped away without saying another word.

Back in her room, alone, she sat down and kept looking at that sword. She knew that what he said was true. She murmured, “How can I live without my excuses?”

With the story Jesus tells, we are invited to use the gift of time wisely, to be prepared, to think ahead, and to make sure we have what we need to successfully complete our journey through this life. Jesus says, “Stay awake, for you know neither the day nor the hour.” Think ahead, and make sure you have enough oil for your lamps.

How do we use time, which is a precious gift? It’s so easy to waste time, to spend it on things that really are unimportant, to worry about it, to have good intentions but not follow through, to use it only for ourselves…how do we use time?

Our Gospel readings during the past few weeks have been building, one after another. Remember, when Jesus was asked what is the greatest of all commandments, he boiled it all down to love—love of God above all else; and love of neighbor as yourself. Love is the oil that keeps our lamps burning brightly, that enables us to bring light to our world.

As daylight becomes shorter at this time of year, it reminds me that there is a lot of darkness in our world—plenty to pray about, plenty to do something about. Many people are caught up in wars raging in various parts of the world. Many live in dire poverty. There is an epidemic of loneliness. Some are dealing with serious illness or relational problems. We can’t change the world, but we can notice those in our own community who lack the basic necessities. I’m so proud of all that our parish is doing…bringing in food for Community Meals and MCSM, providing backpacks and school supplies for area children, donating winter clothing to help keep our neighbors warm. In doing these things, we are building up the Kingdom of God on this earth, we are adding to the light shining in the darkness, giving hope, showing that someone cares, using our time wisely—in short, being prepared for the Lord’s coming, rather than constantly making excuses, replenishing the oil in our lamps, always ready for whatever love requires.

As we gather for the celebration of the Eucharist, week after week, we reflect on the wisdom that the Scripture readings offer, and we receive nourishment from our loving God. That’s how we make sure that we don’t run out of life-giving light for the darkness in our world.

Homily for the Thirty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time November 5, 2023

Mon, 06 Nov 2023 13:43:00 GMT

I have two stories today to help us reflect on today’s Gospel reading…

Here’s the second story…

The late great conductor Leonard Bernstein once was asked which instrument in the orchestra was the most difficult to play.

The maestro gave a surprising answer. “Second fiddle,” he said promptly. “I can get plenty of first violinists. But to find someone to play second fiddle with enthusiasm—that’s a problem. Yet, if there is no one to play second fiddle, there is no harmony.”

At the end of today’s Gospel, Jesus teaches, “The greatest among you must be your servant. Whoever exalts himself will be humbled; but whoever humbles himself will be exalted.” The great Dr. Schweitzer humbled himself, not only on that day when he helped the woman in Chicago, but throughout his life. Similarly, the humble second violin adds depth and beauty to some of the world’s greatest music.

And when you think about it, wasn’t Jesus himself a “sermon walking?” He, the “greatest” among us, humbled himself, serving others, lifting up those who were bowed down, healing, tirelessly teaching, washing his disciples’ feet, and even laying down his life out of love for his friends. And he, who humbled himself, was indeed exalted by the Father, for Jesus was raised from the dead, and is the source of eternal life, the hope of those who are beaten down and cast aside, the inspiration for those who dare to be like him—in short, a “sermon walking.”

Something to think about throughout the coming week: “Whoever exalts himself will be humbled; but whoever humbles himself will be exalted.”

Homily for the Twenty-Second Sunday of the Year September 3, 2023

Tue, 05 Sep 2023 17:34:00 GMT

Charles M. Schwab was an American steel magnate. Under his leadership Bethlehem Steel became the second largest manufacturer of steel. One day Schwab found himself in court, where he won a nuisance law suit. He was seventy years old at the time.

Schwab asked the judge for permission to speak. He made the following statement: “I’d like to say here in a court of law and speaking as an old man, that nine-tenths of my troubles are traceable to my being kind to others. Look, you young people, if you want to steer away from trouble, be hard-boiled. Be quick with a good loud ‘No’ to anyone and everyone. If you follow this rule, you will seldom be bothered as you tread life’s pathways. Except you’ll have no friends, you’ll be lonely and you won’t have any fun.”

Schwab, from the world of business, made the same point in his own unique way as did Jesus in today’s gospel: Whoever wishes to save his life [holding on, grasping, thinking only of self] must lose it, but whoever loses his life [loving others, humbly serving, caring for the weak and less fortunate, not putting yourself at the center of the universe] for my sake will find it.”

Think about it! When have you felt most happy, most fulfilled, most hopeful? In my experience it has been when I tried my best to help others, even if I’m inconvenienced, even when I’m not feeling on top of the world, even if the other person (in my mind) doesn’t particularly deserve it. You can start the day feeling completely miserable; but as soon as you do something for someone who is worse off, everything changes! You feel like you have a purpose, that you’ve made a difference. And no one else in the world needs to know about it, because you feel that you and God are on the same page, in sync with each other, knowing that this is why you were created.

The great author C. S. Lewis had a dramatic way of putting it. He wrote, “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will be unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable…”

Or, again, as Jesus put it, “Whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.”

Homily for the Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time August 20, 2023

Tue, 22 Aug 2023 16:04:00 GMT

There is a story of a young girl who was depressed because she was not beautiful. She was discouraged, but as she grew older, her attitude changed. “I realized that not being beautiful was actually a blessing in disguise,” she said. “It forced me to develop inner resources and strength. I came to understand that women who can’t lean on their beauty must work harder to have an advantage.”

That young girl, named Gola Meir, went on to become the first woman prime minister of Israel. She not only accepted herself, but rejoiced in who she was.

Now, we’ll get back to the story, but first I want to talk about Jesus in today’s gospel. For those who have come to know and appreciate Jesus as a loving Savior, this gospel is disturbing. He apparently shows prejudice in the demeaning and belittling way in which he talks to this woman.

Now, Scripture scholars have come up with theories as to what’s going on in this passage, and why it’s even in the Gospel! Some say that, at first, Jesus’ mission was indeed limited to the Jewish people, and only later did it spread out to non-Jews. Others argue that Jesus was simply testing the woman’s faith, to see how much she believed in him and his power to save. Others suggest that this passage relates to a story Jesus tells about the need for perseverance in prayer. He said that there was a needy woman who was not given her rights by a corrupt judge. She hounded him day and night. At first, he even refused to acknowledge her. But finally, he concluded that the widow was going to do something violent to him, so he responded affirmatively to her need. Jesus concludes that, if a corrupt judge can take care of someone who perseveres, how much more this is the case with God, who is just and compassionate. So, the point of the story is to persevere in prayer, to ask and we shall receive, to seek and we shall find, to knock and the door will be opened.

But now I turn back to the woman who has this encounter with Jesus, as described by Matthew. First, she appears to know exactly who Jesus is and what he can do, calling him “Lord, Son of David.” Then, we learn that she’s not asking for herself; she’s seeking healing of her daughter. And, when Jesus is not receptive, she continues, arguing with Jesus toe to toe—using humility and humor (“even the dogs eat the scraps that fall from the table of their masters”).

Now, as I read this gospel, I find myself admiring this woman, who is like a first-century version of Golda Meir. She’s got spunk, she’s got spirit, she’s used to arguing her point of view, and she prevails. And Jesus marvels, rejoices and celebrates what he sees as the defining characteristic of this woman: “O woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.” And the whole episode teaches two important points. First, Jesus has the power to heal (“And the woman’s daughter was healed from that hour”). And second, salvation can no longer be limited to only one group, one ethnicity, one color, one political orientation. Most importantly, it will not be limited to the people who are beautiful and perfect and self-satisfied in their own righteousness. From this point forward, these barriers are smashed, and we Christians are called, not to build walls to separate the deserving from the undeserving. We are called to go beyond the boundaries (Jesus went to Tyre and Sidon—which would fall in modern- day Lebanon). We are called to build bridges. And if the bridges feel hard to build, we have the example of this nameless woman in today’s gospel, this first-century Golda Meir.

Homily for the Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time August 13, 2023

Mon, 14 Aug 2023 12:11:00 GMT

To begin, I want to share a couple of stories. The first comes from an ancient tradition concerning the Exodus of the Israelites out of Egypt. Picture the scene of the Hebrew nation led by Moses, fleeing from slavery and bondage. Their Exodus is stopped on the shores of the Sea, and the people are glancing back over their shoulders. God has promised them liberation and freedom. They know that and they believe it, but now they are standing on the shore of the sea and Pharaoh’s army is in hot pursuit.

Moses raises his arms and voice in prayer for God to lead his people to safety. He gestures with his staff over the water, but nothing happens. Indeed, nothing happens until the first person actually steps into the water and shows, through that simple act, that he has faith in God’s promise of salvation. When that first step of courage is taken, the sea parts, and the people cross over into freedom and liberation.

The second story is a more modern one, taken from the popular Star Wars movies. Those of you who have seen the films will remember the scene in which our hero, Luke Skywalker, has crash-landed his starship. He is seeking a Jedi master named Yoda to teach him the ways of becoming a Jedi warrior. Luke wants to free the galaxy from the oppression of the evil tyrant, Darth Vader.

So Yoda reluctantly agrees to help Luke and begins by teaching him how to lift rocks with his mental powers. Then, one day, Yoda tells Luke to lift his spaceship out of the swamp, where it sank after a crash landing. Luke complains that lifting rocks is one thing, but lifting a star-fighter spaceship is quite another matter. Yoda insists. Luke manages a valiant effort but fails in the attempt.

Yoda then focuses his mind, and lifts out the ship with ease. Luke, dismayed, exclaims, “I don’t believe it!” “That’s why you couldn’t lift it,” Yoda replied. “You didn’t believe you could.”

In our gospel reading we find incredible events being described—events that are so incredible that it’s hard to believe they happened. Jesus comes toward the boat, walking on the water of the sea. And Peter, much like young Luke Skywalker, challenges the master to enable him to do what Jesus is doing.

Jesus invites him to step out of the boat and to walk toward him. And for a while, it actually works. Peter is able to walk on the water, just as his master is doing. It works as long as he has his focus on Jesus and trusts in his power and his word. But then, he notices the improbability and the danger of his situation. Instead of keeping his eyes on Jesus, he notices the threatening nature of the storm—and he begins to sink. Jesus asks him why he doubts and what happened to his faith. But in that moment of fear and panic, Peter at least knows that he can cry to Jesus for help, and he is rescued.

Now, this gospel scene takes place in a very privileged situation, in the very presence of the Lord Jesus. I, personally, have never imagined myself trying to walk on water. But there’s a lesson for us here, nonetheless. There’s a whole slew of research that shows that our frame of mind makes a huge difference. If we strive to see our world in a hopeful way, with gratitude, and a desire to serve others with compassion, our mood becomes more positive. If we have a basic feeling of trust in God, knowing that, ultimately, we are in God’s hands, that kind of faith can free us from worry and paralyzing fear.

It is interesting to note that, for Jesus, the opposite of love was not necessarily hate. Rather it was fear fueled by doubt. How many times in the gospels he made statements like that to Peter: “Where is your faith?” To those who experienced healing, Jesus would most often say, “Your faith has made you well.” In his teaching, Jesus pointed to the birds of the air and the wildflowers: far less important in the scheme of things, they nonetheless are cared for by God. Not a single bird falls to the ground, he said, without God knowing it.

In the case of the Hebrew people at the time of the Exodus, it took one step of faith and courage to open the path to freedom. And in the case of Luke Skywalker, it required a belief in himself and his potential, a trust in the goodness and power of the universe to overcome the threat of evil through the power of love.

So…if you find yourself up to your neck in water, or in a frightening mess of one sort of another, how do you respond? There are, of course, things that are beyond our control. But our attitude, our sense of trust, our belief in the providence of God: these are the gifts our God offers us. Think of it: Jesus went to his death on the cross, still trusting that if only God’s will were being done, all would be well in the end. That most horrendous act of suffering and death became the most glorious doorway to our sharing in the life of God for all eternity—all because Jesus chose to trust rather than fear. And he invites us to summon our courage and to maintain our trust, even when we are challenged or threatened, and our very lives are at stake. He is there to help if, like Peter, we remember to seek that help.

Homily for the Feast of the Transfiguration August 6, 2023

Mon, 07 Aug 2023 11:25:00 GMT

A man was walking out in the desert when a voice said to him, “Pick up some pebbles and put them in your pocket, and tomorrow you will be both sorry and glad.”

The man obeyed. He stooped down and picked up a handful of pebbles and put them into his pocket. The next morning he reached into his pocket and found diamonds, rubies and emeralds. He was both glad and sorry. Glad that he had picked up some pebbles, and sorry that he hadn’t picked up more.

I want to put that together with another story I read. A young Baptist woman, while taking a course in Catholic theology, recorded in her journal her reactions to the Easter vigil service she attended with a few other students.

“I went to Mass tonight. I am not a Catholic, but I was really wanting to join in fellowship and to praise God, so I went. I thought that, since it was Easter time, it would be an exciting Mass, with exciting people. But I sat and kept waiting for the excitement that never came. Even the priest wasn’t excited. He read the prayers….And the people surely were not excited—they rushed through everything just to get it done, then rushed out of church. Even communion was rushed and seemed to be listless.

“Come on, people! Jesus is alive! He died and rose again. So can we too. I think that’s exciting! I don’t know what it is, but the people at Mass tonight seemed to miss the whole thing…”

In our Gospel reading we have some words that the chosen disciples heard while they were on the mountain: “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased; listen to him.”

Each and every time we gather for Mass, we have readings from God’s word in the Bible. Some readings may strike us more than others, some may capture our attention, while others go over our heads, or in one ear and out the other. But as I think about the story of the man in the desert, and apply it to us, I feel that each time we come to church and listen and reflect on God’s word, it’s like we’re putting pebbles into our pockets. They may not seem very exciting, or even pertinent to our situation at the moment. But I believe that these pebbles of wisdom, as humble as they are, can turn into diamonds, rubies and emeralds. Now what do I mean by that?

When something happens in our life that really grabs our attention: we have a health crisis, someone we love gets sick and dies, someone disappoints us and breaks our heart, we have a serious financial problem or lose a job: It’s in those situations that the pebbles we’ve picked up along the way can become precious gems that reveal their wisdom, their truth, or their comfort.

As to the Baptist woman’s impression of us Catholics, she just may be right. We tend not to be overly or overtly excited. Maybe it’s because we were taught that coming to Mass was serious business, and that we should act with respect, dignity and decorum. But the Baptist woman makes me wonder: Do we believe that the word of God is good news? Does it change our outlook, our sense of meaning and hope, does it bring us the promise of joy, even in difficult times? In a fast-moving, often stressful and sometimes disappointing world, does listening to God’s beloved Son make a difference?

So, what we do here can seem repetitive and boring. The preaching can leave us listless and dull. It may seem that all we’re doing, week after week, is picking up a bunch of pebbles. But, when we need it the most, do not at least some of the pebbles turn into diamonds of insight, rubies of comfort, and emeralds of joy?

And, if you find your spiritual pockets are giving you some real gems that matter, why not share your gratitude, let others know what God is doing in your life, and ask them to come to listen to God’s beloved Son along with you, so that their pebbles can turn to gems, too?

Homily for the Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time July 16, 2023

Mon, 17 Jul 2023 12:02:00 GMT

One day, a farmer was out in his pumpkin patch. The tiny pumpkins were just beginning to form. So the farmer took a small bottle and stuffed one of the budding pumpkins into it to see how it would fare. Sometime later, when the harvest was ready, the farmer had huge pumpkins as far as the eye could see. He then checked his pumpkin in the bottle and found that the bud had developed, but instead of becoming a full-size pumpkin, it was totally confined to the bottle, which it totally filled. The pumpkin didn’t have the ability to break through the glass and develop into a fully mature pumpkin.

When we read through the gospels, one of the striking things we note is that, when Jesus tells one of his stories, some people get the point, respond, and change their lives accordingly. Others, however, hear the same stories and either ignore them or become angry with Jesus because he is threatening their little, comfortable world. It’s as if they’re trapped inside their limited mind and heart—like the pumpkin bud that was trapped inside the bottle.

So, the point for Jesus’ audiences then, and for us now, is: what kind of receptivity we have, and how much productivity we realize as a consequence of hearing God’s word.

In the explanation of the story, Jesus gives us a kind of examination of conscience to enable us to discern how productive we are, and what kinds of things might stand in the way of our realizing a bountiful spiritual and life-giving harvest.

First, there is the “evil one” that steals the vulnerable seed of faith. The evil one may be the devil, but it could be an unhealthy influence—someone who comes along like the snake in the story of Adam and Eve. “That apple you’re not supposed to touch…it looks pretty good, doesn’t it? And if it’s good, God wouldn’t really want you to be deprived. So the forbidden fruit isn’t really forbidden, is it?” Under the spell of such advice, we can act in a way contrary to our faith and values.

Then, the seed sown on rocky ground…some setback, some suffering, some “tribulation” as Jesus calls it comes along. You get a bad medical diagnosis, a relationship you treasure starts falling apart, you run out of money toward the end of the month and never can make ends meet, life just treats you unfairly after you’ve tried to be honest and good … and God gets the blame. We either become angry with God, or we refuse to believe that God even exists.

The seed sown among thorns gets “choked” by the desire for the things the world offers, the desire for a better life with more “stuff.” Being possessed by our possessions, giving our hearts to things we don’t really need while much of the world is starving, our perspectives change. Compassionate hearts can become stony hearts, closed off from others, impervious to Jesus’ teaching, and ultimately separating us from God.

In all these ways we can become like the pumpkin growing in a bottle, closed off from the rest of the world and spiritually stunted, never realizing our full potential. So…when we come to God in prayer, or when we gather for the Eucharist, preparation matters. If our minds and hearts are preoccupied, distracted, or closed, how can the seeds of faith, hope and love receive any nourishment from their creator? The soil of our hearts needs to be softened to receive the seed; it has to be nourished, fertilized and watered; the competing weeds must be pulled out when they are still small enough. Our ears need to be open, our minds calm, and our hearts ready and focused to receive all that our God wants to give us. In other words, this table of the Eucharist isn’t like a drive-thru McDonalds; it’s not a snack bar where you can sit by yourself at the counter and read the newspaper or check your emails. No, this is a banquet with the best, most satisfying menu in the world—if only we are predisposed, ready, hungry, starving for a fully satisfying and productive life.

Homily for the Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time July 2, 2023

Wed, 05 Jul 2023 10:06:00 GMT

The following story comes from the time of the Persian Gulf War, about the resistance efforts in Kuwait. Najeeb Bastaki, a twenty-four year old Kuwaiti living in Kuwait City, was a member of the Kuwaiti resistance. But he told a reporter, “The word resistance doesn’t mean I carried a gun and fought and killed. What we did mostly was get food and money to families who needed it.

“The system worked like this: every week, resistance workers would meet at a secret point and collect rice, sugar, butter and other food staples from the main food co-ops. At night or early in the morning, the resistance members would fan out around the city, delivering to designated homes a ‘main store’—a shipment of ten sacks of rice, fifty kilograms of sugar, cans of butter and so on. Each home that accepted a delivery was responsible for distributing the food to nine neighboring houses.

“Money was distributed on a more informal basis. It is our way that no one in need should ever know who gives the money. So if you knew a family that needed money, you would just slip out of the house early in the morning and put an envelope under the door...The wealthy people did this. I myself have money, so I did it. I gave away about $10,000.”

The reporter comments that in the midst of the horrors surrounding them, the Kuwaitis became a community. Through sacrifice, generosity and selfless service, they “resisted” the evil around them.

More recently, during the war in Ukraine, there are similar stories of selfless courage. Adrian shares the story of Vasyl*, a Ukranian who drove his extended family across the border into Romania.

A local partner helped them to find a host family, who welcomed them into their home. But as soon as his family was settled, Vasyl returned to Ukraine. He has been filling up his van with supplies to distribute to anyone in need. ‘His sacrifice is inspiring,’ says Adrian. ‘It takes a committed heart and deep trust in the Lord to be able to make these kinds of choices which put the needs of the others above your own.’

There are countless stories like these: stories of hope, of human kindness and of God’s provision in the midst of pain and loss. But the war rages on and the future is uncertain. Those working daily to assist the people of Ukraine ask that we pray for the war-ravaged people of that nation.

One of the local churches sent this message: ‘We continue to do what we were called to do as a church: serve the people and preach the gospel. What it means to serve people is now very clear – to respond to their needs. And the needs are also clear: to be near, to listen, to encourage, to cry together, to clothe, feed, heal, take into the house and into the heart. But in order to share all this, you must always be strong, filled and ready to give, to sacrifice.’

As we approach the celebration of our nation’s Independence Day, we recall stories of courage, of common, ordinary people who decided they didn’t want to be bullied anymore. And so they took up arms against one of the strongest military in the world at that time; they endured hardship, never quite having the arms and supplies they needed; many nearly starved and froze to death.

I share these stories, not to glorify war or to exalt violence. We’ll leave that to God and history. But what I am doing is providing some examples of courageous people who dared to serve their neighbors in need, or a cause greater than themselves. In today’s gospel Jesus calls for that kind of courage and self-sacrifice through teaching that sounds like a contradiction. “Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.”

Do you remember the story of the Good Samaritan? Jesus describes the plight of a man on a dangerous stretch of road. The man gets beaten up, robbed and left half-dead on the side of the road. Two religious guys walk by and do nothing. But a despised foreigner, a Samaritan, is moved to pity at the sight, and dares to do something. So, what Jesus is basically saying to us is this: Don’t just sit there! When something needs to be done, do it! It takes courage to resist evil, or not to be part of the silent crowd that sees injustice and does nothing about it. You don’t have to wait for war to come your way; there are all kinds of people who are desperate for help. Jesus asks that we inconvenience ourselves, stop thinking only of ourselves, and do something to make life better for someone in need. It doesn’t have to be dramatic: look around, there are people who are lonely, people being neglected, people who don’t have enough food. Lose yourself by helping these people and you will find life, you will find God. Remember what Jesus says: “Whoever gives only a cup of cold water will surely not lose his reward.”

Celebrating Life that Never Dies Homily for the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ

Mon, 12 Jun 2023 11:00:00 GMT

On this Feast that asks us to focus on the Eucharist, on the Body and Blood of Christ, I want to take us back in our imaginations to March 27, 2020. It was the height of the Covid pandemic. People were dying, often alone, apart from even their families. We were told to isolate, and we experienced a mutual fear, wondering whether or not we would survive.

It was on March 27, 2020 that Pope Francis offered a blessing to the world from the entrance to St. Peter’s Basilica—a blessing to an empty St. Peter’s Square, a blessing to a frightened world. But in a very dramatic gesture, he did not bless only with his hand, or only with his voice. Instead, he used a monstrance, a kind of artistic display case that houses the Eucharistic Lord. Pope Francis blessed with the most profound, most powerful blessing he could think of—a blessing of Jesus himself, fully present, mysteriously present in a consecrated, round piece of bread.

Pope Francis’ message that day focused on the story of Jesus and his disciples crossing a sea in a boat. While Jesus sleeps in the stern, a severe storm arises, and the disciples fear for their very lives. They wake Jesus up, crying out in panic, “Teacher, does it not matter to you that we are going to drown?” Jesus, don’t you care? My God, don’t you care? (Mark 4:35-41)

Let me share some of Pope Francis’ teaching at that perilous moment. “When evening had come’…The Gospel passage we have just heard begins like this. For weeks now it has been evening. Thick darkness has gathered over our squares, our streets and our cities; it has taken over our lives, filling everything with a deafening silence and a distressing void, that stops everything as it passes by; we feel it in the air, we notice in people’s gestures, their glances give them away. We find ourselves afraid and lost….

When he [Jesus] wakes up, after calming the wind and the waters, he turns to the disciples in a reproaching voice: “Why are you afraid? Have you no faith?”….

Lord, you are calling to us, calling us to faith. Which is not so much believing that you exist, but coming to you and trusting in you….You are calling us to seize this time of trial as a time of choosing. It is not the time of your judgment, but of our judgment: a time to choose what matters and what passes away, a time to separate what is necessary from what it is not. It is a time to get our lives back on track with regard to you, Lord, and to others….

Faith begins when we realize we are in need of salvation. We are not self-sufficient; by ourselves we founder; we need the Lord, like ancient navigators needed the stars. Let us invite Jesus into the boats of our lives. Let us hand over our fears to him so that he can conquer them. Like the disciples, we will experience that with him on board there will be no shipwreck. Because this is God’s strength: turning to the good everything that happens to us, even the bad things. He brings serenity into our storms, because with God life never dies.

With God life never dies….With that faith, the Holy Father then blessed the empty St. Peter’s Square and a frightened world with the Eucharistic Lord. With God life never dies: Pope Francis could not think of a better blessing or a better reassurance.

This is the Eucharistic reassurance that Jesus gives in today’s Gospel. Listen again with the ears of your heart:

Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him on the last day. For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me and I in him. Just as the living Father sent me and I have life because of the Father, so also the one who feeds on me will have life eternal because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven. Unlike your ancestors who ate and still died, whoever eats this bread will live forever.

With God life never dies! Again, listen to the words of Pope Francis: Lord, your word strikes us and regards us, all of us. In this world, that you love more than we do, we have gone ahead at breakneck speed, feeling powerful and able to do anything. Greedy for profit, we let ourselves get caught up in things, and lured away by haste. We did not stop at your reproach to us, we were not shaken awake by wars or injustice across the world, nor did we listen to the cry of the poor or of our ailing planet. We carried on regardless, thinking we would stay healthy in a world that was sick….

Lord, may you bless the world, give health to our bodies and comfort our hearts. You ask us not to be afraid. Yet our faith is weak and we are fearful. But you, Lord, will not leave us at the mercy of the storm. Tell us again: “Do not be afraid.”

On this Feast of the Eucharist, let us open our hearts to God’s richest blessings, as we remember that with God life never dies.

Homily for the Solemnity of the Holy Trinity June 4, 2023

Wed, 07 Jun 2023 11:03:00 GMT

I have found delight in a story about a famous, very old organ. A well-known organist was performing a concert on the huge antique organ. Since it was not electrified, for this organ to play, there was a boy behind a screen who had to hand pump a bellows to create the air to go through the pipes. The first part of the concert was well received. At the intermission the organist received a long, standing ovation. He then walked behind the organ, and as he passed by, the boy said, “We played well, didn’t we. The organist responded rather haughtily, “What do you mean, we ?”

After the intermission, the organist returned to the keyboard console and began to play. But nothing happened; not a single note would play. Then, the organist heard a voice from behind the organ: “Say, mister, now do you know what we means?”

This Feast of the Holy Trinity celebrates a central belief of our faith, that God is a community of three persons, but only one God. This belief is so central that we begin our prayer, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” We baptize, welcoming adults and children into the community of the Church, “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

To guide our reflection, I think the boy behind the organ asked a good question: Do we know what we means? Do we cherish relationships, with God and with each other?

I found some interesting advice from Pope Francis, who, during a pastoral trip to the nation of Hungary, met with some young people. This is part of his remarks. “Jesus believes in you and is able to bring out the best in you. He constantly invites you to be a team player, never alone but with others: this is very important. If you want to mature and grow in life, always be a team player, in the community, sharing your experiences with others….Nowadays there is a temptation to be satisfied with a cell phone and a few friends. What a pity! Even if many people are willing to settle for that, or even if you are, it is not good or healthy. You cannot shut yourselves away in small groups of friends, talking only on your cell phone. To do so—allow me to say it—is somewhat stupid.” Pretty blunt words, are they not?

According to a U.S. Surgeon General’s Advisory, entitled Social Media and Youth Mental Health , there are certainly positive aspects of social media, such as community and connection, access to important information, and the creation of a space for self-expression.

But there are also dangerous and harmful effects. In a major study of youth aged 12 to 15, it was found that adolescents who spend more than three hours per day on social media faced double the risk of poor mental health outcomes such as depression and anxiety. Other problems include cyberbullying-related depression, poor body image, disordered eating behaviors, and poor sleep quality, especially if youth are using social media well into the night. Extreme, inappropriate and harmful content continues to be widely accessible to adolescents. When asked about the impact of social media on their body image, nearly half (46%) of adolescents aged 13-17 said social media made them feel worse. Additionally, two-thirds of adolescents are “often” or “sometimes” exposed to hate-based content. Among adolescent girls of color, one-third or more report exposure to racist content or language. Social media platforms can expose children and adolescents to malicious actors who target young people.

Social media can stimulate changes in brain structure similar to changes seen in individuals with substance or gambling addictions. Over half of teenagers report it would be hard to give up social media. Nearly 75% of teenagers believe that technology companies manipulate users to spend more time on devices.

The concerns expressed by our Holy Father and by our Surgeon General lead me back to the young boy’s question: do you know what “we” means? And it’s a question, not just for teens, but for all of us. Those who spend crazy amounts of time at their jobs, for instance, have less time for those they say are most important to them: their families and their friends. I once saw two couples, who were on vacation, in a restaurant, having a meal together. Three of them spent most of the time on their cell phones. It made me feel sorry for the poor fourth member of the group because it seemed that the other three had found something else more important than perhaps this rare opportunity to be together.

Do we know what we means? Do we have time for each other—and for God? Are we in the real world of relationships, community and communion, or do we tend to get lost in a virtual universe? Someone once asked me if I thought that God was on face book, or if he sent text messages. We are now well past the height of the Covid pandemic, and yet are numbers here are not back to what they used to be. Some will say that they believe in spirituality, a kind of one-to-one relationship with God, but they don’t need the Church. But this is not what Jesus did throughout his ministry. He constantly built community, reaching out and building bridges to those who had been marginalized and looked down upon. He knew that we needed each other’s love and support.

Now, I have a smart phone and I’m not afraid to use it. And I don’t want to be seen as a dinosaur who opposes progress or technology. But I still want to ask if we’re losing something by giving social media such a prominent place in our lives. Are we losing something if we give too much time to our jobs, and not enough time for our family and friends? And, on this Feast when we celebrate the fact that the very nature of God is a communion of persons, a real, relationship, not a virtual one, I want to ask: do we still know what we means?

Homily for the Seventh Sunday of Easter May 21, 2023

Mon, 22 May 2023 12:19:00 GMT

There’s a fable about a scrawny tiger cub that was abandoned by it mother shortly after birth, and was raised by a friendly herd of goats. All day, every day, the cub played with the goat kids, drank the nanny’s milk, and slept in the goat’s cave.

In time the cub came to think of itself as one of the goats. It would try as hard as it could to bleat like a goat, to cultivate a taste for grass and twigs, and to leap in the air like any normal goat. But, somehow, the tiger cub could never quite get the hang of it all.

One day, a huge Bengal tiger bounded out from the trees into the clearing where the cub and the goats were playing. It let out a tremendous roar. All the goats fled in terror for cover, but, for some strange reason, the little tiger felt drawn to the magnificent animal.

The big tiger led the little tiger down to a nearby stream and suggested that the cub take a look at its reflection in the water. The cub was amazed at the sight. Then the big tiger sat back on its haunches and let out a jungle-shaking roar. “There,” it taunted, “why don’t you try to roar like that?”

The little tiger cub mimicked the big tiger, sitting back and straining as hard as it could. Eventually, it felt a whisper deep within its throat. It grew stronger and stronger, until at last, the cub opened its mouth wide and let out a jungle-shaking roar of its own. From that day forward, so the fable goes, the tiger cub knew it could never again live like a goat.

In today’s Gospel we find a rather long prayer of Jesus, a prayer that he offers before his return to the Father. He notes that his disciples will live in the world. Nevertheless, and more importantly, he prays in such a way as to make their identity clear. They belong to God, they have received God’s revelation through Jesus, and they have kept God’s word. In other words, followers of Jesus are in the world, but at the deepest level, they are not of the world.

And this, really, is the great struggle for the people throughout the long history presented in the Bible. For example, when Moses is on the mountain receiving the Ten Commandments, the people down below have formed a golden calf and begin worshipping it. Later, when they enter the Promised lLnd, they live in an area that is surrounded by pagan cultures. Israel is situated in one of the great crossroads of the world. The struggle is: how do you keep your faith, keep the Commandments, and stay true to your relationship with God?

And the same struggle is ours! We live in a world of competing ideas and competing values. How do we stay true to our deepest identity and not allow ourselves to be defined by the surrounding culture? The Bible says that we are made in the image and likeness of God. That means that God has the greatest insight into who we are; God has the greatest right to tell us, and to remind us, who we are.

The world may tell us, for example, that we are failures if we don’t make a certain amount of money, own the right kind of stuff, have the right kind of job, or look a certain way. In our throw-away culture, many of the elderly can be cast aside because they are no longer working or contributing as they once were. Many younger people agonize because they feel they don’t fit in. I could go on, but I think you get the idea.

God, however, tells us that we are a unique creation, that we are God’s beloved children. We have an innate dignity as human beings. None of us is a second-class person in God’s eyes.

But, unfortunately, we can sometimes forget who we are, and whose we are. It’s like being a tiger, but trying to live like a goat! I invite you to bring this to reflection and prayer this week. Who are you trying to be? Have you forgotten your deepest identity as a Christian and a child of God? Do you ever feel that you’re not good enough? It’s time to reclaim your identity.

Homily for the Sixth Sunday of Easter May 14, 2023

Mon, 15 May 2023 13:59:00 GMT

Every time I read a passage of Scripture, I find new insights. Parts of the text will jump out and demand my attention. In today’s Gospel, I was struck by Jesus’ promise, “I will not leave you orphans; I will come to you.”

Some time ago the advice columnist Ann Landers was asked by a reporter, “What is the question that you are asked most frequently by your readers?” She answered that it was a very simple question: “What’s the matter with me? Why am I so lonely?”

What Ann Landers was suggesting is that, while not everyone is an orphan, strictly speaking, many feel as if they are orphans.

The problem of loneliness in our society is serious enough that it led Dr. Vivek H. Murthy, Surgeon General of the United States, to issue a health advisory on loneliness. He wrote the following: When I first took office as Surgeon General in 2014, I didn’t view loneliness as a public health concern. But that was before I embarked on a cross-country listening tour, where I heard stories from my fellow Americans that surprised me. People began to tell me they felt isolated, invisible, and insignificant. Even when they couldn’t put their finger on the word “lonely,” time and time again, people of all ages and socioeconomic backgrounds, from every corner of the country, would tell me, “I have to shoulder all of life’s burdens by myself,” or “if I disappear tomorrow, no one will even notice.” It was a lightbulb moment for me: social disconnection was far more common than I had realized.

He continues, In the scientific literature, I found confirmation of what I was hearing. In recent years, about one-in-two adults in America reported experiencing loneliness. Loneliness is far more than just a bad feeling—it harms both individual and societal health. It is associated with a greater risk of cardiovascular disease, dementia, stroke, depression, anxiety, and premature death.

The Surgeon General’s conclusion? Given the profound consequences of loneliness and isolation, we have an opportunity, and an obligation, to make the same investments in addressing social connection that we have made in addressing tobacco use, obesity, and the addiction crisis.

We need to address social connection . As we celebrate Mother’s Day, I found an interesting article about motherhood in a recent edition of Our Sunday Visitor . Mary Lenaburg reflects on her experience, pointing out what helped her to overcome feelings of loneliness and isolation. She writes, It helps if you can find your people. We are not meant to be alone. We grow and thrive in community. We need help. I was a young mom on a military base where nobody’s doors were locked, and we would go to the playground with our coffee and our exhaustion, and everybody would have a baby in a sling. Sometimes we never even spoke. But we were there. And we knew that if anybody needed anything, no matter what, we would be there for each other. I had community. I had my people. I still have my people. But because of social media, people have made their tribes online. And those people are not in your life in the same way. It’s lovely to have a community online. But what’s going to happen at 3 a.m. when you need help?

What does Mary suggest? One place you find your people is at church, because you’re like-minded. Everybody there has a heart for the Lord. When you see a young mama there, go introduce yourself to her. Even if you’re an introvert just sweat it out. Do it. It might change your life. Another thing to remember is it’s not always who you think it’s going to be. It could be a bunch of young people. It could be an older couple.

Going back to Ann Landers and the most frequently asked question (Why am I so lonely?), what does Ann Landers suggest? Her answer was quite simple: “Get involved! Do something good for other people! People who need our help are all around us.”

Jesus promises in today’s gospel, “I will not leave you orphans; I will come to you.” Obviously, that can happen in prayer, as we open ourselves to deepening our relationship with the Lord. But Jesus also wisely gave us to each other. From the very start, he gathered people, he watched especially for those on the peripheries of life, those being left out—and he brought them into relationship with him and with the community he was forming .

Sometimes, if we’ve had a traumatic experience—the loss of a loved one, a health scare, job problems, the breakup of a relationship—it’s easy to close in on yourself, to choose isolation. It’s easy to shut the door and not let anyone else in. So, if we’re going to rebuild the social fabric, as the Surgeon General, Ann Landers, and the mother I quoted all suggest, it has to lead to opening doors, and building bridges, and noticing who’s absent, and thinking about someone other than ourself, and bringing all of our disappointments and all our longing to the Lord in prayer. We are not meant to be orphaned! But a great deal of releasing ourselves from orphanhood means we have to get out of ourselves, off our smartphones, off the couch, and care about each other in a community of mutual concern, compassion and connection. That’s how we overcome the loneliness of orphanhood.

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Easter April 30, 2023

Mon, 01 May 2023 15:33:00 GMT

One of my favorite parts of the newspaper is the comics section. While it is obviously true that we find humor there, I also enjoy finding the truth that is conveyed through the humor.

For example, many years ago, there was a Dennis the Menace comic strip that caught my attention. In the first panel, Dennis with his dog, Ruff, at his side, is walking along with Margaret. Dennis is merrily pulling a red wagon. Margaret, clutching her doll, is jabbering away. In the second panel, Dennis gives Ruff a sideway glance while Margaret continues to chatter along.

The third scene shows Margaret wildly pelting Dennis with her doll saying, “Dennis you’re not listening to me when I’m speaking to you.”

In the final part Dennis turns toward Margaret and says, “Margaret, I’m listening to you, it’s just that I’m not paying any attention!”

This Fourth Sunday of Easter is also called Good Shepherd Sunday because our gospel reading contains the imagery of Jesus as our shepherd. In our passage Jesus describes the intimate relationship that exists between the sheep and the shepherd. He says, “He walks ahead of them, and the sheep follow him, because they recognize his voice, as the shepherd calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. He walks ahead of them, and the sheep follow him, because they recognize his voice. But they will not follow a stranger; they will run away from him, because they do not recognize the voice of strangers.”

I think we sometimes consider some animals as kind of dumb. But I think this behavior by the sheep is quite remarkable: they know who has their best interests at heart, they know they will be brought to where the best food is, and they know they will be kept safe.

The image of Jesus as the Good Shepherd was very popular in the early Church. There are very ancient statues of Jesus with a lamb being held over his shoulders—the lost one who had strayed, was now found and feeling secure. In a threatening world in which Christianity was illegal in those first centuries, you can imagine how that image brought comfort and courage to face the challenges of life. The humble of the earth have known instinctively that they needed the Good Shepherd.

So, turning back to the Gospel: Jesus’ sheep follow him because they recognize his voice. At times, I wonder if in our modern world we give Jesus a chance to be heard. We tend to be surrounded with noise. While life on our streets isn’t as clamorous as the streets of New York, we can be uncomfortable with silence. Often, we keep the TV on in the background, even if we’re not really watching. If we have time to kill, we turn to our smartphones, check our emails, return calls, and play games. Progress brings us many blessings, but it can have adverse consequences as well. With all the noise, do we still find some silence during the day to be recollected and meditative, to pray, to spend time consciously in the presence of God, so that God can get through to us?

If we don’t, chances are pretty good that other voices do get through. Young people can follow their peers without sufficient thought, and can end up harming themselves. Advertisers are very creative at creating needs in us. Politicians often have a way of twisting the truth to their advantage. Values that are inconsistent with Jesus’ teaching can become acceptable. Cable news channels, rather than simply presenting the news, actually present the views of a particular part of the political spectrum without trying to be objective, or without verifying the truth of what they report.

If you want confirmation of what I’m saying, just think of the divisions that have been created in our society. Our elected representatives are so divided that they get little done to actually help those they are supposed to serve. Sometimes families are so divided that they cannot even talk to each other in civilized or constructive ways. Often, we end up speaking the language of hate, not love—and that is surely the one thing that the Lord most clearly forbids: hatred.

Think of the ways in which our Good Shepherd seeks to speak to us. Think of the two great commandments he taught: love God above all else, and love others as you love yourself. Think of the Sermon on the Mount, where he challenges us to love our enemies and pray for our persecutors, making us more like our heavenly Father. Jesus speaks the language of humble service, of forgiveness, of unity, of enduring love. Are we listening? Are we paying attention?

Think, also, of what our God offers:

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

In verdant pastures he gives me repose;

beside restful waters he leads me;

he refreshes my soul.

He guides me in right paths

for his name’s sake.

And the sheep hear his voice, as the shepherd calls his own sheep by name and leads them. The sheep follow him because they recognize his voice . Otherwise, they are like Dennis the Menace: listening, but not really paying any attention.

Homily for the Second Sunday of Easter April 16, 2023

Tue, 18 Apr 2023 10:07:00 GMT

Recently, as I’ve reflected on the Easter stories in the Bible, I’ve become focused on the wounds of Jesus. If Resurrection is supposed to be about healing, the overcoming of the limitations of this life, and the destruction of sin, suffering and death—then, why does the body of the risen Jesus still have wounds?

In the case of Thomas, this was precisely the proof he needed, as we have just read in today’s gospel. I consider Thomas a particularly good witness to the Resurrection because he wasn’t a pushover, he wasn’t gullible. Even though all of the others kept telling him all week long that Jesus was risen, he refused to believe. He had to see for himself.

In a recent general audience, Pope Francis offered a beautiful reflection on the wounds of Christ. He refers to the physical wounds of Jesus of which we are all aware. Then he goes on to speak of the wounds of Jesus’ soul. Jesus is “alone, betrayed, handed over and denied by his own—by his friends and even his disciples—condemned by the religious and civil powers, excommunicated. Jesus even feels abandoned by God.”

The Holy Father then goes on to reflect on the wounds that we all bear: “Who does not bear the scars of past choices, of misunderstandings, of sorrows that remain inside and are difficult to overcome? But also of wrongs suffered, sharp words, unmerciful judgments?” He then adds: “God does not hide the wounds that pierced his body and soul from our eyes. He shows them so we can see that a new passage is opened at Easter.” In other words, Easter gives us a new way of understanding, and dealing with, our woundedness.

What do we do with our wounds? First, notice that Jesus doesn’t hide them; they are plainly visible for all to see. His wounds are reminders of how far his love will go: to the very last drop of blood. His wounds are there, not for himself, but for us, to remind us that love is always the answer.

There are a lot of wounded people all around us. Many of them come to my door: people who are sorrowing, at the point of despair, not knowing how they will feed their children, or pay all their bills. And when I help them, and I do so in your name because I wouldn’t have the resources without you, something remarkable happens. By thinking of the wounds of others I tend to forget my own.

The Holy Father makes the same point. “Our wounds can become springs of hope when, instead of feeling sorry for ourselves or hiding them, we dry the tears shed by others; when, instead of nourishing resentment for what was robbed from us, we take care of what others are lacking; when, instead of dwelling on ourselves, we bend towards those who suffer; when instead of being thirsty for love for ourselves, we quench the thirst of those in need of us. For it is only if we stop thinking of ourselves that we will find ourselves again.”

The risen Jesus still has his wounds because they are the signs of selfless love—a love that can free us. If, with selflessness, we think of others, we will be free. If not, we will be locked in our own woundedness, and never be healed.

Homily for Easter—April 9, 2023

Sat, 15 Apr 2023 12:16:00 GMT

Pope Francis recently celebrated the tenth anniversary of his election as Pope. I came across an interview that was done by Italian Swiss Radio and Television. Let me share a couple of items from that interview.

Many people describe you as the Pope of the least. Is that how you feel?

It is true that I have a preference for those who are discarded, but that does not mean that I discard others. The poor are Jesus’ favorites. But Jesus does not send the rich away.

Jesus asks that everyone be brought to his table. What does this mean?

It means that no one is excluded. When the guests did not come to the feast, He said go into the roads and invite to the banquet whomever you find, the sick, the good and the bad, the small and the great, the rich and the poor, everyone. We must not forget this: the Church is not a home for some, it is not selective. The holy faithful people of God are: everyone.

I also came across some tributes that were paid to Pope Francis by other leaders within the Church. For example, Cardinal Kevin Farrell, who was born and grew up in Ireland, is the head of the Vatican office that deals with Laity, Family and Life. Cardinal Farrell was asked:

How would you describe the transformation in the Church brought about by Pope Francis during these ten years of pontificate?

I think Pope Francis’ greatest achievement has been to show us how to live the Gospel of Jesus Christ. To me, that is it. He will be remembered for that, and teaching us all that we need to go out to the peripheries. That means we have to go out of our own comfort zone and engage with people. Pope Francis is the person most looked to, to teach us how the world should live. Do we listen to him? No. But he has opened up the arms of the Church to embrace the whole world, not just the Catholics, and not just the good Catholics who go to church. All Catholics. All people. Nobody’s excluded. And to me, that is the great thing that Pope Francis has taught us in these ten years.

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In the Gospel stories about Easter, we are told that when the risen Jesus first encounters the disciples, who out of fear are in a locked room, he says to them, “Peace be with you.” When he had said this, he showed them his hands and his side. The disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And when he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit.”

“As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” We should note, however, that this message is not intended only for the Apostles in that day, or the bishops and priests in our day. It’s a message for all Christians. A message that Jesus is risen! A message that the one they tried to silence could not be contained in a tomb, could not be imprisoned by death, a message that, just as he is risen, so we are meant for eternal life with God. This is the astounding message of Easter. Jesus Christ is risen! And that changes everything.

Who is this message for? Who needs Easter? As Pope Francis has spent the last ten years reminding us: Everybody. The whole world, which has so much rotten news, needs a word of hope. Those who, as Francis teaches, tend to be cast aside, neglected, considered second-class, deemed unnecessary: they need to hear it the most.

Here’s where Easter has a practical impact in our lives, an opportunity to make it real, concrete: Can you think of anybody who needs encouragement? Can you think of anybody who feels abandoned? Can you think of anybody who is overwhelmed by their problems and struggles? Please, don’t leave them out in the cold.

But really, all of us are in the same boat. There are times when all of us sin, fall short, and disappoint ourselves and others. We all need to be uplifted. We all need to know that someone cares and that we are loved. We all need to know that we are precious in God’s sight. We all need the message of Easter!

But the point is: if you get it, then share it. If you feel encouraged, bring encouragement to someone who is despairing. If you feel forgiven and whole again, offer forgiveness to someone who needs to be freed. If you believe that you will rise to eternity with Jesus Christ, bring that message, bring Easter, to someone who is bowed down, suffering, in pain, or living in fear. Easter is for everyone. No one must be left out!

Homily for Holy Thursday—April 6, 2023

Sat, 15 Apr 2023 12:14:00 GMT

In a speech to Roman university students and staff, Pope Francis noted:

The first time I went out to Saint Peter’s Square as Pope, I approached a group of young blind people. And one of them said to me, “Can I see you? Can I look at you?” I didn’t understand. “Yes” I told him. And with his hands he looked – he saw me with his hands. This really struck me and helped me understand the intelligence of the hands….

While the hands take, the mind understands, learns and is surprised. Yet for this to happen, our hands must first be sensitive. The mind will not be able to comprehend anything if the hands are closed by greed; or if they let time, health and talents slip through their fingers; or if they refuse to give peace, to greet or take another by the hand. We cannot understand others if our hands have fingers pointing mercilessly at the errors of our brothers and sisters. And we cannot be surprised by anything if our hands do not know how to be joined and raised to heaven in prayer.

Let us look at the hands of Christ. With them He takes bread and having blessed it, breaks it and gives it to the disciples, saying “This is my body.” Then He takes the cup and after giving thanks, offers it to them, saying, “This is my blood.” What do we see here? We see hands that, as they take, they give thanks. Jesus’ hands touch the bread and wine, the body and blood, life itself, and they give thanks. They take and give thanks because they feel everything is a gift from the Father. … Like Christ, let us have “Eucharistic” hands, accompanying every contact and touch with humble, joyful and sincere gratitude, therefore creating harmony within ourselves.

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The word Eucharist comes from a Greek verb that means giving thanks. Thus, every time we “take and receive” we do so with humble gratitude because everything we have and all we are—all are gifts from God.

We live in a world that has become very harsh and divisive. There is political disunity, to the point of hatred and violence. Wars are being fought in various parts of the world. Our own nation has experienced an incredible loss of life due to violent outbursts of hatred and revenge.

On this holy night we recall Jesus’ humble service of washing feet—giving an antidote to the poison of violence and hate: caring, giving, looking out for the needs of the poor, tired feet of the suffering all around the world. On this holy night we recall the gift of Jesus’ hands: nourishing, strengthening, providing, embracing…

St. Teresa of Avila, a mystic who lived in the sixteenth century, had this remarkable insight:

“Christ has no body now but yours. No hands, no feet on earth but yours. Yours are the eyes through which he looks (with) compassion on this world. Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good. Yours are the hands through which he blesses all the world. Yours are the hands, yours are the feet, yours are the eyes, you are his body. Christ has no body now on earth but yours.”

On this holy night we receive Jesus’ hands and feet. We receive Jesus body, precisely so that we can be his body, bringing his message, his strength, his compassion, and his love to a broken world. We cannot give what we do not have. And so we receive, we take and eat, so that we, in turn, can give and nourish, lift up and heal, sooth and comfort, a world that needs Jesus’ healing touch.

Homily for Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion April 2, 2023

Mon, 03 Apr 2023 17:01:00 GMT

I’d like to do something a little different today, and that is to reflect on the gospel we started with about Jesus’ entrance into Jerusalem, clarifying some of its details.

For example, why did Jesus come riding in on a donkey? One reason is that the text itself refers to a prophecy from the writings of Zechariah about the king coming on a lowly animal. The idea is that Jesus comes in peace. A conquering general, or a victorious earthly king, would have a triumphal procession, and he would be riding a horse, most likely a horse used in battle.

Jesus, nonetheless, is being received as a god or a king. This is indicated by the signs of respect, the cloaks and tree branches that are laid out for him to enter on—sort of like a red carpet. The crowds use the word “Hosanna” in their song, a word meaning “save us.” And, there is a reference to King David, because the expected Messiah was supposed to be a descendant of the great King David.

There is a lot of curiosity among the members of the crowd. Some ask, “Who is this?” And we find that, ultimately, they do not really grasp who Jesus is. It would seem that they are expecting a political Messiah, a mighty one who would lead a great army and free Israel from the oppression of Rome. But Jesus is about something far greater: he is about to bring a salvation that leads into eternity, and far outweighs any temporary benefits we could experience in this world.

Jesus arrives in humility, as one who came to serve, as the one who would wash his disciples’ feet, as one riding a beast of burden, signifying that he would bear our burdens.

If you want a modern comparison to Jesus’ riding on a donkey, think of the visit by Pope Francis to the United States in 2015. You may remember, when they showed the parade of cars in which the dignitaries would be riding, everyone else had limousines or huge SUV’s. Then in the middle of them was a puny car, a Fiat 500L, a petite, compact sedan. Pope Francis came to us riding a twenty-first century donkey. That image was worth a million words: the Church is called to serve others, to build up those who have been knocked down by life, to be a voice for the voiceless, a source of hope for those who have very little, to follow the example of our Savior who rides a donkey, and the example of our Pope who rides in a compact car.

Homily for the Third Sunday of Lent March 12, 2023

Mon, 13 Mar 2023 14:01:00 GMT

A young woman was asked by a teacher from her church to tutor a young boy while he was in the hospital. The woman didn’t realize until she got to the hospital that the boy was in the burn unit, in considerable pain and barely able to respond. She tried to tutor him, stumbling through the English lesson, ashamed at putting him through such a senseless exercise.

A few weeks later the boy explained that he had completely given up hope until this young woman arrived. With joyful tears he explained, “They wouldn’t send a tutor to work on nouns and verbs with a dying boy, would they?”

In our gospel reading Jesus enters into a conversation with a woman who has been burned by life. The first clue is that she comes to draw water all by herself at the wrong time of the day, at noon, when the sun is at its hottest. All the other woman would have come at first light when it was cooler. Then we learn about her marital history, which explains why she is alone—probably shunned by her more upright neighbors. And then, when the disciples return, we learn of their shock that Jesus, in an unsupervised situation is talking to a woman, and a Samaritan woman that they would have automatically looked down upon.

But Jesus chooses this woman, burned by life, not to teach her about nouns and verbs, but that she is still a child of God who is infinitely loved. She discovers that she still has a life worth living, a life that satisfies her deep thirst for companionship and community, because her life is rooted in a love that completely satisfies. Not only will she no longer thirst because in Jesus she has found her deepest desire fulfilled, she immediately runs off to share the good news. While the Apostles are standing there scratching their heads, wondering what’s going on, she’s off evangelizing the whole town.

Have you been watered? I mean, have you been baptized? Really baptized? Baptized to the extent that you have what she found that day at the well? We can search, and look, and wander all over the place, and still be thirsty—all because we are made for God, and our hearts will be forever restless until they rest in God.

So that’s the question for this week: Have you been properly watered? Have you really been baptized? Have you given your heart to God?

Homily for the Second Sunday of Lent Mach 5, 2023

Mon, 06 Mar 2023 12:49:00 GMT

A well-known sculptor had a burning ambition to create the greatest statue of Jesus Christ ever made. He began in his Oceanside studio by shaping a clay model of a triumphant, regal figure. The head was thrown back and the arms were upraised in a gesture of great majesty. It was his conception of how Christ would look: strong and dominant. “This will be my masterpiece,” he said, on the day the clay model was completed.

The artist stared at the figure, agonizing over the time wasted and the need to begin all over again. Then, inspiration came over him to change his mood. He began to see that this image of Christ was, by far, the truer one. So he carved these words into the base of the newly shaped figure: Come Unto Me.

Now, in today’s gospel reading we have the story of the Transfiguration. It’s difficult to describe, and I’m sure Matthew would agree that words fall short when trying to describe what happened. It says simply, “he was transfigured before them; his face shone like the sun and his clothes became white as light.”

What Peter, James and John are getting here is a glimpse of the divine Jesus, the Son of God. Peter’s reaction gives an indication of how awe-struck the apostles are. Jesus is glowing, and two figures who had been dead for hundreds of years are chatting with him…and what does Peter say? Let me set up some tents for the three of you… But then, the experience becomes even more other-worldly with the voice of God proclaiming, “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased; listen to him.”

Well, as I said, the basic idea is that the three apostles are getting a glimpse of the divine Jesus—kind of like the original, powerful, perfect statue the sculptor intended—a triumphant, regal figure.

But we know what will happen next as the gospel story progresses: crucifixion will take place and the body of Jesus will be transformed—but this time, transformed downward into the pathetic, bleeding, drooping and wounded figure, like the figure transformed by fog and atmospheric water.

Now, of course, we know that the story doesn’t end at the cross or in the tomb. At Easter, resurrection takes place and Jesus returns to a glorified, divine state. Except for one thing. Do you remember in the story of doubting Thomas, how does Jesus convince Thomas? He shows him his wounds —the nailmarks and the gash produced by the soldier’s spear. Yes, Jesus is fully alive, never to die again. Yet, even in his glorified, risen state he is still scarred by wounds.

In a modern crime drama they often identify people by fingerprints or by DNA. In the gospel account Jesus’ wounds are now part of his DNA, used to verify that a dead person, the crucified one, is now alive. Jesus’ wounds are eternally a part of God!

It is as the sculptor discovered. The Savior, who gave his all, now reaches out to us with his wounded and glorified arms, wide open, and says, Come unto me , all you who labor and are heavily burdened; come, renew your faith; come, let me take on what you’re feeling; come, don’t try to carry it alone.

But beyond that, the wounded, risen Lord reveals something essential about love: it’s not always smooth sailing, it’s not always a bed of roses—if you’ll pardon the clichés. True love involves a certain amount of pain and sacrifice. It means that, when you hurt, when love causes you pain, when you get wounded—that’s part of love’s DNA.

If you want to meditate on what true love is, turn to 1 Corinthians 13:4-7: “Love is patient; love is kind. Love is not jealous, it does not put on airs, it is not snobbish. Love is never rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not prone to anger; neither does it brood over injuries. Love does not rejoice in what is wrong but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, hopes all things, endures all things .” Even in the case of the risen Jesus, love has wounds.

Homily for the Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time February 12, 2023

Mon, 13 Feb 2023 16:49:00 GMT

Our Gospel reading today is from one of the most famous and central parts of Jesus’ teaching, the Sermon on the Mount. Teaching on a mountain, Jesus is seen as a new Moses, giving his interpretation of the ancient Law. In this passage we have a whole series of intensifications of the Law, including the Ten Commandments. The form Jesus uses is “You have heard it said…”—which gives us the old command…and then, “But I say to you…” –Jesus’ new intensification, getting to the inner motivation behind the command. To deal with the entire passage would be too much in one sitting, so I’ll focus on the first intensification: anger.

Let’s start with a story…There was a carpenter who just finished a rough day on the job. A flat tire made him lose an hour of work, his electric saw quit working, and now his ancient pickup truck refused to start. While his foreman drove him home, he invited his boss to meet his family. As they walked toward the house, the carpenter paused briefly at a large pine tree, touching the tips of the branches with both hands.

When he opened the front door, he underwent an amazing transformation. His face glowed with smiles and hugs for his two small children; then he gave a long embrace and kiss to his wife. After a while, he walked his boss back to his car. They passed the pine tree, and the foreman’s curiosity got the better of him. He asked the carpenter about the “tree ritual” he had seen him do earlier.

“Oh,” that’s my trouble tree,” he replied. “I know I can’t help having troubles on the job, but one thing is for sure, troubles and frustrations shouldn’t be brought home at the end of the day. So, I stop by that pine tree over there and visualize hanging on it whatever troubles, frustrations and worries I have….You know, a funny thing happens when I come out in the morning to pick them up again, there aren’t nearly as many as I remember hanging up the night before.”

I like this story because it gives an important insight into the nature of anger and frustration. In order not to react with blind rage, it’s good to find a way of stepping back so that you have a chance of cooling off and seeing things more clearly, especially in determining the response you make.

One of our former bishops once shared with me that, if he gets an email that is critical, or even just annoying, he has made it a practice not to respond immediately, especially if he is tired or frustrated at the moment, or if the email gives rise to a harsh reaction or a burst of anger. By waiting until he cools off, even until the next day, he has kept many friends and acted more compassionately and reasonably.

Just think of what might happen if more people learned to deal with anger in these ways. If a driver daydreams, is careless, or does something stupid, how much safer our roads would be if the other driver doesn’t respond with dangerous or threatening road rage. An automobile can very easily become a weapon of a very destructive explosion of anger.

Or think about some of the mass shootings that have taken place. Oftentimes, the shooter may feel that an injustice has been done, he has been treated very unfairly, and the world is out to get him. If he reacts immediately out of hurt or anger, or if he can’t find a way of defusing the rage, look at the results. There may be many factors that have an impact. The individual may be mentally ill; his home life may be less than helpful; he may endure ridicule or avoidance—and all these things have an impact. The relative ease with which an angry or unbalanced person can get his hands on powerful firearms may add to the problem. The continuous publicity given to mass shooters may present shooting as a very commonplace way to right a wrong, settle a score, or make a statement to a world that has not listened.

Jesus’ teaching reminds us that it’s not enough to look at external behavior. What motivates, or drives, that behavior is very important. Anger can very easily lead to violent reactions, even the desire to kill, if the anger is not defused in some way.

So what do we learn, what do we take with us, from today’s readings? Perhaps we need to look into our hearts and ask ourselves if we have a problem with anger. Do we explode in ways that hurt others or can lead to danger? Do we need to talk with somebody about dealing with the anger? And if we are in a situation where we see anger building up, are we able to do something to help defuse the anger?

Homily for the Fifth Sunday of the Year February 5, 2023

Mon, 06 Feb 2023 12:45:00 GMT

Years ago there was a group of young men at a Midwestern university, who seemed to have amazing, creative talent. They were would-be poets, novelists and essayists. They were extraordinary in their ability to put the English language to its best use. These promising young men met regularly to read and critique each other’s work. And critique it they did!

These men were merciless with each other. They dissected the smallest literary expression into a hundred pieces. They were heartless, tough, and even mean in their criticism, but they thought they were bringing out each other’s best work. Their sessions became such arenas of literary criticism that the members of this exclusive group nicknamed themselves “The Stranglers.”

Not to be outdone, the university’s women of literary talent were determined to start a support group of their own, one comparable to “The Stranglers”. They called themselves “The Wranglers.” They, too, read their works to one another, but there was one significant difference, The criticism of “The Wranglers” was much softer, more positive, more encouraging. In fact sometimes there was no criticism at all. Every effort, even the most feeble attempt, was searched for something to be praised and encouraged.

Twenty years later, the univesity’s alumni office was doing a study on the careers of its alumni, when it was noticed that there was a great difference in the literary accomplishment of “The Stranglers” as opposed to “The Wranglers”. Of all the bright and talented young men in “The Stranglers,” not one had made a significant literary accomplishment of any kind. From “The Wranglers,” on the other hand, had come six successful writers, some attaining national reputation.

What was the difference? Talent level? Probably the same. Level of education? Not much difference. But while “The Stranglers” strangled, “The Wranglers” were determined to give each other a boost, highlighting the best—not the worst.

In a business report I recently read something similar. There was an executive who did an amazing job of turning a run-down office into an outstanding success. Her secret was to request each department head to submit a weekly report each Monday morning of all the good things that had happened in their departments during the previous week. This was a simple, but powerful, way to turn a failed organization into a dynamic success.

In today’s gospel Jesus describes his followers as those who are meant to bring light into the world. When you think about it, light is useful for all kinds of things. At night, it can help you not to trip over things and get hurt. Light can keep you from getting lost. Light can keep you from becoming frightened when you hear strange sounds in the night.

But the stories I shared demonstrate an incredibly powerful way to bring light—the light of encouragement and positive reinforcement—to people of any age. Life is full of all kinds of disappointments, struggles and challenges. And sometimes individuals can be labeled as “failures” or “losers”—either by themselves or by someone else. When I look back on teachers or other influential people in my life, the ones I remember as making the most difference were those who helped me to blossom, to overcome fears and doubts, to trust that I could take steps into the unknown with confidence. This is true for people of all ages, from children trying to learn a new skill, to couples struggling in relationships, to those hoping to find a better job or a better future, to those of advanced years who can’t do what they used to, whose memory is failing, and whose world is much smaller than it used to be.

We are the light of the world, Jesus says. A lot of people get pretty beat up by life, experience huge disappointments, and begin to see themselves as failures. Think about how Jesus responded to those feeling down, inadequate, harshly judged, or left out. He brought the light of God to them, and thereby he re-created their world. In a world awash in division and criticism, I think we can do the same by offering encouragement rather than criticism, a good word rather than complaint, a little hope rather than yet another reason to despair.

Homily for the Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time January 29, 2023

Mon, 30 Jan 2023 13:28:00 GMT

To help us appreciate today’s readings, I want to begin with two stories.

The first… On the 27 ^th of March 1808, a grand performance of The Creation took place in Vienna. The composer himself, Franz Joseph Haydn, who was quite elderly, was able to be in attendance. His health was failing and so he had to be wheeled into the theater. His presence aroused intense enthusiasm among the audience, which could no longer be suppressed as the chorus and orchestra burst with full power into the passage, “And there was light.”

Amid the tumult of the enraptured audience, the aged composer was seen striving to raise himself. Once on his feet, he mustered up all his strength, and in reply to the applause of the audience, cried out as loudly as he was able, “No, no! Not from me, but” he said, pointing up to heaven, “from thence—from heaven above—comes all!” He then feel back into his chair, faint and exhausted, and had to be carried out of the theater.

And the second story, which is close to my heart… After he had spoken during a preaching mission for parish renewal, a renowned evangelist said that a young woman came up to thank him for restoring her faith, and told him that he was a very warm preacher.

Later that evening, as he reflected over the event, he was complimenting himself, recalling the person’s remarks. But, then, he remembered that in the dictionary the definition of warm is “not so hot.”

In our first reading the ancient prophet Zephaniah cries out, “Seek the Lord, all you humble of the earth…seek justice, seek humility….I will leave as a remnant in your midst a people humble and lowly.”

And then consider St. Paul’s advice in our second reading: “Consider your own calling, brothers and sisters. Not many of you were wise by human standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. Rather, God chose the foolish of the world to shame the wise, and God chose the weak of the world to shame the strong, and God chose the lowly and despised of the world to reduce to nothing those who were something, so that no human being might boast before God.”

And finally in today’s Gospel reading from the Beatitudes: “Blessed are the poor in spirit…Blessed are the meek…”

All three of our readings are unanimous in calling for, and praising, the virtue of humility. I like the story about the talented preacher because he showed humility in his self-deprecating humor: he recalled that “warm preaching” was “not so hot.” And that’s good advice for anyone who speaks, whether it be from a pulpit, a stage, an office, or the one sitting at the head of a family table: don’t elevate yourself in a proud and self-centered way just because you have a position of honor. And, on a practical note, when I preach, I always try to preach to myself first, and to use the terms “we” and “us”, rather than “you”.

And then the story about Franz Joseph Haydn at the concert in Vienna gives us another insight into humility. When I was young and someone said something positive about me, I tended to downplay or even deny it: Oh, it was nothing! But Haydn didn’t deny his gift. The fact of the matter is that he was a top-rate composer and musician. But humility meant that he did not forget the source of his gift, and in a very public way, by pointing to heaven, he reminded his audience of the source of our life, the source of our gifts.

If you watch football games, you may have noticed that the very talented players, particularly after they have made a spectacular play, will react. For some, there’s an exaggerated, in your face, happy dance, and sometimes taunting a player from the other team. Other players, however, will, along with their obvious glee, point up to heaven. If the act appears to be authentic, a true expression of faith and humility, I have a great respect and admiration for such a player. Without denying their gift, they humbly acknowledge the source in front of a rather huge audience.

And, above all, we have the example of Jesus himself. Consider the following, which we find in the Letter of St. Paul to the Philippians: “Though he was in the form of God, Jesus did not deem equality with God something to be grasped at. Rather, he emptied himself and took the form of a slave, being born in the likeness of human beings. He was known to be of human estate, and it was thus that he humbled himself, obediently accepting even death, death on a cross! Because of this, God highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name above every other name, so that at Jesus’ name every knee must bend in the heavens, on the earth, and under the earth, and every tongue proclaim to the glory of God the Father: Jesus Christ is Lord.” You can check it out this week as part of your prayer: Paul’s letter to the Philippians 2:6-11.

Homily for the Second Sunday in Ordinary Time January 15, 2023

Tue, 17 Jan 2023 12:20:00 GMT

There was a quiet forest dweller who lived high above an Austrian village along the eastern slope of the Alps. The old gentleman had been hired many years ago by an earlier town council to clear away the debris of leaves and branches from the pristine springs up in the mountain ravines. These springs fed the pool from which the town gathered its water via a canal system.

With faithful regularity, the old man patrolled the nearby hills, removed leaves and branches, and cleared away the silt that otherwise would have clogged and contaminated the fresh flow of water. The village became a popular tourist attraction and a favorite spot for vacationers. Graceful swans floated along the canals. The mill wheels from many businesses cranked away day and night, farmlands were irrigated, and the view from the village was postcard picturesque.

Years passed. One evening at a town council meeting assembled to review the budget, one member noticed the salary figure contracted to the obscure keeper of springs. He felt that wasn’t needed any longer. So by unanimous vote, the council dispensed with the old guardian’s services.

For several weeks nothing changed. However, by early autumn, the trees began to shed their leaves. Small branches snapped off and fell into the springs, hindering the rushing flow of sparkling water. Then one afternoon someone noticed a slight yellowish-brown tint in the pool. Within another week a slimy slick covered sections of the water along the canal banks, and a foul odor was detected. The mill wheels ground to a halt. The swans left, as did the tourists.

Quickly, an embarrassed town council called a special meeting. Realizing their error in judgment, they rehired the old keeper of the springs, things started to get cleaned up, and within weeks the sparkling water began to flow again. And renewed life returned to the village in the Alps.

I refer to this story because in our Gospel reading we have a reference to John the Baptist, who, obviously is associated with river water. The Baptist points to Jesus as the Lamb of God, the Savior, the giver of life, present in the midst of the people.

Perhaps we could look at the divine life flowing into us as so many streams of life-giving water, celebrated at our Baptism. I thought we could reflect on various ways in which those streams of life could get plugged up. For instance:

So, perhaps we need to turn more seriously to Jesus, the Lamb of God, who loves us and is always ready to forgive our failings and restore us to a full life. When God created human beings, they were not placed in a lifeless and arid desert, but in a lush and green Garden of Eden. It is by turning to Jesus, and being taught and nourished by him on a regular basis, that we can get life flowing fully and freely. And, if we have a huge blockage, or even a lot of muckiness that’s clogging things up, the Sacrament of Reconciliation can really help us to get back on track. And, of course, we turn now, as we do at every Mass, for the nourishment and strength that Jesus gives us in the Eucharist. Let’s keep the divine life flowing!

Homily for the Solemnity of the Epiphany January 8, 2023

Mon, 09 Jan 2023 12:01:00 GMT

Did you have a chance to watch any of the proceedings in the House of Representatives this week? If you didn’t happen to catch it, there was a lot of confusion and great difficulty to elect the Speaker of the House. One of the things that disturbed me was that it seemed, for some, to be more about their power than about policy or the needs of the people they serve. With that as an introduction, let’s take a look at today’s Scripture.

In today’s Gospel reading we hear the story of kings, various kings. The three kings, popularized in the song “We Three Kings,” actually were not really kings. They are called Magi, who were court officials in Persia, and they are also astrologers, those who see important events forecasted by the movement and the position of the stars and planets. Because they have seen a new star at its rising, they are convinced that a new king is being born.

The person who is a real king in our story is Herod. He talks a good talk, seeming to be pious: Let me know when you find what you’re looking for, that I may go and worship him, too. But for Herod, kingship is all about power. Not wanting to have anyone threaten his position in the future, he heartlessly and cruelly orders that all boys, aged two and under in the Bethlehem area, be killed. It’s all about pure, raw power.

In our own time we see the preoccupation with power, at least by some, in Washington, and we are hearing about the cruelty unleashed upon the citizens of Ukraine by Vladimir Putin—heartless, pure, raw power. Putin appears to be a lot like King Herod.

The Magi, much to their credit, see what Herod is really up to, and they will have no part in it. Rather than going back to Herod, they decide to leave the area, without returning, by another route.

But let us not forget that there is another king in this story: the one the Magi came to worship: Jesus. One day, Jesus will proclaim a Kingdom, but a kingdom that is very different from the one embodied by Herod. It will not be about power or conquest or privilege. The baby in the manger depicts a King, a Son of God, who empties himself, and who has come not to be served but to serve. Among the prayers for the feast of Christ the King, we find the following description of the Kingdom that Jesus inaugurates: it is “an eternal and universal kingdom, a kingdom of truth and life, a kingdom of holiness and grace, a kingdom of justice, love and peace.”

Today’s Feast is called “Epiphany”—a word taken from the Greek which has to do with an act of revealing, or manifesting. Today, the manger scene is brought to completion. The Jewish shepherds are already there. But now, representatives of all the nations of the world are arriving, so as to celebrate that Jesus is the Savior, not just of a single nation, but of the entire world: an eternal and universal kingdom.

This is the King we proclaim, the King we worship—not like those who exercise with cruel might, like Herod or Putin or those who claw and grasp for power in Washington. And because Jesus is our King, we necessarily live by other values. We are committed to, and we dedicate our lives in service of, the Kingdom Jesus announced: “an eternal and universal kingdom, a kingdom of truth and life, a kingdom of holiness and grace, a kingdom of justice, love and peace.” This is God’s dream, and our hope, our prayer for the people of Ukraine and other nations in the grip of power plays, and for the people of our nation, as well. We want elected officials to serve the common good, to preserve human dignity, and to protect those who are weak. We serve a kingdom revealed in a manger, not in a palace. The three wise men, central to the story today, teach us where true wisdom is to be found.

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Advent December 18, 2022

Mon, 19 Dec 2022 14:08:00 GMT

Imagine Bill’s disappointment, on the eve of the big day, his father handed him a gift-wrapped Bible! Bill was so angry that he hurled the Bible across his 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.

I wonder how Bill felt at that moment. It’s a powerful story, isn’t it? Kind of makes you stop and think. Why did Bill’s father “wrap” the check, as it were, in a Bible? Probably it represented a wish that beyond the gift of the car, he wanted his son to have a gift that would serve him well for the rest of his life—the word of God to live by, to provide comfort, to offer guidance during times of confusion, and to remind that life is more than possessions.

When Bishop McDonnell was here for Confirmation a couple of years ago, he spoke about a gift he had received for Christmas one year. Unfortunately, the gift ended up behind some books and other items, and was forgotten for a long time. When he discovered it, it was spoiled and no longer useable. And he asked our Confirmation class, “What good is a gift if you don’t open it?”

At this time of year, we can get pretty busy—buying gifts, sending cards, attending parties, making plans for getting together, etc. So with one week left, I thought I’d hit the pause button so we could all take a deep breath and ask if there’s a gift being given here that we haven’t fully opened.

We know that Christmas is the gift of God’s Son, and the beginning of what makes the ultimate difference for our everyday life and for eternity. Have we stopped to drink in how much our God loves us? And if there is an emptiness or lack of peace we’re experiencing, have we fully taken in the meaning of Christmas?

Christmas shows us, graphically, that God’s Son chose to be poor, born in a stable and with no place to lay his head. He told us he could be found among the poor, when we feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, and clothe the naked… By becoming a refugee, having to flee the wrath of King Herod, who wanted to kill the child, Jesus knows what it is to be a refugee, to have to flee one’s own country, to experience injustice. His birth was celebrated by both poor and rich, shepherds and kings, but only if they listened and searched. Only then did they find the gift that utterly changed their lives, the mystery spoken of in today’s gospel. One of Jesus’ titles is Emmanuel , which means “God is with us.”

Christmas means that our God wants to be with us, to accompany us through all the joys and sorrows we may be experiencing. But only if we stop to look. The young man who thought he didn’t get the car he asked for rejected everything! He chose to have nothing to do with his father. Let’s not make the same mistake. Let’s not be blind to what Christmas offers, what God offers. If we are angry or disappointed with life, let’s not close our eyes to what we are offered this Christmas. Our God wants to be with us, if only we want to be with our God.

Homily for the Third Sunday of Advent December 11, 2022

Mon, 12 Dec 2022 15:47:00 GMT

In today’s gospel passage we have John the Baptist out in the wilderness, trying to get people’s attention, so that they could change, and thus be ready for the coming of God.

I happened to come across a little story whose title intrigued me. It was called “Tame the Wildness”…Here’s the story. “In the old days out West, ranchers would sometimes take a wild horse that they could not break, tie it to a little burro, and turn the two loose. The horse would rear up on its hind legs, snorting defiance, and off they would gallop out on the range.

“Before long the bucking steed would disappear over the distant horizon, dragging the helpless burro along. Days would pass, and eventually the odd couple would reappear. The little burro would come first, with the submissive horse in tow.

“What happened out on the range always brought the same result. The horse would continue to buck and kick, toss and turn, but the burro, willingly or not, would hang on. Finally, the horse would become exhausted, and at that point the burro would take over, become the leader and lead the way home.”

Can you picture the scene? I find it hilarious! To call the two mis-matched animals an odd couple…well, they are—odd! But then, as I thought about it in relation to John the Baptist out in the Jewish wilderness, calling people to change, well, that makes it interesting as an image for our task at hand during this Advent season. Let’s take a look.

Do you have any part of you that’s like that wild horse? The inability to control anger. Finding yourself exploding, especially with those closest to you. Becoming impatient when you have to wait in line. Reacting with road rage when some jerk cuts you off. We probably all have moments like that. Well then, we need to tie ourselves to the burro, which in this case just might be the calm and clear word of God calling us to turn down the heat, stop boiling over, and exploding like that volcano that erupted in Hawaii.

On the other hand, we might ask if sometimes we’ve become a bit like the burro. Maybe we’re indifferent, not taking things seriously enough, becoming lukewarm in faith. Maybe we’re giving somebody the silent treatment. Perhaps we don’t give time to God in prayer. Or we’re not living up to commitments we have made. We’re bored, as calm and lifeless as the burro.

Well, in this case, maybe we need a bucking horse to wake us up again to the beauty and the possibilities of life, to the joy of living as God wants us to live. Maybe we need a shot of spiritual adrenalin to start to take things more seriously. Perhaps we need to take a good hard look at our relationships that just might be dying because we’ve stopped working at it.

So, picture in your mind, if you would, the odd couple: the defiant horse and the semi-comatose burro. I leave it to you to think about this image during this week. Ask yourself: which one do I need to get tied to? The burro, to calm my blood pressure and bring down my life’s explosions, or the bucking bronco to get my thyroid active, break out of indifference, and wake up once again to the beauty of life and life’s possibilities? So which will it be? Burro to calm you down, or bronco to wake you up?

Homily for the Solemnity of Jesus Christ the King November 20, 2022

Sun, 20 Nov 2022 11:53:00 GMT

The story is told of a boy named Sparky. For Sparky school was impossible. He failed every subject in the eighth grade. He flunked physics, Latin, algebra and English in high school. He didn’t do well in sports. He was awkward socially. He was astonished if a classmate ever said hello to him. He never asked a girl out for a date for fear of being turned down.

There was, however, one thing that Sparky was good at: drawing. Upon graduating from high school he wrote to Walt Disney Studios and was asked to send some of his artwork. He spent a great deal of time carefully drawing cartoons on a theme they suggested, but he was rejected once again.

So Sparky decided to write his own biography in cartoons. He described himself as a little-boy loser and chronic underachiever. Sparky’s real name was Charles Schultz, and the comic strip he created was Peanuts —a cartoon about a boy whose kite would never fly and who never succeeded in kicking the football—Charlie Brown.

There are many other examples of apparent failures who somehow were able to turn things around. Abraham Lincoln came from very humble beginnings in a tough life of poverty, with very little formal education. He failed at several occupations, ran for various political offices and was rejected many times. And yet, he persevered, read a lot, continually tried to better himself—and ended up becoming one of the greatest Presidents of our nation.

Probably having one of the most famous success stories, Oprah Winfrey was born into deep poverty in Mississippi, raised by a single mother living on welfare. She was physically, mentally, and sexually abused during her childhood. One thing not many people know about her is that she ran away from home and got pregnant when she was only fourteen-years-old. She lost the baby shortly after birth. Despite her initial struggles as a young girl, she turned herself into one of the most successful individuals of our time.

Today we celebrate the feast of Jesus Christ as our King, and yet the gospel focuses on what appeared to be the low point of his life, being put to death as a common criminal, jeered by passers-by, and abandoned by most of the people who had flocked to him not long before, including his closest friends and disciples. Clearly, this passage is the furthest thing from what we would consider a depiction of a normal king. And yet, the crucifix is prominently displayed in churches all around the world.

Of course, we know that the Jesus-story doesn’t end on the cross or in a tomb, for Jesus’ resurrection follows. Easter follows Good Friday. But for this feast of Christ the King, the cross is still being placed before us. Jesus exercises kingship from the cross. While still hanging there, he pronounces a kingly verdict: this day you will be with me in paradise. What’s this all about?

I think we are asked not to forget or bypass the cross because Jesus’ success story is quite different from the others I have considered. While Abraham Lincoln’s life moved from a log cabin to the Lincoln bedroom of the White House, Jesus chose to move in the opposite direction. He chose to be more of a log cabin person. As a matter of fact he chose to be homeless. Instead of sleeping in the Lincoln bedroom, I think we’d find him on a bench in a park across the street. Instead of seeking him in Oprah’s mansion, I think he would go to the fourteen year old abused Oprah who was forced to run away from home. I think Jesus would seek out Charlie Brown and offer to hold the football for him and not pull it away. I think he would help Charlie Brown repair his kite and try again. I think the resurrected Jesus surely is in heaven, but he said he would also be found on this earth among those who are hungry and thirsty, naked and deprived of justice, living in hovels rather than mansions.

As long as there is suffering, as long as people still live in poverty, as long as there are victims of racial prejudice and injustice, the cross is still real. And for those who are still being crucified, like the so-called good thief on the cross, Jesus is still being crucified right along with them, but promising them from the cross, this day you will be with me in paradise.

The image of a crucified king heading to resurrection reminds us that the job of redemption is not completed. We need to bring the resurrection to those that this world is still crucifying—bringing them good news, feeding their hungers, giving them hope, and telling them they are so loved that Jesus has died for them so that they can rise with him. He doesn’t love from a safe distance—and neither should we.

Homily for the Thirty-Third Sunday of the Year November 13, 2022

Mon, 14 Nov 2022 12:55:00 GMT

Our gospel reading begins with some people noticing something. So, I’d like to focus our reflections on what we notice, what we see, and what we don’t notice.

Let me share a story that gives an example of what I mean. It’s a story about a twelve-year old girl named Cindy. She glanced nervously at the clock on the kitchen wall. Five minutes before midnight. “They should be home any time now,” she thought as she was putting the finishing touches on the chocolate cake she was frosting. It was the first time in her twelve years that she had tried to make a cake from scratch and, to be honest, it wasn’t an aesthetic triumph. The cake was lumpy.

And then there was the way the kitchen looked. Imagine a huge blender filled with all the fixings for chocolate cake. Now imagine that the blender is turned on. High speed. With the lid off. Do you get the idea?

But Cindy wasn’t thinking of the mess. She had created something out of the kitchen clutter. She was now anxiously waiting for her parents to return from their date so she could present her anniversary gift to them. She turned off the kitchen lights and waited nervously in the darkness. When at last she saw the car lights approaching, and then the key opening the lock on the door, she nearly exploded with excitement. She flipped on the lights dramatically and shouted, “Ta-daaa!” She gestured grandly toward the cake.

But her mother’s eyes never made it all the way to the table. “Just look at this mess!” she moaned. “How many times have I talked to you about cleaning up after yourself!”

“But Mom, I was only trying to…”

“I should make you clean this up right now, but I’m too tired to stay up to make sure you get it done right, her mother said. “So, you’ll do it the first thing in the morning.”

“Honey,” Cindy’s father interjected gently, “take a look at the table.”

“I know—it’s a mess. The whole kitchen is a disaster. I can’t stand to look at it.” She stormed up the stairs to her room and slammed the door. Cindy looked at her father with tears in her eyes. “She never saw the cake,” she said.

Now, at the beginning of today’s gospel reading it says some people were noticing and speaking about the beautiful temple in Jerusalem and all the costly stones and decorations that made it magnificent. Then, almost immediately, Jesus throws cold water on their enthusiasm, saying: “All that you see here—the days will come when there will not be left a stone upon another stone that will not be thrown down.” And, as a matter of fact, in a siege of Jerusalem the Temple was indeed torn down in the year 70AD.

Using the imagery of the cake story, my question is: what was it that these people didn’t notice; what was it that they failed to see. I think we get an answer in the passage that comes immediately before this one in Luke’s gospel. There we have a story of something that Jesus noticed, but probably most people didn’t.

The passage begins, “He glanced up and saw the rich putting their offerings into the treasury, and also a poor widow putting in two copper coins. At that he said: ‘I assure you, this poor widow has put in more than all the rest. They make contributions out of their surplus, but she from her want has given what she could not afford—every penny she had to live on.’”

Most people would probably have noticed what the rich and the powerful were putting in. There huge coins would have made quite a clanging sound as they were dropped in the offering box. The widow’s two cents would have hardly registered. But Jesus notices, once again, the poor and their strong faith, but also how they are so often forgotten and forced to live a miserable existence because of their poverty.

So, Jesus is noticing the poverty of the people, while those well-off are noticing the artistic beauty of the Temple. And in fairness, who wouldn’t? When I bring people into our church for their first time, they ooh and aah over the magnificence of this building, and especially the stained glass. Rich or poor, they know they are in the presence of something special.

But Jesus, I believe, is asking us to notice something more important: the poor and the defenseless. In his day widows, orphans and immigrants had it pretty tough, often reduced to begging. But he also found that, like the widow with the two-cent donation, they had incredible faith, and that we could learn a lot from them about priorities.

So now, what is Jesus saying to us? Notice the beauty of this church building. Let it raise your minds and hearts as we gather in awe and wonder to give thanks. But this isn’t the real church, or let’s say, the most real church . First and foremost, the church is people—people noticing other people, seeing their need, and then doing something about it. Let me recall just one more gospel passage, the story of the rich man and the poor beggar, named Lazarus, at his gate. The rich man lived sumptuously, while the poor beggar would have been happy with the crumbs that fell from his table. What was the problem? The rich man didn’t seem to notice the poor beggar. He may have laughed him off. He may have thought he should get a job. He may have thought it was no responsibility of his. But Jesus noticed. He noticed how the poor suffered so much so that he made up story after story to try to get people to notice what he noticed—and to react, to build a community of faith and love in which no one should have to live at the edges of survival and beneath the level of their God-given human dignity.

So, the challenge for us to consider this week: As I go about my day, what do I notice? And then, what?

Homily for the Thirty-Second Sunday in Ordinary Time November 6, 2022

Tue, 08 Nov 2022 14:05:00 GMT

Many years ago I went on a tour of beautiful Gothic cathedrals in France. At one of the churches a guide shared a story I never forgot…Back in the Middle Ages a visitor to the area went to the construction site. He asked one of the workers what he was doing. “Why, can’t you see?” the worker asked. “I’m using these tools to cut the boulders to exactly the right size of stone blocks according to the architect’s specifications. It’s back-breaking work, I’ve been at it all day in the hot sun, and it’s pretty boring.” The visitor then asked another worker what he was doing. The worker replied that he was cutting pieces of colored glass so that they could then be fitted together and held in place by molten lead to become a stained glass window. Finally, the visitor spoke to an elderly woman, who was sweeping in a particular area, gathering up the day’s debris. He asked her what she was doing. She pointed to the building and replied, “I’m building a cathedral!” While the first two were focused on their narrow little world, the sweeper woman had taken up what she was doing into a larger, more complete and satisfying perspective.

Our gospel reading today centers on the resurrection of the dead. We are introduced to a group called the Sadducees. They were a priestly class who worked at the Temple. In their view, only the books of Scripture attributed to Moses (the first five books of our Bible) were authoritative. In those five books, they claimed, there is nothing about resurrection, so they don’t believe in it. In today’s passage they spin a rather strange and complicated story to try to refute the idea of resurrection.

Jesus’ response to them is incisive because it comes precisely from one of the five books the Sadducees accepted, the passage about the encounter of Moses with God at the burning bush. There, God identifies himself as the God of the ancient patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Jesus notes that, since God is the God of the living, the patriarchs are alive and with God forever.

A short time later at the first Easter, resurrection actually takes place when Jesus rises from the dead. The first believers, those who encountered the risen Lord, were so convinced of resurrection that they could not be silenced. “Jesus is risen,” was their simple, but forceful proclamation. Even when threatened with torture and death, their witness continued to spread. Their lives took on new meaning because they had a new, broader perspective. Like the sweeping woman, who had the big picture of building a cathedral, the first believers knew who they were because of Jesus’ resurrection.

With their belief in resurrection, burdens somehow became lighter. The drudgery of the day was taken up into a promise of something bigger and better. The death of loved ones, as crushing as that experience was, became part of a new hope of seeing those loved ones again in eternity. Their outlook was changed and they could now see themselves as partners of Jesus, striving to build a better world, working for justice and peace, reaching out to the poor, including those who were feeling left out. They became part of a great adventure, bringing hope and a vision of new possibilities. Like the woman building a cathedral, they came to realize that they were building a Church, not of stone, bricks and mortar, but of people—people with dignity, loved by God, and destined for life beyond the grave. For them resurrection was real. Resurrection had a name, was a person: Jesus Christ. Because he had died for them, they now began to live for him, to become like him, and to build a Church, and a world transformed by people who know resurrection is possible. Resurrection is real.

Homily for the Twenty-Ninth Sunday of the Year October 16, 2022

Mon, 17 Oct 2022 11:34:00 GMT

Inasmuch as prayer runs through our readings as a common theme today, I want to share some favorite stories about prayer…One summer a young family came back home for a vacation. The little girl’s grandfather looked into her room one evening, and found his granddaughter on her knees, hands folded, looking very serious. As he listened intently, he heard her speaking in a slow, measured tone: A…B…C…D…. The grandfather went into the room, touched the girl gently on the shoulder and asked her what she was doing. She replied, “I’m saying my prayers. I can’t think of the right words, so I’m saying the alphabet. Jesus will know how to make the right words from the letters…E…F…G…”

Isn’t that beautiful? The wonderful innocence of a child. Jesus said that unless we become like little children, we will not enter the Kingdom of God.

And then there’s the story of an elderly man who was quite ill and confined to his bed. A friend comes to visit, and in an offhand way, he asks the man if he has been able to pray. The older man says that he’s not even sure what prayer is. He has heard a lot of sermons over the years, but most of it just went over his head. Well, the friend said, here’s what has helped me to pray. We’ll put this chair next to your bed, and in your heart see Jesus sitting in this chair. Talk to him as you would to a good friend. The old man said he would give it a try.

Some time later the man’s daughter found that her father had died in his sleep, and it looked as if he had fallen out of bed. Part of him was on the floor, but his head was on the chair, as if it were in somebody’s lap.

In recent general audiences that the Pope has each week, Pope Francis has been teaching about prayer. Let me quote part of what he teaches. Prayer enables us “to address God with simplicity and familiarity, as one would speak to a friend. It is knowing how to go beyond thoughts, to enter into intimacy with the Lord, with an affectionate spontaneity….True prayer is familiarity with and confidence in God. It is not reciting prayers like a parrot, blah, blah, blah, no. True prayer is this spontaneity and affection for the Lord. This familiarity overcomes fear or doubt that his will is not for our good, a temptation that sometimes runs through our thoughts and makes our heart restless and uncertain, or even bitter….

“…the sign of the encounter with the Lord is joy . When I encounter the Lord in prayer, I become joyful….Sadness, or fear, on the other hand, are signs of distance from God. To be in prayer does not mean saying words, words, no: being in prayer means opening my heart to Jesus, drawing close to Jesus, allowing Jesus to enter into my heart and making us feel his presence.”

I look at growth in prayer as similar to growth in a loving relationship. When a couple meet and fall in love, they want to spend time together. It is not unusual to ache for each other, spending hours and hours talking and discussing and sharing life. But contrast that with a couple that has been together for many years. I think of elderly grandparents, sitting in rocking chairs near each other, still obviously deeply in love, but not having to say a word. Just being together in a relationship that has deepened and ripened over the years.

St. John Vianney, a pastor of a poor rural parish in France, reported that one day he was leaving to visit parishioners, and he happened to see a man in the church, sitting quietly near the tabernacle. He was surprised that, when he returned late that evening, that same man was still sitting there. “What have you been doing here all day?” he asked. The old man replied, “Why, I’ve been looking at the Lord, and he has been looking at me, and we’re both very happy.” That’s prayer, a real relationship of love, built up over a lifetime of working at it, spending time, speaking, listening, using formal prayers, but ultimately moving beyond words to a relationship in which love is simply shared and nothing more needs to be said.

In our gospel reading Jesus teaches that our God is not like the cruel, uncaring judge who has to be won over. We’re the apple of his eye already. He created us and loves us infinitely. He knows what we need even before we ask.

There’s a mystery to prayer, isn’t there? Sometimes, when we have prayed long and hard for something and don’t get it, we feel we haven’t been heard, and so we give up.

But in today’s gospel Jesus is saying don’t give up. We have the example of Jesus himself. On the night before he died, Jesus fell on his face in prayer, asking, “If this cup can pass me by…If there’s just some other way…I don’t like the way things are shaping up…Let this cup pass me by. Still, not my will, but yours, be done.” There you have it. Jesus has enough faith to believe that the Father knows what’s best. And in the end Jesus gets something much, much better. He still has to endure the cross, but the cross leads to Resurrection and eternal life—not just for him, but for us, too!

Jesus says if the corrupt judge can give justice to the widow, then God can give “all the more”. All the more! The problem is we don’t always know what “all the more” is. But consider what St. Paul wrote: “Eye has not seen, ear has not heard, what God has ready for those who love him” (cf. 1 Corinthians 2:9).

Homily for the Twenty-Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time October 9, 2022

Tue, 11 Oct 2022 14:57:00 GMT

Several years ago, there was a successful businessman who reflected on his life and decided to write to all the people who had been influential in helping him become who he was.

His fourth grade teacher quickly came to mind because she always insisted that he and his classmates strive for excellence in every endeavor. She pounded it into her students, be it regarding homework, tests or class projects. So he sent her a thank-you note.

One day, a couple of months later, he received a reply from his former teacher. She apologized for not replying sooner, but after sixty years of teaching, she had moved in with her daughter, out of state, and so it had taken some time for the thank you note to get to her. She told him how thankful she was to have received his card and how it cheered her up to find out he had learned his lessons in excellence. She went on to say that after all those years of teaching, this was the first thank you note she had ever received, and how grateful she was that he had taken time to remember.

Earlier this year I was on vacation in the White Mountains in New Hampshire. In a store an older woman (I think she was a grandmother) was buying a toy for a young boy. The boy’s mother immediately asked the boy, “Now what do you say?” Saying thank you is a lesson that many of us learned early in life, yet for some reason, many of us get out of the habit.

That reminded me of a story I read about a wonderful elderly gentleman who would, from time to time, stop in an antique shop with one item or another that he wanted to see if it was good enough for them to sell. The couple who ran the store found the man delightful, with a twinkle in his eye and wonderful stories about how life used to be years ago. After he left, the couple acknowledged how much they appreciated his visits, and they resolved to tell him so the next time he came in. A few months later, it happened that the daughter of the man came in, introduced herself and explained who she was. The couple who ran the store told her about how much they had enjoyed her father’s visits over the years, and how grateful they were for his cheerful disposition. The daughter explained that her father had died recently, that he was kind of depressed, and that he would have enjoyed knowing how much the couple cared about him. In this case, it was now too late.

I read an article in a psychology magazine that focused on a technique used by many therapists to deal with people when they are feeling depressed. They ask their patients to keep what they call a “gratitude journal”—each and every day writing down five to ten things that they were thankful for. The idea behind the journal was that, the more people focused on the positive, things that they probably took for granted, their outlook would begin to change. If a person is grateful and is aware of reasons for which to give thanks, then there is less room for self-pity, resentment or bitterness.

The story of the ten lepers in today’s gospel is interesting, not just because only one in ten thought of giving thanks, but also due to the person’s identity. Jesus notes that he was a foreigner, specifically a Samaritan. The Samaritans were despised by the people of Israel for both religious and political reasons. How interesting, then, that the one they probably least expected to do the right thing is precisely the one who returns, full of gratitude and wanting to praise the God who had blessed him.

Stories like these make me want to analyze my own attitude: is it a pity-party for all the things that go wrong, or all the ways someone has it better or easier than I do—or an attitude of gratitude for blessings I probably overlook or take for granted? Maybe we all should start a gratitude journal.

Homily for the Twenty-Seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time October 2, 2022

Mon, 03 Oct 2022 12:16:00 GMT

A Mustard Seed Faith

When I was a boy, I was impressed with Jesus statement in today’s gospel that, if we had faith the size of a mustard seed, we could say to a sycamore tree, “Be uprooted and transplanted into the ocean” it would obey you. We had a maple tree in our backyard. So I tried it, “Be uprooted!” Nothing happened. I tried saying it louder. Still nothing. But now I’ve come to understand the statement in new ways. I have never seen faith walking down the street. But I’ve seen people living their faith—sometimes in little ways that nobody else knows about, but what a difference the little things can make!

Once, a new Sister in India was bathing a person who was dying. There was such decay in the body of that man that the Sister had to look away to keep from gagging. Mother Teresa noticed, gently stepped in, and took over the task, smiling and bathing, ever so gently, until the person died. She then told the young Sister in a kind way, “We need to smile when we’re bathing a person. Otherwise they may think we don’t really love them.” A smile, a gentle touch—not all that much really—but what an example of faith. A little woman simply doing what needed to be done right in front of her, in that moment, for that person: a kind of “mustard seed” moment.

An elderly widow used to come to our home when I was little, so that my mother could write letters for her, some in Polish, others in English. And one thing I’ll never forget: she came with $100 in cash (a lot of money back then). Fifty dollars would be sent to relatives in Poland, and fifty to different missionaries that the widow wanted to help. Again, not a million dollar gift from a wealthy person, the kind that would make the newspapers, but faith—a small, but genuine, act of faith, because she knew that some people were worse off than she was. Again, a little “mustard seed” act of faith.

And when I was a young priest in Springfield, one of our parishioners told me about a woman who appeared to be living in dire poverty. My friend asked me to visit her, so I brought her some food and some money. I’ll never forget what happened. She agreed to accept what I brought, but only on one condition: if I gave half of everything to a mother with young children who lived across the street and needed it more. A small “mustard seed” act of faith by a poor person helping an even poorer neighbor.

These little, mustard seed-sized actions, these people simply doing their duty as they saw it, these acts of faith may seem small, but they have a ripple effect. And I believe the world is full of these acts of faith: people doing what they can to make the world less cold, less indifferent, little acts of caring that add up, bring light into the darkness, create love to overcome indifference, and offer hope to those who might otherwise give up.

Today’s gospel of little mustard seeds, of little duties performed, of little acts of kindness, of faith lived in every day circumstances…please take this gospel with you, and notice the little ways right in front of you where you can, if you choose, make a difference.

Homily for the Twenty-Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time September 18, 2022

Tue, 20 Sep 2022 14:36:00 GMT

In 1912, Henry Ford visited Ireland, the home of his ancestors. The story goes that, while he was staying in Cork, a couple of trustees of the local hospital paid him a call. “Mr. Ford, we’re building a hospital here in Cork. We think it would be a marvelous memorial to your dear departed father — who left his native land for the fair shores of America — if you would make a gift to support this worthy endeavor!” The great Henry Ford took out his checkbook. He handed over a check for £5,000 on the spot.

The next morning, at breakfast, he opened the local newspaper and saw the banner headline: “American Millionaire Gives Fifty Thousand to Local Hospital.” Ford summoned the two hospital trustees. He waved the newspaper in their faces. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Mr. Ford, we apologize. Such a regrettable error! But we can fix it. We’ll get the editor to print a retraction in the very next edition, declaring that the great Henry Ford has given not fifty thousand, but five.” Ford again pulled out his checkbook. He wrote out a check for £45,000, and handed it to them.

I like this story because it is humorous—and it is clever. I don’t know if the newspaper account was a typo, or something deliberate, but, in the end, it was a very clever way to increase Mr. Ford’s contribution.

I think that’s what Jesus is pointing out in the confusing story he tells. At first, it sounds as if he is praising unscrupulous business practices. But that’s not at all the case. He is saying that the guy about to get fired is very clever about taking care of his future. And Jesus wishes that people who follow him would be as serious about their eternal future. And within this new framework, the ground rules are quite different. Jesus teaches that your loyalties cannot be divided. You cannot serve two masters. You cannot serve God and mammon (riches, often describing the debasing effect of material wealth).

Here’s how I look at it. One of the deepest experiences I have had is when I became ill with an infection and almost died two and a half years ago (you may recall that I completely missed Christmas that year). When I was in such obvious need, it was natural to look to God for help, and to realize that I was dependent on God both materially and spiritually. When everything is going my way, by contrast, when I have pretty much all that I need, when I can take care of myself and answer all my own questions, then it becomes easier not to think of myself as being in need.

If I am self-sufficient, then it is easier to think that I don’t need God, or at least to act as if I don’t. This can lead to a self-centered way of living and acting as if there is nothing greater or more important than my wants and needs.

Over and over, Jesus teaches about the importance of putting God at the center of our lives. He is warning in today’s gospel that money and possessions can get in the way of that. It doesn’t mean that we deny the existence of God as such. But if we put ourselves at the center of everything, then it is a lot easier to ignore God and to act as if God doesn’t matter.

Another danger, one that is repeatedly found among Jesus’ critics, is that those who have wealth and power often look down on others and consider them inferior. In the story of the prodigal son, which was our gospel last week, the older son considered his younger brother a loser, pampered by his father, and easily let off the hook.

Jesus also pointed out that having money and possessions can make us callous and indifferent—and even blind—toward the needs of others. Do you remember the story of the rich man and the beggar Lazarus at his gate? The rich man dressed in purple and feasted every day. Poor Lazarus, by contrast, had nothing, had to resort to begging for help, and was even covered with sores that stray dogs would lick. The rich man could have tripped over the poor beggar, yet he did nothing. His wealth had robbed him of compassion, and made him feel that God and God’s teaching didn’t apply to him. He felt no need for God.

As an image to help us to remember all this, I go back to an experience I had during a trip to Israel. There are two major lakes we visited: the Sea of Galilee in the North and the Dead Sea in the South. Both are fed by the same source of water. But there’s a big difference. The Sea of Galilee is alive, teeming with fish. The Dead Sea, by contrast, has so much salt and other deposits in it that nothing can survive. The problem is that the water that goes into the Sea of Galilee flows out again. The Dead Sea, on the other hand, has no outlet. The contaminants just keep building up. In the same way, we can get clogged, be full of ourself, if all we do is take and hoard money and possessions. If we don’t want to end up like the rich man in the gospel, we have to let our blessings flow. We need to notice the beggars at the gate, the poor and vulnerable, the sick and the lonely—and we need to respond. Otherwise, our possessions just might possess us and divine life no longer flows in and through us.

And there’s a song that we’ve sung quite often that carries the message about priorities. It’s called “Seek Ye First”. Do you remember?

Seek ye first the kingdom of God

And his righteousness,

And all these thing shall be added unto you;

Alleluia.

Ask, it and it shall be given unto you,

Seek, and ye shall find,

Knock, and the door shall be opened unto

you;

Alleluia.

Homily for the Twenty-Third Sunday in Ordinary Time September 4, 2022

Tue, 06 Sep 2022 10:28:00 GMT

This gospel is pretty harsh sounding and dramatic, isn’t it. Can you imagine, Jesus asking that we renounce all our possessions? Can you imagine doing that! A demanding challenge such as this is best handled indirectly. And so…let me share some stories…

One day an Indian boy found a large pearl that he thought to be priceless. Now he knew his worries were over. He would never have to work again in his life.

But when the boy tried to sell the pearl, the buyers put him off. In the days ahead the boy was attacked several times. Now he knew the pearl buyers were out to rob him and possibly kill him. He had a choice to make—between the pearl and his life.

With the pearl buyers looking on, the boy went down to the beach, took the pearl, and threw it into the sea as far as he could.

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There is a story of a woman who had been used to every luxury and to all respect. She died, and when she arrived in heaven, an angel was sent to conduct her to her house there. They passed many a lovely mansion and the woman thought that each one, as they came to it, must be the one allotted to her. When they had passed through the main streets, they came to the outskirts where the houses were much smaller; and on the very fringe they came to a house which was little more than a shack. “That is your house,” said the conducting angel.

“What!” said the woman. “That! I cannot live like that.” “I am sorry,” said the angel. ‘but that is all we could build with the materials you sent up.”

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Here’s a story about how people catch monkeys in India. They cut a small hole in a sturdy box; then they put a tasty nut inside the box. The hole is large enough for the monkey to put its hand through, but it’s too small for the monkey to withdraw its hand once it has clutched the nut inside.

So the monkey has two choices. It can let go of the nut and go free, or it can clutch the nut and remained trapped. Monkeys usually hang onto the nut.

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These are stories about how possessions actually have an impact—on freedom, on life, and on our eternal destiny in heaven. They make good food for thought and for prayerful meditation…

Homily for the Twenty-First Sunday in Ordinary Time August 21, 2022

Mon, 22 Aug 2022 11:38:00 GMT

A student once asked a successful businessman what was the secret of his success. He replied that his approach could be summarized in three words: “and then some.” He said, “Early in life I learned that the difference between average people and the truly successful could be simply stated in those three words. Top people did what was expected, and then some.”

The businessman offered examples: The truly successful were considerate and kind—and then some. They met their obligations and responsibilities fairly and squarely—and then some. They were good friends and helpful neighbors—and then some. They could be counted on in an emergency—and then some.

I refer to these insights from the business world because of something Jesus says in our gospel reading today. When asked about the number of people who would be saved, Jesus says, “Strive to enter through the narrow gate.” Strive to enter through the narrow door. To me this suggests giving extra effort and going beyond the bare minimum.

Let me give you an example. During my college years I took a sociology course that studied social groups by reading modern literature. For example, the book The Godfather enabled us to study the dynamics of various subgroups in society, including the Mafia, family, business groups, police and politicians. This course was different in that there were no exams whatsoever. Instead, we were required to write three ten-page papers. Well, I really got rolling, primarily because I was truly into this course, and instead of writing three ten-page papers, I wrote three forty-five page papers! I got noticed, and my efforts opened doors for me and enabled me to get into some top-level discussions and get a better than average education. I chose the narrow door, the one of hard work, discipline and a strong desire to learn more. [Since then, I still work hard, but I have learned to stop and smell the roses!]

So, when Jesus talks about this narrow gate, or narrow door, I believe he asks us to go beyond the minimum. We are not to settle for a kind of surface-level involvement with our faith. That’s why I think the businessman’s insight can be helpful.

We find this spelled out in the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew’s gospel. There, Jesus says things like, “Should anyone press you into service for one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the person who begs from you. Do not turn your back on the borrower….My command to you is: love your enemies, pray for your persecutors….If you love those who love you, what merit is there in that? Do not tax collectors [those despised people] do as much? And if you greet your brothers [and sisters] only, what is so praiseworthy about that? Do not pagans do as much?”

Have you ever had to struggle with a narrow door? Like going into the toilet on an airplane without tipping over? Or getting into the seat of a compact car? It takes a lot of effort and a bit of concentration, doesn’t it?

Well, how much effort are we putting into living our faith? Think of the businessman’s advice and reflect on it: be considerate and kind—and then some; meet your obligations fairly and squarely—and then some; be good friends and helpful neighbors—and then some. In this way, our commitment to the faith will not become lukewarm. Our love for others will not yield to indifference. And our love of God will not be just a sometime thing.

Homily for the Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time August 7, 2022

Mon, 08 Aug 2022 11:31:00 GMT

A rabbi friend told me a story…It relates to the Old Testament tradition about the Exodus of the Israelites out of Egypt. You have the huge crowd of Hebrew people with Moses in the lead. Behind them, the Pharaoh’s army is in hot pursuit. Those escaping bondage have come to the edge of the Sea. Moses raises his arms, points the staff at the sea, and voices a prayer asking God to lead the people to safety. But nothing happens. Indeed, nothing happens until the first person actually steps into the water and shows, through this simple act, that he had faith in God’s promises. When that first step of courage is taken, the sea parts, and the people can cross over into freedom.

I want to focus our attention on the second reading today because it is a celebration of faithful courage. The author of the Letter to the Hebrews points out the various ways in which Abraham courageously shows his faith. Abraham, by the way, was the ancient Patriarch who lived some two thousand years before Christ. The three major monotheistic religions (those that believe in one God), Judaism, Christianity and Islam, can all trace their origins to Abraham.

The story of Abraham’s faith is a story of courage, trust, and surrender to the will of God.

Abraham is asked to pack up his family and take them to a foreign land that God will show him. Abraham obeys. God promised that Abraham’s descendants would be as numerous as the stars of the sky or the sands of the seashore, but Abraham was 100 and his wife Sarah 90 at the time. It seemed impossible, but Abraham trusted God, and they had a son, named Isaac. Then, in an ultimate test of Abraham’s faith, God asks him to sacrifice his son Isaac—the very one through whom God’s promises would be fulfilled. With great courage and trust, Abraham made ready the sacrifice, and then was stopped by God because he could clearly see Abraham’s faith in action. Thus, faith is not just something cerebral; it is much more than an idea. True faith needs to be lived.

There was a great psychologist named Erik Erikson, who studied and wrote about the various psychological challenges placed before us in the various developmental stages each person goes through. I think it is significant that the very first challenge Erikson identifies is trust (vs. mistrust). A baby, born into what must seem a strange and fearful world, must learn trust from the protective and nurturing love of mother, father and family.

As we age and our world gets larger, there are new challenges to trust: leaving home, figuring out what to do with one’s life, finding a mate or a vocation, navigating through the challenges life throws at us: these steps all take faith and courage.

And it seems that toward the end of life, the task is still not completed. With the loss of strength, the onset of illness and disease, the aches and pains that come from what once were routine actions, memory becoming fuzzy, growing dependence on others…the challenges never seem to end, and great faith and courage are required.

In the gospel Jesus talks about the end time, and the need to be prepared for our face-to-face encounter one day in the future. But we prepare for that day in the present. With each challenge that life places before us, it is as if God teaches us what is most important by the falling away of everything else, of all other securities. Just as with Abraham, with each new situation, God is asking: Do you still trust me? Do you still have faith? Do you have the courage it takes to carry your particular cross, just as I did on the road to Calvary?

Hopefully, wherever you are in your journey, and no matter what you are facing, you will have the courageous faith of Abraham, a real, lived faith, like the first Hebrew that dared to put his foot in the water, and like Jesus himself, who trusted, even on the cross.

Homily for the Eighteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time July 31, 2022

Mon, 01 Aug 2022 16:59:00 GMT

I love historical biographies because they make history more personal; they bring history to life. Let me share one of my favorite stories about a US president. Many years ago, it was a bitterly cold night in northern Virginia. An old man’s beard was frosting over as he waited for a ride across the river. The wait seemed endless. His body, especially the fingers and toes, became numb.

He heard a succession of horses’ hoof beats rounding a bend down the road. Several riders came and passed by. Finally, as one particular rider drew near, the elderly man stepped out toward him and asked for a ride across the river, explaining that there didn’t appear to be a passage by foot.

The rider replied, “Sure thing.” Seeing that the man was half-frozen, the rider got down from his horse, helped the man to get on, and took him not just across the river, but all the way to the man’s home. Finally, he asked why on such a bitterly cold night the man had waited to ask the last rider.

The man replied, “I looked into the eyes of the other riders and immediately saw that they didn’t have any concern for my situation. It would have been useless to ask them for a ride. But when I looked into your eyes, your kindness and compassion were evident. I knew, then and there, that you would help.”

The rider replied, “May I never be too busy in my own affairs that I fail to respond to the needs of others with kindness and compassion.” And with that Thomas Jefferson turned his horse around and made his way back to the White House.

As I read today’s gospel about the rich man, I am reminded about a visit to Israel many years ago. There are two lakes that we visited, the Sea of Galilee in the north, and the Dead Sea in the south. Near the Sea of Galilee a restaurant was serving fish that had been caught that day in the lake. I felt honored to be eating fish from the same lake where Peter and his companions had fished.

Then, there is the so called “Dead” Sea. The reason for the name is that this sea has no outlet. Thus, salt and other deposits simply keep accumulating. As a result the buoyancy of the water has changed. You can float in it and not sink. However, when someone kicks the water, and you get the salt water into your eyes, it feels like acid. Needless to say, fish could not possibly survive in the Dead Sea.

I think the problem with the rich man in Jesus’ story was that all the wealth flowed in one direction: toward himself. He had done well, planned wisely, and had more than enough to retire on. But, evidently, he didn’t care about others, including, I presume, those all around him who were destitute and probably begging for help around his home. As a result, his greed clogged the arteries of his conscience, making it like the Dead Sea, deadening his sense of compassion and empathy.

The point of the story is that how we use our money, how we feel about wealth, discloses our character. More broadly, we learn about God’s priorities. It is God who gives us life, ultimately, and all the talents and abilities we have. None of us is where we are today all by ourselves. One of the reasons I have been happy to be in this community, is that I have had the opportunity to give back. I wouldn’t be where I am today, were it not for neighbors who cared, teachers who pushed me, and a town that is full of caring and compassionate people. Love flowed to me from just about every direction, and it keeps flowing today. If I had simply hogged it all, I would have become morally clogged like the Dead Sea. But you taught me to give back, which is precisely what Jesus asks of us in today’s gospel.

And I give thanks to you in a special way this weekend because these days are special. It was exactly forty-five years ago, on a weekend such as this, that I was ordained and celebrated my first Mass. I feel incredibly blessed.

Homily for the Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time July 17, 2022

Mon, 18 Jul 2022 10:38:00 GMT

I recently read a story that brought me to think about today’s gospel in a new way…

A young minister walked slowly to the office, mumbling to himself that he was not “on call” that day, and that it was almost supper time. There in the office sat a young man. His clothes and emanating stench told the minister that here was a street-person who had not bathed lately. He introduced himself only as “Jim.” As Jim began his story, he mentioned that he had no place to stay.

The minister could see it coming. He was going to ask for money. Deep inside himself he was hoping that the housekeeper would interrupt and call him to dinner. The young man continued his sad story. To the minister it dragged slowly on. Then the housekeeper knocked on the office door to tell the minister that he was wanted on the phone. He excused himself and went to answer the phone.

When he returned, the minister found that Jim had left. The minister sensed that his manner had revealed his preoccupation with other things. So he looked outside, up and down the street, but could not see his departed visitor. Feeling the growing twinges of remorse, he got into his car and drove through the neighborhood.

Finally, he spotted Jim and pulled his car up to the curb. When he called out to Jim, there was no answer. The poor fellow just kept on walking. So the minister parked the car, ran up the sidewalk, and stood in front of the young man. “Jim, I’m sorry that I had to leave. Would you come back with me and finish our conversation?”

The young man simply shrugged and said in a low whisper, “You’re just like everybody else. No one wants to listen.” With that Jim walked around the minister and disappeared into the night.

This is a story I can identify with. Throughout the years of my priesthood, there have always been people like Jim, obviously in need but hard to deal with. Often, I have wanted to help, but also wondered if I was being ripped off.

But beyond that, I learned early on that there were many people who lived alone, were lonely, and had no one to talk to. Often, they had family members, but they either lived at a great distance away or chose not to visit. When I did Communion calls, particularly in Springfield, I was always late for lunch because those I was visiting simply needed someone to talk to.

And then there is today’s gospel passage about Martha and Mary. You can learn many lessons and draw various conclusions from it. Some have said that it’s a story about the need for balance in our lives between doing good for others (like Martha) and taking time to spend in prayer (like Mary). Others have noted that in that society it was the woman’s role to do the cooking and take care of the basic needs of hospitality, while it would normally be men who would sit and talk. They suggest, therefore, that Jesus was elevating the role of women above that of cooking the meal and doing the dishes.

But now I see another dimension. Jesus, as the gospels show us, often had very long days, filled with teaching, healing, feeding multitudes and casting out demons. I get the impression that Martha and Mary were more intimate friends of Jesus, and he could go there to relax, have a nice meal, and let his hair down. And maybe, as a tired and over-worked human being, he needed a place to vent, speak about what went well and what didn’t, complain if some people were being unreasonable, and let off steam about the Pharisees and other religious leaders who kept contradicting him and making trouble wherever he went. We sometimes forget that Jesus was fully human and that he probably needed close friends like everybody else.

And if that was true for Jesus, it’s probably true for us all. I think that’s why Jesus always gathered people into relationship, so that the lonely could have someone to talk to, those who were experiencing injustice could have someone to defend them, those who were hungry or finding it difficult to make ends meet would have someone to help meet their needs, and for street persons and those who are poor to have a place where they could go and be given hope when everybody else failed to listen or let them down.

Our gospel is indeed about hospitality, but I think it leads us to something deeper. People need to be fed and have their basic material needs met. But they also need help with maintaining human connection, seeking reassurance, finding encouragement, and having someone to listen and show that they understand and care. Today’s gospel invites us to be such listeners, and to bring the compassionate heart of Jesus into an often cold and uncaring world.

Homily for the Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time July 10, 2022

Mon, 11 Jul 2022 12:58:00 GMT

There is a story told about the late Sam Rayburn, a former Speaker of the House of Representatives. The daughter of one of his friends was critically injured in a car accident. Early the next morning Mr. Rayburn knocked on his friend’s front door. He said, “I just came by to see what I could do to help.” The father replied that there was nothing to do.

“Well,” Rayburn said, “have you had your morning coffee yet?” The man said that they had not taken time for breakfast. While Rayburn was working in the kitchen, his friend came in and asked, “Mr. Speaker, I thought you were supposed to be having breakfast at the White House this morning?” “I was,” said Rayburn, “but I called the President and told him I had a friend who was in need and that I couldn’t come to the White House.”

I refer to this story because of Jesus’ story—the well-known parable of the Good Samaritan. I always wondered why the priest and the Levite never stopped to help the man beaten and left to die in the ditch. Where was their humanity? Of course, scripture scholars have some theories. Some, for example, have argued that, as religious figures on their way to Jerusalem, they probably had religious duties to attend to in the temple. Coming into contact with blood, or a dead person, would have made them ritually impure, unable to perform their religious duties. I recently read a theory that because the man who was robbed and beaten probably had his clothing stolen, and probably was lying face down in the ditch. So, those passing by would not have known if he were a fellow Jew or a foreigner. They would have felt more obligated to help a member of their own tribe than someone outside their community, whether that be socially, ethnically or religiously.

This approach is what the religious scholar, or lawyer, was trying to get at. Who is my neighbor that I am required to love? And the flip-side of that question: whom am I allowed not to love? And the irony is that the hero of Jesus’ story is precisely a person who is an enemy, both politically and religiously—a despised Samaritan who would not have been considered a neighbor by most Jewish people of that time. I wanted to present an image that would capture the shock of Jesus’ presentation of this unlikely hero, and so I offer this imagery, which probably over-states the point, but offers understanding nonetheless.

A man was robbed and beaten, left along the side of the road in a bloody mess. George Washington happened to be going that way, but when he saw the man, he went to the opposite side and continued walking. Then, Abraham Lincoln came by, but he did the same. Finally, Adolf Hitler came along in his jeep. He felt pity for the man lying in the road, nursed his wounds, took him into his jeep and brought him to an inn, paying for his care.

As I said, this probably over-states the point, but it captures the surprise Jesus’ audience would have experienced.

How ironic, then, that the one despised and looked down upon makes Jesus’ point. The Samaritan transcended the boundaries of prejudice, bigotry and hatred, and by his actions showed that everyone was his neighbor—even the Jews who hated him. His compassion allowed him to see beyond prejudice and to build a bridge of love to this neighbor, who—regardless of his ethnic, political or religious views—saw a fellow human being in need and showed love for him in a very concrete way.

So, the whole point of the gospel story is to ask us whom we are like—the religious scholar or Jesus. In other words, do I want a pared down, comfortable definition of neighbor as one who looks, thinks and acts pretty much as I do, or does my definition of neighbor break down the boundaries of political, cultural and racial exclusion so that I can be a neighbor even to those whom I find it most difficult to love?

Homily for the Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time June 26, 2022

Mon, 27 Jun 2022 12:48:00 GMT

The world-renowned opera singer Luciano Pavarotti recalls, “When I was a boy, my father, a baker, introduced me to the wonders of song. He urged me to work very hard to develop my voice. Arrigo Pola, a professional tenor in my hometown, took me on as a student. I also enrolled in a teacher’s college. As graduation was nearing, I asked my father, ‘Shall I be a teacher or a singer?’

‘Luciano,’ my father replied, ‘if you try to sit on two chairs, you will fall between them. For life, you must choose, you can only sit in one chair.’”

Pavarotti continues, “I chose one. It took seven years of study and frustration before I made my first professional appearance. It took another seven to reach the Metropolitan Opera. And now I think, whether it’s laying bricks, writing a book—whatever we choose—we should give ourselves completely to it. Commitment—that’s the key. Choose one chair.”

In our gospel reading Jesus is calling various individuals to make the commitment of following him. And some of what he says sounds harsh to our ears, doesn’t it? For example, when he says, “Let the dead bury their dead. But you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.”

During Jesus’ time, there was a strong sense of social and moral obligation to bury the dead. And we Catholics in our day include burying the dead as one of the corporal works of mercy. But Jesus calls for a total commitment in which the duty to God comes first. Perhaps by overstating the case as it were, Jesus wants his followers to realize how important it is to put God at the absolute center, when so often we make someone or something else more important.

We see this in the case of the last person called. He responds, “I will follow you, Lord, but…” Let’s stop right there, with that word “but”.

When Jesus calls Peter and Andrew, and James and John, to be his disciples, we are told that they immediately followed him. James and John even left their father sitting in the boat. The same thing happened when Jesus called Matthew, the tax collector. Matthew immediately followed Jesus. There were no “buts”. They didn’t try to sit in two chairs, to go part of the way, to be disciples on their terms .

We can do this is many ways. A lonely old person, perhaps a grandparent, or someone in a nursing home, or a neighbor living alone wants us to visit. And even though we feel we should, we can find all kinds of excuses for not doing so. We know that going to church on Sunday is something we are asked to do as Catholics, but for many it’s just more important to do something else. And we let things slide.

There’s an interesting passage in the Book of Revelation. The author presents a message from Jesus to various local churches, with an assessment as to how well they were doing. To the Church in Laodicea, he has this to say: “I know your deeds; I know you are neither hot nor cold. How I wish you were one or the other—hot or cold! But because you are lukewarm, neither hot nor cold, I will spew you out of my mouth!’” (Revelation 3:15-16)

I recently read a little poem called “The Gospel According to You”. The author acknowledges the four gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, but also suggests that each of us is writing a gospel for others to read. It’s put together day by day by “the things we do and the words we say.” The anonymous author asks, “Do others read His truth and His love in your life? Does your life speak of evil, or does it ring true?”

Let’s place ourselves before the Lord in today’s gospel, asking us to follow him, as he did those individuals at that time. Here’s the sentence to consider: “I will follow you, Lord, but______ .

Homily for the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ June 19, 2022

Mon, 20 Jun 2022 12:58:00 GMT

The story is told of a man attending a crowded church service who refused to remove his hat when asked to do so by ushers. The preacher was perturbed, too, and waited for the man after the service. He told the man that the church was quite happy to have him as a guest, and invited him to join the church, but he explained the traditional decorum regarding men’s hats and said, “I hope you will conform to the practice in the future.”

“Thank you,” said the man. “And thank you for taking time to talk to me. It is good of you to invite me to join the congregation. In fact, I joined it three years ago and have been coming regularly ever since, but today is the first time that anyone paid attention to me.

“After being an unknown for three years, today, by simply keeping my hat, I have had the pleasure of talking with the ushers. And now I have had a conversation with you, who always appeared too busy to talk to me before.”

The author of the article asked a couple of pointed questions: What do you do to make strangers welcome?

In my own experience, during the time before I was of school age, I used to accompany my mother as she did errands and visited people in our community. In particular, I remember visiting some poor widows who were unable to read and write. If they had received a letter from Poland, my mother would read it to the widow, and the widow would dictate a response. But what I remember most fondly is that, as soon as we arrived, the widow would excuse herself, go out, and then return with a big bag of soda and cookies and candy. Those widows made me feel welcome, and they certainly were not too busy to show hospitality.

I have recently been studying a couple of scholarly commentaries on the book of Revelation, which happens to be one of the more difficult books in the bible to figure out.

In one beautiful passage Jesus is quoted as saying, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will enter his house and dine with him, and he with me” (see Revelation 3:14-22).

The author of the study goes on to point out that in the Middle East sharing a meal “indicates a relationship of trust and friendship…To dine with Christ is to be united to him in his covenant and to know his love; it recalls our table fellowship with him in the Eucharist” (Peter Williamson, p. 95).

We have table fellowship with Jesus in the Eucharist! We are thereby united with him and come to know his intimate love. And as we celebrate the feast of Jesus’ Body and Blood in the Eucharist today, I want to direct our attention to the Last Supper, the final meal Jesus had with his disciples before his crucifixion, the final meal that is now celebrated in memory of Jesus’ incredible love—love even unto death.

I want to consider the extraordinary hospitality that is shown by Jesus at that very special Last Supper. Jesus celebrated communion with Peter, even though he knew Peter was about to deny even knowing him three times. Jesus celebrated communion with Matthew, even though the vast majority of the people considered Matthew a traitor because he had collected taxes for the Romans. Jesus celebrated communion with Thomas, even though Thomas would later have doubts and demand that Jesus give physical proof of his resurrection. Jesus celebrated communion with James and John, the two brothers who had been arguing for positions of honor at Jesus’ right and left when he entered his kingdom.

Throughout his public ministry, Jesus was repeatedly criticized for the type of hospitality he offered: “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.” The scribes and Pharisees had their rules of proper table fellowship, and so in their eyes Jesus was repeatedly breaking the rules. By inviting such people to table fellowship, Jesus was declaring that he wanted a relationship with them, a relationship of trust and friendship.

Pope Francis has emphasized this revolutionary aspect of what Jesus intended: “The Eucharist, although it is the fullness of sacramental life, is not a prize for the perfect but a powerful medicine and nourishment for the weak.”

The man in the story who wore the hat to church felt unwelcome since no one seemed to make genuine room for him. I hope that doesn’t happen here. Of course, we are only human, and we can fail despite our best efforts. But Jesus wants us to help him build relationships, to welcome people that seem to be less than perfect, all the while remembering that we are less than perfect ourselves. If we were perfect, we wouldn’t really need Jesus, would we? But at it is, Jesus still welcomes sinners and eats with them—with us . We should do the same.

Homily for the Solemnity of the Most Holy Trinity June 12, 2022

Tue, 14 Jun 2022 10:10:00 GMT

In a recent issue of the Vatican newspaper, I read an article about two Ukranian nuns and their experience of the war that is raging there. Because this article reveals something about the nature of God, I want to share the testimony of one of the nuns, named Sister Svitlana.

On February 24, the Sisters in a small town were awakened by the sound of explosions. At first thinking it was an accident, they came to realize that the explosions signaled the beginning of war. “How is this possible? Is this really happening?” The terrible suffering becomes sharper when Sr. Svitlana meets and listens to those who have stared death in the face: the wounded soldiers she visited in the military hospital and the refugees who saw people die during their journey. Sr. Svitlana said, “Listening to them raises many questions to God, and among these, questions on the nature of evil. Before the war I knew that evil existed, but it did not touch our life as it does now. This is another reality in which God is also present, who suffers and is crucified…And God answered me with a question: ‘Do you want to enter into this reality with me?’ I do not want to run away from this, creating illusory worlds for myself. Rather, I want to enter it, to be there to do as much good as possible.”

What really struck me was God’s question: Do you want to enter into this reality with me? It’s understandable, in times of such suffering, to ask: Where is God in all this? Why doesn’t God do something? God asked Sr. Svitlana: Do you want to enter into this reality with me?

When I was studying in Belgium, I learned about a Flemish mystic named Jan van Ruysbroeck, who lived from 1293 to 1381. He had an interesting way of looking at God’s way of working in the world. Van Ruysbroeck compared God’s love and grace to the action of the tides of the ocean: going out from the source, and then drawing everything back to the source. God’s love constantly washing over us like the tide, constantly nourishing us, constantly drawing us to himself.

Today we celebrate the feast of the Trinity: Father, Son and Holy Spirit—three persons, yet only one God. If you want to put it into mathematical terms, what we are saying is: 1+1+1=1. But the Trinity is about much more than abstract math!

As a trinity of persons, yet one God, God reveals God’s self as a perfect community in which love is so strong that it binds perfectly. What’s more, we learn that love is not real until it goes out and loves the other, and then receives the love back.

In Jesus, God came to us as one of us and loved us to his dying breath, to the last drop of blood. God’s Spirit gives us life, prays within us, reminds us constantly how we are to love, and inspires us to love God with our whole being, and our neighbor as ourself.

This God we celebrate and worship, even within God’s very self, is love given and returned, from the Father to the Son and back again. And God created us with freedom so that we might freely do as God does: give the love we have received back to God and to each other.

And where is God when love seems to be absent? Right in the middle of it, dying for us on a cross. Right in the middle of it, amidst those dying in Ukraine, asking Sister Svitlana: Do you want to enter into this reality with me? God is like a policeman, or a firefighter, or an EMT, who, when there is a problem, doesn’t run away from it, but right at it, right into it.

And now God may be asking us, when children are shot down in schools, when deadly guns are so readily available: Do you want to enter into this reality with me and create change? When a powerful country attacks a weaker one without any provocation: Do you want to enter into this reality with me and demand justice for the oppressed? You see, in the Bethlehem stable God entered into our poverty. As one who was known to come from Nazareth, a desperately poor town in the middle of nowhere, God entered into our prejudice and racism. As one who was wrongly accused and sentenced to death, God entered into our injustice. Wave after wave, like the rising and ebbing tides, God’s love washes over us, helps us to face our pain and suffering, our hope and joy, continually drawing us closer and closer to the font of infinite and eternal love.

So, look around. Don’t close your eyes to the pain and suffering, the poverty and injustice. Instead, let God ask you: Do you want to enter into this reality with me? Do you want to build a human community worthy of the name, built in the image of the Trinity, a perfect community of love?

Homily for May 29, 2022

Tue, 31 May 2022 12:10:00 GMT

In today’s gospel, we have part of Jesus’ long and intimate prayer that he offers to the Father at the Last Supper—something we find only in the gospel of John. So, to begin our reflection on prayer, I want to offer two stories…

A man’s daughter asked the parish priest to come and pray with her father. When the priest arrived at their home, he found the father in bed, propped up by two pillows; an empty chair sat next to the bed. The priest believed that the father had been informed of his visit.

“I guess you were expecting my visit?” the priest asked. “No, who are you?” replied the father. “I’m the new associate in the parish. When I saw the empty chair, I figured you knew I was going to show up.”

“Oh, yeah, the chair,” said the bedridden man. I’ve never told anyone this before, not even my daughter, but all my life I have never known how to pray. At Sunday Mass I used to hear the pastor talk about prayer, but it always went right over my head; and so I abandoned prayer. Then, one day my best friend Joe told me that prayer is simply having a conversation with Jesus. Sit down and place an empty chair in front of you; now in faith see Jesus sitting on that chair. It’s not spooky because Jesus promised to be with us always. So, Father, you see, I tried it and I’ve liked it so much that I do it a couple of hours every day. I’m careful, though; if my daughter saw me talking to an empty chair, she’d send me to the funny farm.”

Two nights later, the daughter called to tell the priest that her father died that afternoon. “Did he appear to die in peace?” the priest asked. “Why yes, Father,” said the daughter. “When I left the house around two o’clock, he called me over to his bedside, told me one of his corny jokes and kissed me on the cheek. When I got home later, I found him dead. But there was something strange. Apparently, just before Daddy died, he must’ve fallen because I found him with his head resting on the chair beside the bed.”

Isn’t that a beautiful story? Now, for story number two… Shrieking in the middle of the night, the smoke detector startled a family awake. Immediately jumping from their bed, the parents yelled for their children to hurry out of the house. Once outside, the parents started counting and discovered that one child was missing. A parent’s worst fear was now realized. Then they saw their son at a second floor window, trapped by the flames.

The father, a very devout man, immediately dropped to his knees, praying that God would somehow work to save his son. The mother, too, was a person of deep faith, but also a very practical woman. Immediately, she ran next door, yanked a neighbor’s extension ladder from the garage wall, propped it against her house and rescued her son from the flaming house.

There are times when the best way to express faith is to get off your knees, go get a ladder and do what needs to be done in a given situation.

And that brings us to Jesus’ prayer in the gospel. He is praying for his followers and those who would come to believe in him through their efforts. His deep desire is for oneness, that his disciples allow his intimate presence to be with them, making them one with each other and with him. But even more, the oneness he prays for is taken up into the very intimacy of God, to the life of the Trinity, into the oneness that Jesus the Son has with the Father in the divine energy of the Holy Spirit.

But this prayer is not just an elevated experience in the mind and heart. There are practical consequences…the reason we are to be one is so that others may see our oneness, see our love, and then want to become Jesus’ followers. Our prayer needs to lead into our actions, our way of life, the demonstrated authenticity of who we are. Our prayer creates intimacy and strength, and then it leads to action, to everyday life, to the types of persons we are and what we do to demonstrate our faith.

We have been traumatized yet again by an enormously heart-breaking tragedy: nineteen young children and two teachers heartlessly killed by a rampaging young man with an assault rifle. And everyone is asking: What do we do? Will it be any different this time? Will anything change? Will the lives of innocent people be any safer?

So, what do we do? Of course, we pray. We pray for all those involved—parents, brothers, sisters, grandparents, classmates, teachers, administrators, law enforcement personnel, community leaders, neighbors, the entire community that has been bludgeoned by this act of violence. We pray that they will experience the closeness of God—a God who knows what it is to be crucified, to be cut down all too young when he was trying to do good and to bring hope to so many who lived with little hope. Prayer helps. Prayer changes things.

But is it enough? Do we remain silent? Do we simply accept the fact that an eighteen year old can so easily get his hands on weapons of mass destruction, meant primarily for use by soldiers? Do we accept the theory that the best way to respond is to get even more guns out there—into the hands of teachers, so the next time they can shoot back? Does that really make sense? It’s not working, and the insanity just goes on. Let me point out something very important. Some people are saying that this is solely a political issue. That’s not true. When innocent children die like this repeatedly, it is a moral issue. And let me suggest that we need more and more people to become angry enough, committed enough, compassionate enough, to demand change. How you do it is a question of tactics. Some will demonstrate, others will write to members of Congress, still others will talk to their neighbors to raise awareness and to help others to see the urgency around this issue. But little children are being slaughtered, and something needs to change.

So prayer certainly means having an intimate heart-to-heart relationship with the Lord. But sometimes, when the house is on fire, you have to use a ladder to get people out. And when the country’s awash in unspeakable violence, you have to act, you need the courage to speak the truth: what we’re doing isn’t working. And it has to stop.

Homily for the Solemnity of the Ascension May 26, 2022

Tue, 31 May 2022 12:08:00 GMT

Today’s feast of the Ascension has a lot to do with hope. The simplest way to put it is: where he has gone, we hope to follow. Like an older brother, Jesus has walked along the way ahead of us. He experienced many of the same joys and disappointments, thrills and sorrows that we do. But there is a major difference: he has gone ahead, into eternity, risen from the dead, and has told us what awaits us. “In my Father’s house there are many mansions. I am going to prepare a place for you. And then I will come back to get you, so that where I am, you also may be.” Hope: where he has gone, we hope to follow.

Hope is perhaps the one thing we need most of all, given the present state of our world. I’m not sure that it’s the worst it’s ever been, but with the rapid pace of communication in our day, all the world’s problems come tumbling in on us. A cruel war in Ukraine, rising prices at the supermarket and at the pump, killers shooting multiple, innocent victims, most recently in Buffalo and Texas, and deep-seated division and heated anger. How do we deal with all this negativity? How do we claim the hope that Jesus came to give us?

I am reminded often of a speech that the late Robert Kennedy gave to young people in South Africa in 1966: “Some believe there is nothing one man or one woman can do against the enormous array of the world’s ills. Yet many of the world’s great movements of thought and action flowed from the work of a single person…

“These people moved the world, and so can we all. Few will have the greatness to bend history itself, but each person can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of all those acts will be written the history of this generation.

“It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that history is shaped. Each time a person stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he or she sends forth a tiny ripple of hope. And crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.”

So …when someone points out all the ills of the world in their multiplicity and heaviness, and asks me how I can have hope, I respond that all those problems, added together, are beyond my paygrade. But there are people right around here who know that, when life is at its worst and everyone lets them down, they can still come to our door. They can still come to our church. And through a multiplicity of generous and compassionate actions, there are hungry people who are being fed, young mothers are getting diapers, people are not being evicted from their apartments, utilities are not being shut off, and those living in a very difficult world, up to their eyeballs with bills to pay, mouths to feed, and worries that paralyze them can come here and get some hope. And, when you think about it, every one of us can do something, first by noticing someone else’s pain, and then going out of ourselves, maybe inconveniencing ourselves a bit, maybe by doing without something…we can make a difference, we can bring a ripple of hope. In response to the most recent tragic loss of life in Texas, and before that in Buffalo, and for months now in Ukraine, we can make our voices heard, joining together to convince others of the need for gun safety and for a greater effort to bring about the will to create peace, to demand peace, in our fractured world.

All of this, so as to continue the work of hope started by the Master: where he has gone, we hope to follow. Well, the following of Jesus doesn’t have to wait until the day we die. We can do what Jesus did every day of his life on this earth, right up into eternity: he gave hope. And going along the path he has gone, and doing the kinds of things he did, we can follow right now, today. So, let’s follow. Let’s give hope in our little part of creation. And let’s do what we can to influence public opinion and demand change. That’s not above our pray grade. And it is our right as citizens; it is our duty as followers of Jesus Christ.

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Easter May 8, 2022

Tue, 10 May 2022 12:05:00 GMT

Let me begin with a story. One day a newly installed pastor walked around the streets of his new parish to acquaint himself with the people of the neighborhood. One of his first stops was at the local shoemaker’s shop.

The pastor talked to the cobbler, using, at times, some lofty theological language. The cobbler replied with keen understanding and deep spiritual insight that left the pastor astonished. “You shouldn’t be cobbling shoes,” stated the pastor. “A man with your understanding and clear manner of expressing those thoughts should not be doing such menial work.”

The cobbler was quick to reply, “Pastor, you better take that back now!” “Take what back?” asked the pastor.

“Take back,” responded the cobbler, “that I’m doing menial, secular work. Do you see that pair of boots on the shelf? They belong to the son of Widow Smith, whose husband died last year. She’s supported by her only child, who manages to keep a roof over their heads by working outdoors every day. I hear bad weather is in the forecast, and I felt the Lord saying to me, ‘Will you cobble Widow Smith’s boy some shoes so he won’t catch cold and come down with some sickness?’ I replied, ‘Certainly, Lord, I will.’”

Looking at the pastor, the cobbler said, “Pastor, you preach your sermons under God’s direction, I trust. And I will cobble that boy’s boots under God’s direction. Then, one day, when the final rewards are given out, the Harvest Master will say to you and to me the same approving pronouncement—‘ Well done, my good and faithful servant.’”

In today’s gospel Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice; I know them, and they follow me.” Sometimes, we can make following Jesus something high-falutin and important sounding, and somehow separated from everyday life. Sometimes, we limit the word “vocation” to a calling within the Church to the priesthood or the religious life. But the story of the cobbler and the pastor reminds us that, no matter what we are doing, we can bring God into our everyday life by listening to the voice of the Shepherd and allowing his words make a difference in how we do things.

Recently, I came across a rewording of Jesus’ teaching of the Beatitudes—a wording that helps to bring the high-sounding words of the Bible down into the everyday. Here are a few examples…

Blessed are they who grieve for the lost and struggle to cope and continue—the single parent trying to raise a family alone, the mother or father who keep an open heart and outreached hand to the wayward son or daughter—for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are they who find their joy in the happiness of others—the devoted parent, the dedicated teacher—for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are they who manage to see beyond their own interests and needs to the greater common good and their responsibility to others—for they shall be satisfied.

Blessed are they who treat classmates, coworkers and employees with respect and dignity, who remember that they have been forgiven by a compassionate God and readily extend forgiveness and compassion to others—for they shall receive mercy.

Blessed are the peacemakers, those who possess that rare gift for bringing people together when anger and selfishness threaten to drive them apart, who readily take the first step in forgiving and being reconciled with others, who bring healing to those who have been hurt, forgotten or marginalized—for they are the sons and daughters of God.

And, as we celebrate Mother’s Day, who does these things better than mothers? Here’s one story, one tribute to mothers…

The harried young mother was beside herself when the telephone rang, and she heard with relief the kindly voice on the line, “Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”

“Oh Mother,” she said, breaking into tears, “it’s been an awful day. The baby won’t eat, the dishwasher broke down. I tripped up the stairs and sprained my ankle. I haven’t had a chance to go shopping and the house is a mess. And to top it off, we’re having company for dinner tonight.”

“There, there, darling, everything will be all right,” the soothing voice on the line said. “Now sit down, relax, and close your eyes. I’ll be over in half an hour. I’ll pick up a few things and cook dinner for you. I’ll take care of the house and feed the baby. Also, I’ll call a repairman I know who will be at your house to fix the washer this afternoon. Now stop crying. In fact, I’ll call George at the office and tell him to come home early.”

“George?” the distraught wife exclaimed. “Who’s George?”

“Why, George…you know, George, your husband!”

“But my husband’s name is Frank.”

A brief pause ensued, then the voice hesitantly asked, “Excuse me, is this 555-1758?” A tearful reply said, “No, this is 555-17 8 8.”

“Oh, my, what a dreadful mistake,” apologized the embarrassed voice on the phone. “I’m so terribly sorry. I must have dialed the wrong number.”

Another brief pause before the would-be daughter asked, “Does this mean you’re not coming over?”

To all mothers, who hear the Shepherd’s voice and follow him…Happy Mother’s Da

Homily for the Third Sunday of Easter May 1, 2022

Mon, 02 May 2022 11:15:00 GMT

I love to read historical biographies, and among my favorites are books about Abraham Lincoln and the other figures of the Civil War. Reading the biographies makes the history come alive, relaying very human details that made all the difference—human details that you don’t always get in dry history survey courses.

In September of 1862, the Civil War had reached a decisive point in favor of the South. The morale of the Northern army was at its lowest point in the war. Large numbers of Union troops were in full retreat in Virginia. Northern leaders began to fear the worst. They saw no way to reverse the situation and turn the beaten, exhausted troops into a useful army again.

Abraham Lincoln, however, came up with a solution. There was only one general with the ability to turn things around. That was General George McClellan. He had trained the men for combat and they admired him. But neither the War Department nor the rest of the Cabinet members saw this connection. Only Lincoln did.

Fortunately, Lincoln ignored the protests of his advisors and reinstated McClellan in command. He told the general to go down to Virginia and give those soldiers something no one else could: enthusiasm, strength and hope. McClellan accepted the command. He mounted his great black horse and started down the dusty Virginia roads.

What happened next is hard to describe. General McClellan met the retreating Union columns, waved his cap in the air and shouted words of encouragement. When the worn out men saw their beloved teacher and leader, they began to take heart once again. They were moved with an unshakeable feeling that now things could be different, that finally things could be all right again. Down mile after mile of Virginia roads stumbling columns came alive. Men threw their caps, and yelled until they could yell no more. And this, in a way, was a major turning point of the war.

We find a similar situation in today’s gospel reading. It is obvious that some of Jesus’ closest followers were demoralized at the crucifixion. They did the one thing they knew how to do: they returned to their former way of life—fishing. This was the one thing they were good at, and yet, like the demoralized soldiers during the Civil War, they failed miserably.

And then, they encountered someone they did not quite recognize, giving them directions that they probably were reluctant to follow. And at the instructions of the stranger, they caught so many fish that their nets started to tear. I often wondered: who stopped to count the catch? I mean “one hundred fifty-three large fish”—who cares? Well, it turns out that, at that time that was the number of species of fish that were known. So the catch suggests, not just a large number, but a number that is complete. And when the despairing disciples recognized Jesus, risen from the dead, they were complete, whole again, as it were.

But not quite. There’s a bit more to the story. One of the details that might be overlooked is that Jesus had a charcoal fire going for the fish to be roasted on. There was the mention of a charcoal fire once before. As Peter and another disciple were following the arrested Jesus at a distance, they stopped to warm themselves at a charcoal fire. That was when Peter began to deny that he knew Jesus, not once, but three times, as Jesus had predicted. And so, now you have the three-fold question and response: “Do you love me?” “Lord, you know I love you.” “Then, tend my sheep, feed my lambs…”

Peter needed to know that Jesus had forgiven him for his failure. Peter probably needed to forgive himself. And I’m not sure he ever was totally able to. Tradition has it that, when Peter was crucified for being a leader of those who were disciples of Jesus, he asked to be crucified upside down, since he was not worthy of dying exactly in the same way as his Master.

At any rate, just as General George McClellan revitalized and reawakened the despairing northern army, so now Jesus, risen and fully alive, was revitalizing his despairing disciples, unleashing a force that would become a world-wide movement. Just as the tomb could not defeat Jesus, so now the realization that he was alive, never to die again, changed everything for his followers. And they became fearless, totally committed to their mission of spreading the word, refusing to stop even when threatened with imprisonment and death. As McClellan changed the outcome for the northern army, so Jesus, the risen one, has changed the outcome of humanity’s history. Our life is no longer aimed at death. Death is now defeated. Death is now officially dead, and we are on a journey that takes us through death to eternity.

Pope Francis has often complained that too many Christians are “sourpusses” who go around with gloom and despair on their faces. It’s as if we’ve never heard the story of Easter, or that we don’t quite believe it or understand its significance. We are destined for glory, for eternal life, for the life that God imagined for us, the life that God calls us to, the life we are already living at this moment. So, let’s try to drink in the full significance of Easter; let’s stop being sourpusses; let’s not be a Good Friday people, dejected and defeated and angry at life! Let’s be an Easter people who, even though we face struggles and suffering, an Easter people who know that’s not the end of the story, that’s not who we are, that’s not where we’re headed!

Homily for Easter April 17, 2022

Tue, 19 Apr 2022 10:59:00 GMT

Each year, as we come to the celebration of Easter, I am reminded of my favorite Easter story—a favorite because it is about children, and the particular enthusiasm that children can bring to any story, especially to one that’s been around as long as this one.

The school was getting ready for its annual Easter pageant. All the children who were participating were asked to choose which part they would like to play. Suzy chose Mary Magdalene; Sammy and Johnny, together, wanted to be the donkey; and so forth.

The teachers were amused as they watched the enthusiasm of the children grow as each part was assigned. When it came for Jimmy’s turn to choose, there were not that many roles left, but he happily wanted to be the huge rock that sealed the tomb.

After the pageant was over and Jimmy was going home with his parents, his mother expressed how let down they were that he didn’t have a larger, more prominent part in the play. Jimmy, however, was bouncing excitedly all over the back seat, obviously thrilled with his performance in the pageant.

Finally his mom asked, “Tell me, Jimmy, why are you so happy about being the rock to the tomb? Wouldn’t you have liked a bigger part to play?”

Jimmy replied quite innocently, “Oh no, Mom, just think!” I’m the one who gets to let Jesus out! What could be better?”

Now, when that first Easter Sunday started, I think the lead characters felt pretty much like they were in a tomb—a tomb of unrelenting sorrow, disappointment, perhaps feeling let down, angry, and fearful lest they be arrested or even crucified like Jesus.

Then you have the story of Mary Magdalene, who decides to go to the tomb before the sun comes up. And what does she see? The stone was rolled out of the way! Someone had opened the grave to, as the young boy in the pageant put it, “let Jesus out”! But this is not what Mary concludes. To her mind the body is gone, and she has no idea who took the body, nor where it might be found. As one author recently put it, “Had she been able to call 911 she would have.”

Soon, however, Mary and the Apostles and some others would encounter the risen Jesus, and they would understand the significance of the empty tomb. The stone had indeed been rolled away and Jesus was “let out”. Cruelty had tried to stamp him out and failed. Corrupt authorities had tried to silence him and failed. Suffering and sorrow had tried to stifle hope and failed. Death tried to bring an end to humanity and failed.

And now, those who had been entombed in depression, despair and dread could not be silenced. The tomb couldn’t hold Jesus, and for the rest of their lives, they had to let Jesus out! And so it has continued, day to day, generation to generation, to our own time. Their job has been handed on to us: we have to let Jesus out of the tomb!

Have you lost someone you loved? Jesus is out of the tomb of death and defeat. Let Jesus in! Are you experiencing some kind of sickness or suffering? Let Jesus in! Do you suffer from loneliness? Let Jesus in! Are you depressed because you find it hard to forgive yourself for something you did? Let Jesus in!

Those first believers who had the courage to let Jesus out never changed their story: Jesus is risen, they proclaimed. Even when they were threatened with persecution and death, the proclaimed with their dying breath: Jesus is risen! They sold their possessions, they helped the poor, they ministered to the sick, they took care of orphans and widows, strangers and homeless people. They fed the hungry and spoke up for the voiceless. They came together with joy and hope. They worked for peace. They changed the world by letting Jesus out. They changed everything by convincing others to let Jesus in.

And so, on this Easter when so many are in desperate straits, in Ukraine, in Syria, in Afghanistan, in hospitals and nursing homes, in places where Covid is raging, in places where there is no justice or peace, let us make Easter real—not just a memory, but a reality. Because of our faith in the Risen One, let us continue to let Jesus out of the tomb by helping to let him into the lives of those who so desperately need Resurrection.

Homily for Good Friday April 15, 2022

Tue, 19 Apr 2022 10:57:00 GMT

I recently read a commentary on today’s gospel reading, the Passion of Jesus according to St. John. One of the details fascinated me. It says in the gospel that Judas came with a detachment of soldiers, along with police from the chief priests and the Pharisees. The commentary points out that the Greek word “speira” refers to a detachment of soldiers, and it can mean 600 soldiers, or a cohort of auxiliary soldiers numbering 1,000 men, or more rarely it can mean a smaller group of 200 men.

I find it hard to imagine this large group amassed by the authorities to come out against the Prince of Peace, who taught that we should try to love everyone, including our enemies. The point made by the commentary, however, is that the authorities were taking Jesus very seriously. It wasn’t the case of a beat cop arresting a homeless person on a charge of vagrancy. Jesus was taken as a threat because much of his teaching threatened the established order, and it made people in power uncomfortable. Jesus said things like “the first shall be last, and the last shall be first.” Or consider one of the lines that Mary says in the Magnificat found in the Gospel of Luke: God has pulled down the mighty from their thrones and lifted up the lowly. And when you think about it, by means of his teaching and his tendency toward inclusiveness, Jesus did raise up the lowly. The Apostles weren’t Rhodes scholars. The crowds who followed him included public sinners, lepers, tax collectors, foreigners, and those from the lower classes. But there were also some learned individuals who were mesmerized by Jesus’ teaching, and some influential people were following him from a distance. And when the crowds created a triumphal parade, calling Jesus the Son of David, putting their cloaks on the ground for his donkey to march on, waving palms and proclaiming him a king, well no wonder the authorities got nervous. And then, he goes to the Temple area, and crashes into the money changers tables, calling those who administered the Temple sacrifices thieves who were robbing from the poor. Well, the religious establishment wasn’t too happy about that! The point of all this: Jesus wasn’t condemned to death because he was handing out holy cards or selling incense. He was questioning the poverty, the racial injustice, the corruption of both the political and religious authorities, and championing the cause of those at the bottom. In other words he was questioning the social order, threatening the sense of peace that the Romans demanded, and making dictators and kings uncomfortable.

You can see a parallel to this in the war started by Mr. Putin. If anyone opposes him, that person is put in jail. For leading opponents, there is death by poisoning, even outside of Russia. Dictators do not like their established order to be questioned.

But it’s not just the case in obvious places like Russia. Even here, if we feed the poor, for example, then we are seen as compassionate Christians. But if we ask why there are poor people, or if there is something wrong with the system, then we are often seen as crossing the line between church and state. In the Bible there were individuals that were called by God to speak the truth to those in power. Moses did it to the Pharaoh of Egypt. Prophets like Jeremiah were persecuted because they spoke out against injustice. And Jesus dared to take the side of the poor and defenseless who had no one to speak up for them. And that made the Caesars and the dictators nervous, and so they put him to death.

We are reminded today that there is such a thing as truth. There is such a thing as justice. People are still being treated unfairly, and persecuted, and killed if they get in the way. Good Friday reminds us that truth and justice often come at a price, and that we are called to stand for truth and justice when they are being trampled upon.

Homily for Holy Thursday April 14, 2022

Tue, 19 Apr 2022 10:47:00 GMT

I read a cute story recently. A little five-year-old child and his mother were on their way to McDonald’s one evening, and on their way they passed the scene of a car accident. The mother pointed out the scene and the ambulance, and said they should say a prayer. So her son joined his hands, closed his eyes, and fervently prayed, “Dear God, please don’t let those cars block the entrance to McDonald’s.”

Eating is important to us, at least at times, is it not? Something as simple as a shared meal at McDonald’s can become a special ritual that celebrates the simple bonds of love and affection we have, often with children. And when we celebrate a birthday, or an anniversary, or a job promotion, we want to celebrate with family and friends. Even at sad times, like after a funeral, we find something supportive and comforting about sharing a meal together.

In our first reading we have heard a description of the Passover, the special meal the Jewish people have recalling their freedom, their establishment as a people, God’s people, and a reminder of the bonds that unite them despite all their differences or disagreements. They celebrate a common identity.

Tonight we begin the three-day celebration of who we are as Christians, baptized into the very dying and rising of Jesus Christ, and formed into a community that binds us to him and to each other. Normally, whatever we eat becomes a part of us, providing nutrition and supporting the various parts of our body. Our second reading, taken from St. Paul’s writings, is the earliest description we have of the Eucharist—written at least fifteen years before the gospels. This is our sacred meal that gives us our identity—sacred because Jesus becomes part of us and we become part of him. Our mortal nature, which destines us to die, becomes part of his nature, which destines us never to die.

How odd it is, in a way, that our gospel reading doesn’t focus on the actual description of the institution of the Eucharist, but rather something rather strange that Jesus did at the first Eucharist, the Last Supper: he reversed the normal social order, took on the task and identity of a slave, and told us we are to do likewise. What’s this all about?

I believe that, at the heart of it, Jesus’ washing of feet is about a very special kind of love to which we are called. Feet in those days wore sandals, which means they were exposed to dirt and mud. They would have been unattractive and smelly. Washing feet represents difficult love, loving those who are not particularly attractive, who may have hurt us, who are undeserving of love. That’s what Jesus did; he loved right to the bitter end, even giving his life for those who didn’t particularly deserve it.

How often we tend to put conditions on our love: I will love you if you somehow satisfy my needs, are attractive to me, think as I do, fulfill some basic criteria. The kind of love Jesus showed was demonstrated in a dramatic way by Mother Teresa, who loved without condition, even those who were tossed aside by society as unworthy of attention. She loved them, she said, because in them she could see Jesus in a distressing appearance, like Jesus suffering on the cross. And Mother Teresa challenged us by her life to move beyond a superficial love that doesn’t demand very much.

And when I think about that scene at the Last Supper, I think I can really identify with Peter. It just made no sense for the Messiah, the teacher, the Lord, the Son of God, to do something so menial, so repugnant, as washing feet. Parents, by the way, do that a lot, cleaning up messes and making the stink go away, kissing the boo-boos, and strengthening fragile egos. It can be harder, however, to receive love. It happens when you are sick, or as you age. Those who are used to standing on their own two feet, of doing things on their own, of serving others, can find it very difficult to receive love and service. But Jesus reminds Peter that this is the way God’s love is. Before we have the capacity to love, before we even existed, God loved us first. And, especially when it is difficult to love others, we first need to be fortified by the gift of love, strengthened for the journey, nourished by the Lord. Otherwise, we can burn out and have nothing left to give. It is the love of Jesus Christ, the love of God, that washes us, cleanses us of our pettiness, our anxiety, our greed, our self-centeredness. When we receive selfless love ourselves, then we can give selfless love to others. The love Jesus asks of us is just too difficult to go it alone, without support, without nourishment. We need him and we need each other to live the demanding life of a Christian. And so we gather to be fed, and then to feed others; to be loved, and then to love even those who don’t particularly deserve our love, to forgive as we have been forgiven, and to create a world watered by God’s love and washed clean of division and hate.

Homily for Palm Sunday April 10, 2022

Mon, 11 Apr 2022 11:52:00 GMT

While today’s celebration begins with the triumphant entrance of Jesus into Jerusalem, that changes rather quickly. Almost immediately, we are plunged into the reality of Jesus Christ’s suffering and death. Even the official title, Palm Sunday of the Passion of the Lord , includes this shift. On Easter Sunday, of course, our focus is on life—the new life, the eternal life of the Resurrection. But now the subject is death, and we can ask, what do we learn from death—both Jesus’ and our own?

Some years ago there was a novel written by Scottish author Muriel Spark, entitled Memento Mori , which is Latin for Remember, you must die . The story is about a group of friends, all over the age of sixty-five, who one by one receive anonymous phone calls telling them, “Remember, you must die.”

The novel explores how different individuals come to terms with the telephone message. Of course, one of the common responses is fright. Still, the anonymous call causes the characters to think back over their lives and assess how they have lived—about the good they have done as well as the not-so-good. The message about death forces them to come to terms with the meaning of the life they have lived.

One true-life example happened during the latter part of the nineteenth century. A man picked up the morning newspaper and read his own obituary. Like most people, he was curious about what people would say about him after he had died. So he went to the text, which had the caption, “Dynamite King dies,” and he was taken aback and shocked that the obituary referred to him as the “merchant of death.” You see, Alfred Nobel had invented dynamite and amassed quite a fortune from the invention of weapons of destruction.

That shocking newspaper mistake led Nobel to re-assess his life. From that point on, he devoted his energy and money to works of peace and human betterment. Today, he is best remembered, not as a “merchant of death,” but as the founder of the various Nobel prizes, including the Nobel Peace Prize. The untimely mistake that reported his death made Alfred Nobel completely change the focus of his life.

The opening prayer of our Liturgy today invited us to reflect on the meaning of Jesus’ suffering and death and what it teaches us about how we are to live: “Almighty ever-living God, who as an example of humility for the human race to follow caused our Savior to take flesh and submit to the Cross, graciously grant that we may heed his lesson of patient suffering and so merit a share in his Resurrection.” Humility, patience in suffering, love to the very end: this is how the Church asks us to remember Jesus’ life and death.

As we remember Jesus death, and the significance of his life, we are invited to reflect on the significance of our own life. Our death, meaning that our existence is finite, is like the punctuation mark at the end of a sentence. It enables us to know when the sentence is finished and the thought expressed is complete. So, death, as the finishing punctuation mark on our life, bids us to look at how we have lived. Like Alfred Nobel, we might ask how we want to be remembered. Because our time is limited, we might ask how we have spent our time. It is reported that those facing the end of life seldom say that they should have spent more time at the office. Because our time is limited, it means that the opportunity to make things right will not go on forever. We have only a limited time to forgive someone who has hurt us, or to ask forgiveness of someone we have wronged, or to patch up relationships that are not all they should be. So, while it may be uncomfortable, death serves an important purpose, forcing us to realize that time is precious, opportunities are limited, and unfinished business can’t be put off indefinitely. At the end of his life, Jesus was able to turn everything over, saying, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.” That was the punctuation mark at the end of his life: he had lived well, done everything he was asked to do, completed his mission. How blessed we will be if, one day, we can do the same.

Homily for the Third Sunday of Lent March 20, 2022

Mon, 21 Mar 2022 10:15:00 GMT

I recently came across a Native American creation story that comes from a tribe I never heard of, the Maidu Indians of California. Here’s how it goes… Earthmaker took some red clay, mixed it with water and carefully shaped man and woman. They were beautiful but unfinished, for they lacked hands. Earthmaker asked the other creatures what kind of hands they should have. The turtle said, “Like mine, so they can swim.” And the coyote spoke up, “No like mine, so they can run fast.”

Earthmaker thought and thought and then said, “Thank you all, but I’ve decided to make their hands like mine so that they can make things.” Since earthmaker’s hands were the pattern for human hands, women and men became the most beautiful of all creatures because they could create things with their hands.

The Maidu Indians knew what we have to remember. Our hands are godly in design so we should be making as God makes. They should not be hands that hold others back or hands that hold others down, “heavy” hands that prevent freedom, even the freedom to make mistakes. They should be hands busy making peace, not clenched in anger, but waving away injury in movements of pardon. As Earthmaker’s hands left fingerprints of beauty on all creation, our hands should be busy making our surroundings beautiful, clean and delightful.

At the end of today’s gospel, we have a beautiful image of God’s patience and mercy, as well as God’s desire to restore the magnificent beauty of all creation, including human beings. Remember that, when God wanted to create the ideal setting for human beings, it was a garden—the Garden of Eden. Unfortunately, human beings messed up the God-given quality of creation by thinking they knew better than God. So now, in today’s gospel it is a gardener who wishes to restore life and fruitfulness by creating the best possible conditions in which the fig tree can reach its full potential.

You can think of the much harsher first part of the gospel in these terms as well. Jesus calls us, especially during this Lenten season, to repent—to let go of all the things that are holding us back, ensnaring us, robbing us of our full beauty and dignity. And why wouldn’t he? He knows that when we choose sinful ways, when we turn to “lesser gods” as it were, seeking happiness which will never fully satisfy—well then, of course he’s going to call us, and to challenge us, to get back on the right path. Thus, during Lent, we are asked to consider what about us needs pruning, clearing away so that something better can grow in its place. And what needs fertilizing, so that we’re producing fully developed fruit, not a half-hearted, anemic, unproductive life.

Jesus speaks about a tower falling that killed some people in the process. That reminds me of the twin towers falling in New York City on 9/11. Do you think that those who died in that horrific disaster were more sinful than the rest of us? Of course not. But it sure got our attention. If such senseless loss of life could happen, well, life seems fragile, precious and to be cherished. Do you remember how church attendance shot up after that disaster?

With the daily images of cruel and brutal slaughter of innocent life coming out of Ukraine, we are being reminded once again of both the value, and the fragility of human life. We are distraught and angry that some human beings can treat other human beings so callously. And we admire the generous, and even heroic response, of those who want to help the wounded, the dying and the displaced.

Again, it’s its similar to the brutality of people like Pilate, whom Jesus mentions in today’s gospel. Evidently, people were taking part in a religious ceremony, offering sacrifices of animals. Pilate, for some reason, had his troops march in and slaughter those people, thereby mixing their blood with the blood of the animals! And it was only by chance—these people were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like 9/11. Just like Ukraine.

So again, life is both precious and precarious. And knowing that, Jesus says, is an invitation to look at the quality of our life at its depths, in terms of our relationship with God and with others. Don’t wait until the tower starts to fall or the mad assassins start killing. Make the effort, now, to let God’s word do what it was sent for: to prune away the dead stuff, and to fertilize the good stuff, so that we may be the radiant creation, the joyful heart, and the generous and creative hands that God intended us to be from all eternity.

Homily for First Sunday of Lent, March 6, 2022

Mon, 07 Mar 2022 14:46:00 GMT

I have to admit that, when I used to read the beginning of our first reading, Genesis: 5-12, 17-18, I was not all that impressed. Our text for this Second Sunday of Lent has to do with the promises God made to Abram (later renamed Abraham): “Look up at the sky and count the stars, if you can. Just so, shall your descendants be.” I’ve always lived in areas where there is a lot of light pollution, which means that only a small fraction of stars are visible. Then on a camping trip to the western United States, we were at a relatively high altitude in an isolated corner of Idaho. Even though it was summer, the nighttime temperatures dipped into the 30’s, so the air was thinner and quite clear. And the area was so unpopulated that there was no light to compete with the light of the stars. I looked up, much as Abraham looked up, and saw our milky way in all its grandeur, like a ribbon of light across the night sky. Now with the use of very powerful telescopes, astronomers are saying that there are something like four hundred billion stars in the Milky Way. And beyond our home galaxy, there are billions upon billions of other galaxies out there. So the command to “count the stars if you can” now makes a lot of sense to me. It was quite a promise.

Our first reading describes the agreement between God and Abram as a sacred covenant in which both were pledging themselves to each other. The Hebrew word for the enactment of the covenant is “to cut”—to cut a covenant agreement. Here’s what the text says. God instructed Abraham, “Bring me a three-year-old heifer, a three-year-old she-goat, a three-year-old ram, a turtledove, and a young pigeon.” The passage continues, “Abram brought him all these, split them in two, and placed each half opposite the other; but the birds he did not cut up. Birds of prey swooped down on the carcasses, but Abram stayed with them. As the sun was about to set, a trance fell on Abram, and a deep, terrifying darkness enveloped him. When the sun had set and it was dark, there appeared a smoking fire pot and a flaming torch, which passed through those pieces. It was on that occasion that the Lord made a covenant with Abram, saying: ‘To your descendants I give this land, from the Wadi of Egypt to the Great River, the Euphrates.’”

The word to cut a covenant refers to the animals being cut in half and the parties of the agreement passing through them, symbolizing a ratification in blood that bound the parties to the specifics of the pact. Abram bound himself in allegiance to God, and God promised both land and numerous descendants, as many as the stars of the sky, if they could possibly be counted.

Our Gospel reading for this Second Sunday of Lent, Luke 9:28-36, is the account of the Transfiguration. Jesus takes his inner circle of those closest to him, Peter, John and James, and leads them up a high mountain. “While he was praying his face changed in appearance and his clothing became dazzling white. And behold, two men were conversing with him, Moses and Elijah, who appeared in glory and spoke of his exodus that he was going to accomplish in Jerusalem.” What we find here might be called a preview of coming attractions. Jesus, knowing that the horrible days of humiliation, suffering and crucifixion were fast approaching, wanted to give his disciples the reassurance that it was all in the hands of God. Jesus appears, if only momentarily, in his divine glory. And by including in the vision the ancient figures of Jewish history, Luke is showing that Jesus now inherits and surpasses both the law (Moses) and the prophets (Elijah) that came before him.

Next, we find that Peter, overwhelmed at the sight, is overcome in ecstasy, and doesn’t really know how to process it or what to do with it. So, he wants to hang on to it. “Master, it is good that we are here; let us make three tents, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” Then, the revelation continues. “From the cloud came a voice that said, ‘This is my chosen Son; listen to him.’ After the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone.”

This passage points to the events that will happen in Jerusalem. God will enter a new and everlasting covenant that will be sealed, not with the blood of animals, but with the blood of God’s own beloved Son, Jesus Christ. And the blessing received in this covenant is neither land nor descendants, but eternal life. Thus, these readings are meant to fill us with anticipation as we look to our annual celebration of Jesus life-giving death and resurrection during the Easter Triduum, the three glorious days, from Good Friday to Easter Sunday, that made us people of the new covenant with an eternal destiny.

Homily for the Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time February 27, 2022

Mon, 28 Feb 2022 12:49:00 GMT

During this past week there have been quite a few ads for President’s Day sales, which reminded me about one of the most uplifting actions by any American President. The story goes like this…

Abraham Lincoln tried to love, and he left for all history a magnificent drama of reconciliation. When he was campaigning for the presidency, one of his arch-enemies was a man named Edwin McMasters Stanton. For some reason Stanton hated Lincoln. He used every ounce of his energy to degrade Lincoln in the eyes of the public. So deep-rooted was Stanton’s hate for Lincoln that he uttered unkind words about his physical appearance, and sought to embarrass him at every point with the bitterest diatribes. But in spite of this, Lincoln was elected the sixteenth president of the United States.

Then came the period when Lincolnton had to select his cabinet, which would consist of the persons who would be his most intimate associates in implementing his programs. He started to choose men here and there for the various positions.

The day finally came when Lincoln had to select the all-important position of Secretary of War. Can you imagine whom Lincoln chose? None other than the man named Stanton. The president’s inner circle thought immediately that Lincoln was making a horrendous mistake, and they tried to talk him out of it.

Lincoln’s answer was brief and to the point: “Yes, I know Mr. Stanton. I am aware of all the terrible things he has said about me. But after looking over the nation, I find that he is the best man for the job.” And so Lincoln’s secretary of war rendered extremely valuable service to the president and the country.

Not many years later, of course, Lincoln was assassinated. Many laudable things were said about him. But of all the great statements made, the words of Stanton remain among the greatest. Standing near the dead body of the one he once hated, Stanton referred to him as one of the greatest men who ever lived and said, “He now belongs to the ages.”

In the gospels perhaps one of the most difficult of Jesus’ teachings is his statement that we are to love our enemies and pray for our persecutors. When we are being assaulted and lies are being spread about us, that’s hard to do. Nonetheless, Lincoln showed in a very dramatic way that Jesus’ teaching could be put into practice.

I am not sure how you love your enemies on a large scale. For example, what do we do about the actions of Vladimir Putin in Ukraine? Certainly, evil needs to be resisted, but how do you love a man like Putin?

I’ve been reading a biography of Maria Theresa, who was the Empress of Austria in the 1700’s. She was the mother of sixteen children, including Marie Antoinette of France. Her reign was filled with almost constant battles, with the stronger nations taking over the weak, with alliances being entered into and then almost immediately broken. It reminded me that much of the history of Europe is actually the history of war. Putin’s strong-man tactics fit right into that long-standing notion that might makes right, and the little people you hurt along the way doesn’t matter.

That long history, stretching across the centuries down to our present day, gives a vivid picture of what life is like when the teaching of Jesus is practically ignored. Certainly, the better part of human nature is to help those who are weak, not to march over them; to feed the hungry, not to starve them to death; to create alliances of peace rather than starting wars; to love those who are different rather than taking advantage of the weak.

Many religious authorities have invited us to fast and pray about this situation, which is totally unjust, and to lift up the people of Ukraine and the other countries that surround Russia in our daily prayers. Certainly, this would be an appropriate way to enter into the season of Lent.

But now I want to focus our attention on something closer to home. While we may have little control or input into what happens internationally, we do bear responsibility for the way we act in our everyday world. If there are people we can’t stand, much as Stanton hated Lincoln, if there are those that seem to get under our skin and make us lose patience and become angry, if in fact we have people we won’t talk to because they have hurt us in some way, if we really listen to Jesus’ words, I think they should haunt us. How can we hope for a peaceful world, over which we have little control, when our minds and hearts are not at peace? How can we condemn our neighbor while ignoring our own sinfulness? How can we remove the splinter from our neighbor’s eye, when we refuse to remove the wooden beam from our own—as Jesus puts it in today’s gospel? Can we be content to say, “Well, that’s just the way it is; that’s how the world works, it’s gone on too long to do anything about it anyway?” Or do we really listen anew to Jesus’ teaching, which seems to be so very clear?

One final point. I know how hard this is to do. When it comes to nursing hurt feelings, I have done that many times when people have said or done hateful things. One time, I even prayed for a business to go out of business because I felt they did not honor their contract. But I continue to work at it because Jesus’ words, which are supposed to be the guide for my life, still haunt me. Perhaps this is a good place to start our Lenten journey, allowing Jesus teaching to penetrate our hearts and haunt us.

Homily for the Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time February 12, 2022

Mon, 14 Feb 2022 11:44:00 GMT

I recently read a story about how people catch monkeys in India. They cut a small hole in a sturdy box; then they put a tasty nut inside the box. The hole is large enough for the monkey to put its hand through, but it’s too small for the monkey to withdraw its hand once it has clutched the nut inside.

So the monkey has two choices. It can let go of the nut and go free, or it can clutch the nut and remained trapped. Monkeys usually hang onto the nut.

The author of the story then asks: What do we hang on to? As long as we hang onto the things that tend to ensnare us, we cannot be free. Like the monkeys, we remain trapped.

Today we hear St. Luke’s version of the Beatitudes. It is quite different from those presented in St. Matthew’s gospel. Matthew has eight Beatitudes, Luke only four. Luke also has four woes, whereas these are absent in Matthew. Also, Matthew spiritualizes and expands the statements. For example, his first beatitude reads, “How blest are the poor in spirit…” For Luke it’s all about actual, material poverty: “How blest are you poor…” And just to make sure there’s no mistake about it, he also includes: “But woe to you rich…”

St. Luke’s gospel puts a great deal of emphasis on the poor. For example, the first to get word of Jesus’ birth are shepherds who are watching their flocks. Shepherds were pretty much at the bottom of the social ladder. Also, he makes sure that we know that Jesus was born in a manger, among animals, because the world could not make room for him.

By putting such emphasis on the poor and the weak, Luke actually follows the tradition that we find throughout the Bible. For example, who were the “Chosen People”? Initially, slaves, working on the building projects of the Pharaoh in Egypt. They were chosen, not because they were particularly great or worthy, but precisely because they were insignificant slaves who had no standing in society and no rights. We may also think of the great King David, who starts out as a shepherd. He then goes into battle against the battle-hardened giant Goliath, armed with a slingshot and a few stones. It is David who prevails, not the giant.

In recent times there has been a growing awareness that God has what is called a “preferential option for the poor,” which developed in Latin America. You can imagine the poor, landless peasants, forced to work on the plantations of the rich, being able to see themselves in the Hebrew slaves of the Old Testament, longing for freedom, dignity, and a land of their own.

Pope Francis has often taught about the dangers of living in a throw-away culture. This is certainly true of plastic, cardboard and other packaging that is often simply cast aside. The deeper tragedy is when we start to think of people as being insignificant or unimportant because they are poor, uneducated, unproductive or just plain old—and not useful. Such persons can easily be looked down upon and judged rather harshly by those who are more fortunate.

Let’s take just one example that we’re familiar with: the homeless. We tend to worry about those who have no place to stay during the winter when it is freezing cold outside. We remember the homeless persons who froze to death behind McDonald’s in Greenfield a couple of winters ago.

It’s easy to pass judgment on the homeless because of how they look, or how they smell, or how they lack a job and beg for handouts, or how they frighten us. Bud do you know the greatest cause of homelessness, at least in our nation? The lack of affordable housing. When I have helped out those in our area who are poor but fortunate enough to have housing, I’m amazed at how much they have to pay in rent. Often, most of their monthly income goes for rent, leaving little for them to live on.

One thing we should remember is that Jesus was homeless. He wasn’t born in a home, and he later said that he had “no place to lay his head.” And in today’s gospel he turns our usual way of thinking on its head: Blest are you poor; you’re going to inherit the kingdom—but not necessarily those who are hard-hearted and judgmental and rich.

You remember how the monkey gets trapped in the box? By hanging on to something he desperately wants. And we can get trapped very easily, too. I remember when I was in high school, working summers on tobacco. I was lucky enough to have my own spending money to buy clothes for school. And what did that involve? A few shirts, a couple pair of pants, a sweater or two, a new pair of shoes, and maybe a Timex watch. Did I know brand names back then? Probably not. Did I associate value with a higher price tag? Certainly not! But over the past forty to fifty years the advertisers have become pretty clever, inventing needs we don’t really have and wants that are pure fiction.

Today’s gospel suggests two things. First, if we want to become more like Jesus, we probably should give away a lot of our stuff we don’t need, simply so that others can have enough to survive. And second, we need to think twice before looking down on the poor, the jobless, the handicapped, and those who don’t come up to our standards. Jesus made it clear that, by choice, he is one of them and one with them. And declaring that the poor are blessed, he invites us to let go of what we don’t really need, help out our brothers and sisters who are often desperately poor, and become truly free!

Homily for the Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time February 6, 2022

Mon, 07 Feb 2022 10:26:00 GMT

Did you ever have an experience that, try as you might, you simply cannot explain? Let me share a couple of examples…

When I was in college, we had a show by a man who called himself the “Amazing Kreskin”. He was like a magician, but unique. And he was good enough to appear on several TV programs, including The Night Show .

At one point, Kreskin took out a pencil and asked three members of the audience if he could borrow their rings: a wedding ring, a class ring, an engagement ring. He took the three rings and threaded them on the pencil. Then, he started slowly twirling the pencil around and, before we knew it, the three rings were linked together in a chain. The people who donated the use of the rings then examined the chain and swore that these were their rings, that they were not in cahoots with the performer, and that they were not being paid off to be part of the show. At the end of the performance, Kreskin was taken out of the auditorium, “under guard” with a group of students who could take him anywhere they wanted. Another group of students were asked to hide the payment for his performance anywhere they wanted. Then, when Kreskin returned to the auditorium, if he could not find the check in three minutes, he would refuse to be paid for his performance. Those hiding the check were actually able to tear up some floor boards, where they hid the check. Kreskin came back in, had his “guards” testify that he was in their company all along, and then proceeded to find the check in a minute and a half. I’m sure that there are a lot of theories as to how he did it, but the rings turned into a chain, when I think about it, still blows my mind.

Another example… Many years ago, I was at a large parish in Springfield, and I became quite friendly with our head custodian, whose responsibility it was to take care of our church, massive school, rectory, grounds and three parking lots. One night he was sound asleep and at about one or two o’clock in the morning, his doorbell rang, rather insistently. A close friend of Larry’s had walked up onto the porch and wanted to say hello. When Larry answered his door and saw his friend, he was dumbfounded. You see, for the forty years or more that he had known the man, he had been in a wheelchair, paralyzed and unable to walk. Now here he was, walking around, tears running down his face, practically dancing for joy. How could this happen?

Larry’s friend had been to a healing service in Worcester with a priest named Fr. Ralph DiOrio. He went to the service in a wheelchair, and walked out of the auditorium on his own two feet. By the way, I knew Fr. DiOrio when I was a student at Holy Cross College. I taught religious education at the parish where he was stationed. He had not yet started the healing ministry. At that time he was doing marriage counseling. I remember him as one of the meekest and shyest persons I had ever met. I never would have imagined that he would become famous.

At any rate, I’ve had these kind of experiences that defy explanation. Now, Kreskin was known as “mentalist”—who knows? He may have mass hypnotized the entire audience. But Fr. DiOrio was a person of prayer, who was performing healings in the name of Jesus Christ.

These are the kind of experiences described in today’s readings. It’s the experience of Isaiah in our first reading, who was taken up into heaven, into the awesome presence of God. And how does he react? “Woe is me, I am doomed! For I am a man of unclean lips, living among a people of unclean lips; het my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!” Isaiah knew he was in the presence of the holy, and it made him realize his littleness and sinfulness.

The same thing happens to Peter. He’s the expert; all his life he’s been a fisherman. He and his crew had been out fishing all night long and had caught nothing. And here comes Jesus, a carpenter (assuming he had learned that trade from Joseph)—a carpenter telling the expert fisherman to try again, a carpenter without any experience telling the fisherman to go back out at the wrong time of day. And when he does, there’s such an unexplainable catch of fish that the boat almost sinks and Peter has to call for a second boat. Peter, like Isaiah, is over-awed; he knows that he is in the presence of the holy, and he feels his littleness, saying, “Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.” But Jesus chooses Peter to be his disciple, just as God had chosen Isaiah to be his messenger. That’s how God works. He chooses those who know their weakness, and he makes them strong in faith so that they can speak the truth, bear witness to their experience, and even perform healings in the name of God.

So, what about us? Have we had glimpses of that which is beyond us? Have we heard the whisperings of God? Have we ever felt that we were in the presence of the holy? It comes through the experience of awe. When I look up at the night sky, when I remember that there are 400 billion stars in our Milky Way galaxy, that’s when I feel small, weak, and sinful before the magnificence of the work of almighty God. That’s what gives me an unshakeable faith, even in the midst of the pain of all we are going through, even in the midst of Covid, even in the midst of political craziness, even in the midst of incredible poverty and suffering. There is a God calling us, just as he called Isaiah and Peter, calling us to do some fishing on God’s behalf, bringing encouragement and hope to those who have been at it all night and seem to have caught nothing. Quite simply, we’re here for each other, reminding one another that Jesus is in the boat with us, inspiring us to reach out and make a difference in his name. We have work to do.

Homily for the Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time January 30, 2022

Mon, 31 Jan 2022 10:30:00 GMT

To help us understand today’s gospel reading, I want to begin with a story… It was the first time a family had saved up enough money to rent a cottage at the beach. After unpacking and somewhat arranging things, they all picked up their towels and went to the beach. The children were running in and out of the surf and building sand castles when, in the distance, a stooped-over old woman appeared. Her scraggily gray hair was blowing in the wind and her clothes were dirty and ragged. She was muttering something incoherent to herself as she picked up things from the beach and put them into a plastic bag.

The parents quickly called their children to their side and told them to stay away from that old lady. As she passed by, bending down every now and then to pick up things, she smiled at the family. But her greeting wasn’t returned.

It was later on that a longtime resident of the beach community told them that the little old lady had a son who, years ago, once cut his foot on something on the beach and his foot later became severely infected. Since then she made it her lifelong crusade to pick up bits of glass and cans from the beach so that children would not cut their feet.

Now, I understand that it is natural to be protective, to shy away from those perceived as a threat, to be uncomfortable with those who are strange or different. But I want to look at something deeper, more challenging, and far more scary. What I want to examine is: why this ugly change in the crowd that listened to Jesus at the Nazareth synagogue. At first, they seem warm and welcoming; it says that they spoke highly of him and were amazed at the “gracious words that came from his mouth.” He was the hometown boy who had made good. They had heard about his preaching and miraculous cures elsewhere, and now here he was in their synagogue. So, the question is: why did this nice congregation of people turn into an angry mob that wanted to kill Jesus?

Years ago, when I studied some sociology in college, I remember learning about “in groups” and “out groups”. The “in group” is the group of people with which an individual identifies: one’s family, one’s school, one’s close friends. But “out groups” are those with whom one does not, and probably doesn’t want to, identify. There is a separation of identity, of “we” vs. “they,” of “us” vs. “them”. Often membership in a group is based on ethnic identity, race or culture. The people of the “in group” have similar tastes, opinions and behavior. They have a positive attitude toward the members of their group; and often a quite negative attitude toward those who are different, the outsiders. For the “in group” there is cooperation, good-will, mutual help, and a sense of solidarity. But attitudes toward the “out group” include avoidance, dislike, indifference and antagonism.

So what’s going on with the reaction to Jesus’ homily in the synagogue? First, the references Jesus makes are stories in the history of Israel with which members of the congregation would have been quite familiar. Elijah and Elisha were popular prophets and miracle workers that were considered shining lights in Israel’s past.

The problem, I think, is that Jesus, even by using facts with which they were familiar, got them into the in group/out group frame of mind. He reminds them that Elijah performed a miracle for a widow of the Phoenician city of Sidon, which is now the third largest city in Lebanon. Elisha performed a miracle of cleansing a leper from Syria. In simple terms, Jesus highlights that Elijah and Elisha went outside their “in group” and did something nice for the Arabs. And the hostility of the in group/out group division starts to boil: good-will and solidarity are replaced with dislike, antagonism, and, finally, the desire to murder Jesus.

It has happened here in our nation. Martin Luther King, Jr. was executed the day after he spoke up for some garbage workers, and for not knowing his proper place in society. The same thing happened to John and Robert Kennedy. And contrary to claims that it was a “nice visit by some tourists,” we all could see for ourselves what happened on January 6, 2021. On that day we saw the violence, the hate, the noose prepared for the hanging of the Vice President, the desire to murder. One group of Americans attacked another group of Americans. That, by definition, is not a nice, touristy day in the nation’s capital.

Going back to the gospel, we note that as Jesus continued his ministry, he seemed to meet opposition all along the way. One of the main reasons was that he was constantly mixing up the “in group” and the “out group.” He was accused of “welcoming sinners and eating with them,” of being nice to Roman soldiers, of breaking the rules set by the religious authorities, of saying things about God that weren’t supposed to be said, of making tax collectors, public sinners, and people at the bottom of society members of his “in group.” And at the Last Supper he celebrated communion with one man, one of the leaders, who would deny even knowing him and another who would sell out and betray him. But he ate with them nonetheless. It was similar when he had miraculously fed thousands of people without making them pass some kind of test for belonging. The disciples wanted to divide them up by having the people go into the villages to buy bread, but Jesus said no, we’ll unite them by feeding them all right here. While so many people around Jesus were thinking in terms of “in group” and “out group,” of building oneself up at the expense of another, Jesus went in the opposite direction, smashing down the walls and barriers that kept people apart. As a matter of fact, Jesus’ dying wish—part of his prayer at the Last Supper—was: “Father, may they be one as you and I are one.” For that kind of thinking the crowd in Nazareth wanted to kill Jesus, and sometime later, the crowd in Jerusalem succeeded in making sure that he was killed. But Jesus’ plea continues to echo down through the centuries, and I think it should make us stop and think, it should challenge us to the core of our being: may you be one, as my Father and I are one! Can we do that? Can we put aside the prejudice, division and hatred? And we look for common ground and focus on what should unite us? If we are Christian in fact, and not just in name, I believe we have to.

Homily for the Second Sunday in Ordinary Time January 16, 2022

Tue, 18 Jan 2022 10:10:00 GMT

One of the things that has struck me from my study of various areas of science over the years is the sheer abundance in any aspect of the world you want to look at. For me, it begins with astronomy—the study of the overwhelming vastness of space, and stars and planets in such numbers that my mind goes numb and shuts off. But it leads to a sense of awe before the One who created it all. When I look up at the night sky in a dark place on a clear night, I want to take my shoes off because, like Moses at the burning bush, I feel that I am standing on sacred ground. If this is the creation, then can you imagine the Creator?

I begin with astronomy, but it’s true in every branch of science and in every aspect of nature. We are surrounded by a superabundance, a creation on steroids, a creation on overdrive. Consider the following, which you can get simply by asking the questions of your computer’s search engine:

400 billion

10,000

400,000

35,000

950,000

1.5 million, and counting

10,000 new species discovered each year

Now what got me started on all this is doing the math about Jesus’ intervention at the wedding at Cana:

120-180 gallons

It must have been quite a wedding!

Jesus gave super-abundantly to let us know that that’s how God is.

This passage about the wedding at Cana reveals some interesting aspects of what Jesus did for the couple and their guests there and then, and what he’s doing for us here and now:

They say that, before the Bible was written, there was sort of a first “Bible” that reveals a lot about God: the universe God created. And so, I invite you to try reading from this vast “Bible”. Go out into nature, look at a beautiful sunset, look up at the sky on a clear night, notice the variety of birds, examine the delicate beauty of Monarch butterflies when they come back, stop and smell the roses. And if you like numbers, keep the numbers I shared with you handy: the hugely incredible numbers of stars, birds, flowers, fish, insects, animals, and the number of gallons of water Jesus turned into wine. Let those numbers sink in. We have a super-abundant creation. And we have an awesome God!

Homily for the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord January 9, 2022

Mon, 10 Jan 2022 12:23:00 GMT

John Donne, a seventeenth century poet, wrote a story about one man’s search for God.

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The man is told that God lives atop a high mountain at the end of the earth. After a long journey, the man arrives at the mountain and begins his climb.

About the same time that the man begins his ascent, God muses, “What can I do to show my people how much I love them?” God gets the idea to descend among his people as one of them.

As so as the man is ascending one side of the mountain, God is descending the other side. However, they don’t see each other because they are on opposite sides of the mountain. When the man reaches the mountaintop, he is heartbroken to find no one there. He thinks, “God doesn’t live here after all.” He even begins to think that God doesn’t exist, saying, “If God doesn’t live here, where does God live?”

Donne concludes, “God doesn’t dwell on mountaintops, or in the midst of the desert, or at the ends of the earth. God dwells with men and women. God lives in the towns and cities of the world.

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We have just celebrated Christmas, the Feast that focuses on the Incarnation, God being with us, God becoming one of us. Today, our focus shifts some thirty years into Jesus’ future, and we are invited to reflect on the Baptism of the Lord.

Right from the start, those who reported Jesus’ baptism appear to be embarrassed by it. John the Baptist is out in the desert, calling people to conversion and offering a baptism of repentance. Now the question is, if Jesus is sinless, why does he need a baptism of repentance? According to the gospel of Matthew, even John the Baptist recognizes this fact, and says, “I should be baptized by you, and yet you are coming to me?”

So why does Jesus get baptized? I would suggest that it follows from the meaning of Christmas…God becoming one of us and one with us. While Jesus, technically speaking, doesn’t need baptism, he chooses to do so as an act of solidarity with the human race. He wants to accompany us as we make our way through life.

Jesus’ baptism also points to the future of his own journey. In Mark’s gospel when James and John ask that they sit at Jesus’ right and left when he enters his kingdom, Jesus responds, “You do not know what you are asking. Can you drink the cup I shall drink or be baptized in the same bath of pain as I?” Jesus is obviously pointing to the crucifixion as an act of total love, as a gift of self down to the last ounce of blood. Here’s his solidarity with the human race: there is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. Jesus is baptized into the pain of this world, so that he might transform it, defeat it, and lead the way to resurrection and an eternity with God.

It is helpful to note that in the early Church baptisms were done at Easter, often by immersion in a river or a pool of water. The idea was that, as one was taken down into the water, it was a way of joining Jesus in death, going down into the tomb, so as to then rise from the water, rise from the tomb, to life eternal. So our baptism was not just a formal ceremony. Baptism was the beginning of our life with Jesus, and ultimately, our dying and rising with Jesus. And on the day of our baptism, our God surely repeated the words of today’s gospel: You are my beloved son, my beloved daughter. With you I am well pleased. I love you.

During the stress and strain of the pandemic, and all the other craziness of our world, recalling our baptism is important, hearing God’s reassurances is important. Knowing that we are embraced and infinitely loved changes everything, and enables us to endure whatever comes. According to the insight with which we began, our God came down from the mountain to be with us! And during this Year of the Eucharist, we recall that God didn’t just do it once and for all, so as to be done with it. God continually renews his presence each time we receive the Eucharist; and every time we receive, we are fortified and reassured. We need not fear life. We are ready to face it, for we are never alone.

Homily for Christmas Day 2021

Fri, 31 Dec 2021 11:00:00 GMT

The darkness didn’t overcome the light

A man built a prosperous business through hard work and honest dealings. As he advanced in age, he felt concerned about the future of his enterprise because he had no children or close relatives, except for three nephews.

One day he summoned the young men and declared, “I have a problem, and whoever comes up with the best solution will inherit all that I possess.” Giving each of them an equal amount of money, he instructed them to buy something that would fill his large office. “Spend no more than I have given you,” he directed, “and be sure to be back by sunset.”

All day long each nephew attempted separately to fill his uncle’s instructions. Finally, they obediently returned to make their report.

The first nephew dragged in a few huge sacks of Styrofoam packing “peanuts” that nearly filled the office when the sacks were emptied. After the room was cleared, the second nephew brought in bundles and bundles of helium-filled balloons that floated throughout the office, filling it better than the Styrofoam. The third nephew stood silent and forlorn. His uncle inquired of him, “So what have you to offer?”

“Uncle,” replied the nephew, “I spent half of my money to help a family whose house burned down last night. Then I ran into some kids in trouble and gave most of the rest to an inner-city youth center. With the little bit I had left, I bought this candle and matches.” Then he lit the candle and its glowing light filled every corner of the room!

The kindly old uncle realized that here was the noblest of his family. He blessed the nephew for making the best use of his gift and welcomed him into his business.

Our first reading for the “Mass at Midnight”, Isaiah 9:1-6, solemnly begins, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom a light has shone.” In the gospel (Luke 2:1-14), when the angels announce the birth of the Lord, it says, “…the glory of the Lord shone around them…”

Our gospel reading for the Christmas Mass “during the Day”, the beautiful, poetic prologue of the Gospel of John 1:1-18, includes the following: “What came to be through him was life, and this life was the light of the human race; the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”

At this Christmas celebration it is good for us to be reassured by these words, “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” We have been living with a lot of darkness, have we not? The seemingly never-ending Covid pandemic, which just comes back, again and again. Economic uncertainty, social upheaval, people we love getting sick, people we love dying. We live in darkness. We gather today during the darkest time of the year. And yet, we are reminded this Christmas day, “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

In a recent homily Pope Francis speaks of the light in the darkness: “Jesus is Lord, the sun that dawns on high and never sets; the One who endures while everything else passes away, our sure and eternal hope.” The Holy Father teaches that our God comes to us also in the night, when dark clouds gather. But we should never stop seeking the light. We should not remain closed in on ourselves, ruled by our fears. Rather, we are called to be builders among the ruins of today’s world, being capable of dreaming. People who dream do not remain in the darkness; rather, they light a candle.

Pope Francis invites us to make Jesus our life’s dream, rather than staying in the dark. That means buying into Jesus’ dream for the world. We will find ourselves coming out of the darkness when we try to

Like the third nephew, who had the most noble solution to his uncle’s challenge, we are called to dream, to be dazzled by the light of the gospel, to watch with hope during the night, and rather than cursing the darkness, light a candle.

This is the simple, but powerful message of Christmas that takes faith out of our heads and plants it in our hearts: “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” Drink in the light. Savor it. Feel its power. And then bring it to a dark corner of your everyday world. In this way Christmas will not be just a memory, or a custom, or a pious day on the calendar. Christmas will be the light God gives us to change our world, even one person at a time. Think. Is there someone you love who lives in darkness? Take today’s light with you, and share it. The darkness will not overcome it. That’s how Christmas becomes something real. When the people who walk in darkness see a great light, and share it, that’s Christmas!

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Advent December 19, 2021

Mon, 20 Dec 2021 13:25:00 GMT

R emember the Gift of Christmas

I’d like to begin today’s reflection with a story… I read somewhere that both the Sea of Galilee and the Dead Sea are formed by the same water supply. It flows down, cool and clear from Mount Hermon. The Sea of Galilee is gorgeous and pristine. I have eaten fish, part of the abundant life in the Sea of Galilee. This Sea has an outlet: its waters flow out and fertilize the Jordan plain.

The Dead Sea, on the other hand, with the same source of refreshing water, is desolate, for the Dead Sea has no outlet. It only gets to keep. I once went swimming in the Dead Sea. There was such a high content of salt, that you can’t sink! But then, someone kicked the water, which got into my eye, and I couldn’t wipe it out because I was covered in salt water. And it stung! But the point is that the Dead Sea has no outlet. It cannot give; it only gets to keep.

The article I was reading suggested that selfish and unselfish people can act in much the same way. Unselfish people can give and luxuriate in their generosity, while selfish people only get to keep—and can stagnate as a result.

At this time of gift giving, I noted an interesting cartoon in the newspaper earlier this week. It’s called the “Lockhorns” and it’s about a husband and wife who are constantly fighting, and not even counseling seems to help. In this particular scene, the wife is bringing a shirt to the cashier. He asks her, “Would you like something nicer, or is this for your husband?”

How different is one of my favorite stories, O Henry’s “Gift of the Magi”. The main theme of this story by O. Henry is that giving is the greatest gift of all . It’s about a married couple very much in love who want to give a special gift to each other. Della gives up her most cherished possession, her beautiful hair, to get a gift for her husband, Jim. She buys him a fob for his favorite possession--a pocket watch. But Jim sells his pocket watch to buy beautiful combs for Della to adorn her hair!

The beauty, I think, is the kind of tragic impracticality of the outcome of the gift-giving. Each gives up a most favored possession that, in both cases is lost. And what they are left with is a total gift of self to each other.

Our gift-giving at Christmas can be, at its best, an expression of the love, esteem and respect that we have for another person. But what our Scripture readings throughout this Advent and Christmas Season invite us to reflect on the incredible gift giving that is flying all over the place in the Christmas story.

God gives us the greatest treasure of God’s heart: God’s only Son. During this Year of the Eucharist, we are reminded that the gift of the Son continues giving, so that we might have communion—union of mind and heart with our God and with each other. Mary gives the gift of agreeing to God’s very unorthodox plan by saying yes to a miraculous pregnancy. Joseph gives Mary and Jesus the gift of not divorcing Mary and becoming the faithful guardian, the totally committed husband and foster-father. Mary gives her cousin Elizabeth the gift of visiting to see if she can help the older woman who was thought to be barren, and to share the good news of what God was doing in their lives. And the Bible makes clear that the birth of Jesus at Christmas is meant for all people: from the wealthy magi to the poorest shepherds, from the chosen people of Israel, out to all the peoples and nations of the world.

So, I would suggest two things for you to consider this week. First, let us not forget the original, spiritual basis of gift-giving at this time of year; let us, as the saying goes, “Keep Christ in Christmas”—these spiritual roots can be so easily lost, and Christmas can be turned into a madhouse of commercialism and excess. And second, let us remember how to give gifts—not as a begrudging duty, but as an act of love, an act of gratitude, in honor of the Supreme Gift that is at the heart of our celebration of Christmas.

Homily for the Third Sunday of Advent December 12, 2021

Mon, 13 Dec 2021 10:23:00 GMT

Can we still find joy?

Today we light the pink candle on our Advent Wreath, a candle different from the others and standing for joy. Back in the old days when preparation for Christmas had a strong spiritual dimension, and included doing some penance and fasting, this Third Sunday of Advent was a kind of road sign saying: You’re getting close to the goal; don’t lose heart; don’t lose hope. The great day of rejoicing isn’t too far ahead; together, we’ll get there.

So, I want to focus on today’s second reading from Paul’s letter to the Philippians. “Rejoice in the Lord always,” he says. He must really mean it because he says it a second time. “I shall say it again: rejoice!” And then a little further in the text he says, “Have no anxiety!”

I have to be honest, there’s something within me that wants to say: Are you kidding? We’ve been living in a pandemic, millions are getting sick, and millions around the world are dying. We’re dealing with inflation; every time we go for groceries or buy gas, the price has gone up. Our representatives in Congress can’t seem to get along, and they’re not helping things here. So, I find it a little harder to get into the spirit of things and to feel joy! This is what I’d like to explore today. Does Paul’s advice and encouragement still apply to us? Should we be rejoicing? Should we have no anxiety at all?

To begin the analysis, I want to start with a story. It’s an old legend about a tribe that was always at war with other tribes. They murdered, raped and pillaged. They had no morals, love, or compassion. They were so violent, it seemed they had a death wish.

An alarmed elder called together some reasonable members from all the other tribes to try and save the violent tribe’s people from themselves. After much discussion the reasonable people decided to take the secret of success and happiness away from those who abused it, and to hide it from them.

But where should this secret be hidden? Some suggested it be buried deep in the earth. Others said to put it on top of the highest mountain. Still others suggested it be sunk deep in the ocean. There was no agreement until the elder who had gathered them together made this proposal. “Let us hide the secret within the people themselves,” he suggested. “People like this will never find happiness and success there.”

To this day people have been feverishly pursuing success and happiness, searching for the secret. Relatively few ever find its hiding place—already within themselves.

Now, let me go back to Paul’s letter. One of the interesting aspects of its history is that, when Paul wrote this particular letter, he was writing from prison in Rome. Christians were being persecuted. During the time of the Emperor Nero, there was a devastating fire in Rome—and the Christians were blamed. The tradition is that Paul was eventually beheaded, but the important thing to note for now is that this letter was written from prison.

I believe Paul could write “Rejoice” “I’ll say it twice: Rejoice!” “Have no anxiety at all!”—he could write like this because he had found joy, not from a top level job, or a huge income, or a lot of success and popularity. He found his joy within himself. Regardless of his external circumstances, he knew deep within that Jesus is Lord, that Jesus had been crucified, that Jesus was risen from the dead, and that Jesus loved Paul and everyone else who had heard the message and believed. “Jesus loves me, this I know, because the Bible tells me so.” I quote from this Christian hymn—the words written by Anna Bartlett Warner (1827-1915), the words spoken as a comforting poem to a dying child, and the tune later added by William Batchelder Bradbury. This is a favorite hymn all around the world, especially among children. It may sound simplistic, but I think Anna and William, like Paul, were onto something.

Happiness is something that depends on the external circumstances of our lives. Someone we love dies; we face a major medical issue; there’s the loss of a job; we have to be careful and wear masks during a pandemic; there’s no money to pay the bills—and out happiness level goes down. But joy, at least for us Christians and other spiritual/religious folk, is something deeper. It comes from knowing, underneath it all, that we are loved and cherished by a God who was willing even to suffer an excruciating crucifixion and die for us, so that we might have an eternal future. That future is ours, even now; we’re already heading on the road that leads to eternity. We belong to God, and no one can snatch us out of God’s possession.

This, I believe, is the key to Paul’s words, Paul’s advice: Rejoice! Rejoice! (It bears repeating.) Have no anxiety, “but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God. Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” You don’t have to climb the highest mountain, or swim the deepest ocean, or dig the deepest hole to find this treasure. The secret of joy is within you, in your heart, in the innermost recesses of your being, where you are known and loved by the God who has destined you for an eternity of love, peace and joy. This Advent season bids us to sit down, stop running around, and look within. Quiet yourself and listen for God’s whisper deep within yourself: I love you with an everlasting love. You are mine!

To this day people have been feverishly pursuing success and happiness, searching for the secret. Relatively few ever find its hiding place—already within themselves.

Homily for the Second Sunday of Advent December 5, 2021

Mon, 06 Dec 2021 12:37:00 GMT

Year of the Eucharist: What are we hungry for?

One day a woman was walking through a beautiful meadow, meditating on nature. While strolling about, she came upon a field of golden pumpkins. In the corner of the field stood a majestic, huge oak tree.

She sat under the oak tree, musing on the strange twists in nature which put tiny acorns on huge branches and huge pumpkins on tiny vines. She thought to herself, “God blundered with creation! God should have put the small acorns on the tiny vines and the large pumpkins on the huge branches.

Getting tired, the woman stretched out under the oak tree for a nap. A few minutes after falling asleep she was awakened by a tiny acorn bouncing off her nose. Chuckling to herself, she rubbed her nose and thought, “Maybe God was right after all!”

As you may know, our bishop, Bishop Byrne, has invited us during this Year of the Eucharist to come to a deeper understanding and appreciation for God’s real, genuine, and true presence in our lives. Now, many Catholics, as we know, have drifted away from the Eucharist and the community of the Church. They say that they are happy to have spirituality, but they do not need religion. Could it be that Jesus was wrong in giving this gift that so many no longer seem to want?

I think that, if Jesus wants to feed us and to be an intimate presence in our life, it would be good to start with the question: Are we hungry? Or better, what are we hungry for?

Now, it can be said that many of us have “arrived”—at least compared to our humble beginnings. Maybe we’re not rich, but most of us have a roof over our heads and food on the table—and a lot more besides! But I think we can still be hungry. The other day at Mass I used the image of feeling hungry, opening the refrigerator door, and staring in, but not really knowing what we want, what could satisfy the hunger we’re feeling.

Well, maybe it’s like that in our relationship with God and with the community of the Church. What hungers might be fed here? Let me share some of my hungers, and how I feel fed…

In a world that often feels like it’s racing out of control, I’m hungry for a place that provides intimacy, stability, simplicity and deep-spirited friendship. These are the hungers I bring to Jesus, and it is here, around this table, where I believe my deepest hungers can be met—in communion with God, in communion with a hungry community that knows it needs God.

Let me share with you a beautiful Polish Christmas custom that I have cherished since I was a boy. It is the custom of the “opłatek” or Christmas wafer. It is made of unleavened bread, usually rectangular, with Christmas scenes imprinted on it. It was blessed and given out in church during the Advent Season. People used to mail pieces of it to loved ones in their Christmas cards. I remember my father receiving a card with a piece of opłatek in it from his mother, whom he had left behind in Poland.

At the festive Christmas Eve dinner, the wafer would be broken and shared, with each person offering wishes for the New Year. I think the genius of this tradition was that it was basically the same type of bread used for the Eucharist. Jesus becoming flesh, being born at Christmas, and Jesus, broken and shared in the Eucharist—that was the faith brought into the home and shared across thousands of miles with loved ones: Jesus is born, Jesus is truly with us, under the appearance of a simple piece of bread, in the church community and in the family at home. With this simple custom, we were fed at Christmas with intimacy, stability, simplicity and deep-spirited friendship. And I felt the love, embraced by my family, my community, my church, and my God. My deepest hunger was satisfied, and I don’t think God made a mistake in giving us to each other, or in giving himself to us completely, down to a body that was broken, down to his last drop of blood.

Homily for the Thirty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time November 14, 2021

Mon, 15 Nov 2021 09:36:00 GMT

Can you sleep when the wind blows?

When it comes to this end of time stuff, with all its wild imagery, it can leave us confused, if not scared out of our wits. How are we to understand it? What do we do with it?

To help us gain perspective, I want to begin with a story. A young man answered a want-ad for a farmhand. He told the owner about his previous work experience and then added, “And I can sleep when the wind blows.” This puzzled the farmer a bit. However, he needed the help, so he hired the young man.

During the next few months the hired hand did everything asked of him, and the farmer was satisfied.

Late one night, one of those infamous Midwestern windstorms roared across the plains. It was two in the morning, but the farmer got up, put on his clothes and ran out to tie down whatever needed to be secured. First, he checked the barn. The doors were shut tight, shutters were closed, and the animals were all properly in their stalls. He checked the springhouse, the pump, the storage shed, the machinery, and the trucks. All were secured.

The farmer ran frantically from place to place. He just knew something had to be loose, uncovered or rattling. However, everything was as it should be. The farmer then stuck his head into the bunkhouse to thank the new hand, only to find him sound asleep.

Then the farmer remembered the curious statement, “I can sleep when the wind blows.” He smiled, realizing that the young man had done everything he was expected to do. He could, indeed, sleep when the wind blew.

And I think that is basically what our readings boil down to. We know that things will eventually come to an end. We do not know when, and neither does Jesus for that matter. We also know that the end will come for each of us at the time we will die, although many of us hate to think about that. But if we have lived responsibly, taking care of our duties, living in a decent way, striving to do God’s will, and showing love and compassion—well, then, I think we can, as the young cowhand put it, “sleep when the wind blows”—sleep soundly, knowing that all is in order. On the other hand, if we don’t feel quite so secure, if we have unfinished business and loose ends to tie up, if there are responsibilities that we have been neglecting, if we haven’t followed the commandments or been concerned about doing God’s will—well then, there is an invitation here, and a warning: someday it will end, the final act will have played out, and the curtain will come down. Today’s readings invite us to take stock, to make adjustments, and to live honorably and responsibly, so that no matter what, we can sleep when the wind blows.

Homily for the Thirty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time October 31, 2021

Mon, 01 Nov 2021 13:00:00 GMT

Our highest ideal & our greatest gift

I recently read a fascinating story about a great violinist named Nicolo Paganini. Paganini left his exquisite violin to the city of Genoa, the place of his birth, but on one condition—that the instrument never be played again. As it turned out, this was very unfortunate because it is a characteristic of wood that as long as it is used and handled, it shows little decline in quality. However, as soon as it is set aside or put into storage, it begins to decay. So the fabulous, mellow-toned violin gradually became worm-eaten in its gorgeous case, no longer any good except as a relic.

The author of the story points out that this is true of our gifts and talents: they are meant to be used, not treasures to be stored up. Just as Paganini’s stored violin rotted, the same thing can happen when a life is withdrawn from love and service to others—it loses its meaning.

An inspiring story of love is to be found in the German city of Weinsberg. Overlooking the city is a mighty fortress, and when one visits the city, the people are proud to tell a famous legend associated with that fortress. In the 15 ^th century, enemy troops laid siege to the fortress and sealed all the townspeople inside. The enemy commander sent word up to the fortress announcing that he would allow the women and children to leave and go free before he launched a devastating attack on the fortress.

After some negotiations, the enemy commander also agreed, on his word of honor, to let each woman to take with her the most valuable, personal treasure she possessed, provided she could carry it out herself (it was an age of honor and chivalry).

You can imagine the enemy commander’s surprise when the women began marching out of the fortress, each one carrying her husband on her back. Now that’s love being put into practice!

Some people might be surprised that, when Jesus is asked what he believed was the greatest commandment, he did not quote one of the famous Ten Commandments. But what he is doing is pointing to something even more basic, something that underlies the Ten Commandments: love of God above all, and love of neighbor as oneself. The first three of those commandments are more concrete and specific ways of loving God, of not allowing love for God to die: we are to have no other gods; we are not to abuse or misuse the name of God; and we are to honor the Lord’s Day and make it a special time of rest and worship. The other seven commandments spell out in a more specific way the means by which we keep our love of neighbor real and concrete, making a shared and meaningful life in society possible: no killing; no adultery; no stealing; no bearing false witness; no lusting after persons and things that do not belong to you.

In all these ways, we put love into practice, exercising our ability to love and keeping love real—more than a mere sentiment. By focusing on love above all else, the bottom line of what Jesus is saying is that the one thing we are not allowed to do is to hate .

Now, you might argue that all this talk about love sounds nice—in the abstract. But we live in a complex, confusing and imperfect world. Isn’t this commandment to love naïve and, at least in some cases, impractical if not impossible?

Well, let me share one more story. Perhaps you’re familiar with Maximilian Kolbe, a Polish Franciscan priest, who was arrested and made a prisoner in the Auschwitz death-camp during the Second World War. I’ll jump right to the heart of the story. In July of 1941, it was reported to the deputy camp commander that a prisoner from St. Maximilian’s barracks had escaped. In order to set an example, and to prevent further escapes, the standard procedure was to have the commander of the barracks single out ten men for the starvation bunker. Father Maximilian, although not among the ten first selected, volunteered, in a heroic act of charity, to be the victim in place of a prisoner who cried out: “My poor wife; my poor children!” The result of this self-offering was that Father Maximilian would be assigned to the infamous starvation bunker where he would slowly but surely die. At that precise moment, it can be said that Kolbe attained full conformity to Jesus, the Victim of the Cross; for there is “no greater love than this, that a man lays down his life for his friend” (Jn 15:12).

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t think I would have that kind of courage. But I certainly have seen love being shown in difficult circumstances. I’ve seen love in the heroic example of mothers who won’t let harm come to their children. I’ve seen love in the tender way a person takes care of a seriously ill or dying spouse. I’ve seen love in those who step in and try to defuse a potentially deadly situation. And I’ve seen love in countless acts of compassion and kindness. All these acts of love, heroic or otherwise, help to keep me trying—trying to love in times of fear and cynicism, abuse and violence, division and outright hate. Such acts of love keep Jesus’ vision of the world alive—a world founded upon, and anchored in, the very love of God. We have been created in love and for love. Love is our heritage and our destiny. It may not be easy, but it is our highest ideal, our greatest gift, and our most important commandment.

Homily for the Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time October 17, 2021

Mon, 18 Oct 2021 11:08:00 GMT

It cannot be that way among you!

To help us understand today’s Scripture, I want to begin with a story from the world of sports. It’s a story about the Olympics that were held in Barcelona in 1992. It was near the end of the men’s four-hundred-meter race when Derrick Redmond of Great Britain suddenly crashed to the track, clutching his right hamstring. Sprawled on the track, Redmond was writhing in pain as the other runners passed him. Inside himself he knew that he had to get up—get up and finish the race. He struggled to his feet and began hopping awkwardly, dragging his injured leg, grimacing in pain.

Television viewers then saw, from the corner of their TV screens, an older man dash past security officials onto the track, running after Redmond. The man attempted to put his arms around the runner, but Redmond pushed him away. But the man continued along with Redmond until the excruciating pain overcame the runner and he slumped into the older man’s arms. The older man helped the runner up. That man was identified as Redmond’s father, Jim. Father and son, arm in arm, continued down the track with the echoing applause supporting them to the finish line. Five minutes later, they crossed the finish line, four minutes and sixteen seconds after the gold medal winner.

When questioned by reporters, the elder Redmond told the gathered press, “I’m more proud of my son than if he had won the race.”

Reporters pointed out that the Redmond’s, father and son, exemplified the Olympic spirit, which according to the founder, Baron de Coubertin in 1896 was: “The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win, but to take part; just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph, but the struggle.”

I suppose that our competitiveness, our ardent desire to win, starts early in life. I remember times when a good friend would shout, “I’ll race you to that tree,” and off we’d go, each mustering all our energy to be the winner. And if we lost, we’d tend to say, “I’ll get you next time!”

That appears to be the motivation for James and John, who want to get to the top, winning the plum positions of being Jesus’ left and right hand men—helping to run the organization from the top. And then we have the reaction of the other ten Apostles, who become “indignant” at the brash chutzpa of James and John. Perhaps they, too, wanted to get to the top, and perhaps they were mad that James and John would so deeply want to leave the rest of them in the dust of defeat.

We obviously see the motivation to win in sports. Competition can be a good thing, fun to watch, but competition, with huge amounts of money involved at the professional level and even in college sports, can turn the game into a vicious desire to win at any cost. Then, it seems to me, that games are no longer just “games” if winning is all that matters—no matter how you win, and no matter what you do to your opponents in the process.

One article I read recently laments the many ways in which a “me first” attitude is poisoning relationships. We see it in the nastiness of politics, often without much concern for the real problems of the people that those in public office are supposed to serve. We see it in unfair business practices, where the health and well-being of employees don’t seem to matter and anything that helps you get ahead is justified, even if it is immoral or illegal. And we see it in so many personal relationships that are falling apart because of a “me first” attitude that eats away at the relationship like a cancer.

And what does Jesus say? It cannot be that way among you, who claim to be my followers. That is certainly not my way, and nothing like what I stand for. Instead of worrying about how you are going to get to the top, I want you to look around you and find those who are at the bottom. Instead of worrying about how you can win, I want you to help others to become winners—to be appreciated for who they are, children of God, rather than pawns to be used for your advancement. I want you to be like Jim Redmond, who helped his son to win much more than a gold medal. I want you to be like Mother Teresa, who was never so proud or vain that she would refuse to reach down to the bottom, helping those who were abandoned to the ash heap of society as if they were little more than animals. Life is not about winning at any cost; it is about loving and serving and making life better for others. It’s about honor and valor in sports; it’s about making government fair and just and helpful in politics; in business, it’s about giving people a meaningful job in safe conditions, so they can provide for themselves and their families. If it’s only about winning, then everything, even a healthy sense of competition, gets distorted. It must not be that way among you. You are capable of far better, and you must not abandon the way intended by God.

Like Jesus, we are called to lift others up, to recognize their dignity, and restore them fully as children of the one God.

Homily for the Twenty-Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time October 10, 2021

Wed, 13 Oct 2021 09:07:00 GMT

How would you define success?

A troubled man made an appointment with a rabbi who was known to be wise and gentle. “Rabbi,” said the man, wringing his hands, “I’m a failure. More than half the time I do not succeed in doing what I know I must.” “Oh,” murmured the rabbi. “Please say something wise, rabbi,” pleaded the man. After much pondering, the rabbi replied, “Ah, my son, I give you this bit of wisdom: Go and look on page 930 of The New York Times Almanac for the year 1970, and maybe you will find something.”

Confused by such strange advice, the troubled man went to the library to look up the source. And this is what he found—lifetime batting averages for the world’s greatest baseball players. Ty Cobb, the greatest slugger of them all, had a lifetime average of .367. Not even Babe Ruth beat that record. So the man returned to the rabbi and questioned, “Ty Cobb, .367. That’s it?” “Correct,” the rabbi replied. “Ty Cobb .367. He got a hit once out of every three times at bat. He didn’t even hit .500. So what do you expect already?” “Aha,” said the man, who thought he was such a wretched failure because he succeeded only half the time at what he must do. He thought to himself: Isn’t theology amazing?

I read an article about a gathering of the world’s most successful financiers, nine men who gathered at Chicago’s Edgewater Beach Hotel in 1923. These men each had enough money to buy just about anything they wanted. They were truly rich—rich—rich. Now, what’s really interesting is how they ended up: I’ll just give a few examples:

In a sense this is an “old” story, coming from the 1920’s. And yet, it demonstrates a timeless truth: money and the desire for power and riches can change a person, corrupt a person’s character, and lead to terrible consequences.

Now, there is a theme that goes right through all of our readings today, and that is that God’s ways are not our ways, God’s wisdom is different than our own, God’s word penetrates to the very heart of our being and knows us better than we know ourselves.

The man who approached Jesus in today’s gospel was obviously a good person. He says that he had kept God’s commandments from his youth. So he could have stopped there, being an honest, upright, moral individual. But he wanted more. He noticed that Jesus seemed to have amazing insight. His teaching had a powerful authority, as if it came from the very heart of God. And so the man asks, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?”

Now, I want to point out that Jesus does not respond in condemnation. The text says that Jesus looked at him, and loved him. What Jesus advises is thus given in love. He wants this man to be successful in every way, to be truly happy. “You are lacking in one thing. Go, sell what you have, and give it to the poor and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.”

The man’s heart sank. Instead of asking him to build on the foundation he had already created, Jesus asks him, not to build further up, for himself, but to build down by becoming selfless and, instead of living only for himself, to live for others. Jesus had taught that the greatest commandment is to put God in first place in our life; to love God with all our being, above anyone or anything else. Evidently, Jesus sensed that this man’s possessions were in first place—not God. For him, what mattered was treasure in this life, not treasure in heaven for all eternity.

One thing to note: Jesus is asking that there be a right ordering of one’s life. And if we do that, we will not experience it as a loss. He says that, compared to what we have given up out of compassion and charity, we will find that we will then have “a hundred times more now in this present age”—plus “eternal life in the age to come.”

I don't pretend to have attained the level of sacrifice that Jesus asks for, and I don’t think that I have acquired all of God’s wisdom. But I have found one thing, over and over again: God cannot be outdone in generosity. One day I gave a person with many problems the last money I had in my wallet. About an hour later, someone came to the door and handed me an envelope with $100 in it. The person said, “Here, Father, I thought you could use this.” God cannot be outdone in generosity!

The success Jesus calls us to is not easy; it is very challenging because it demands that we not keep ourselves at the center. The wisdom of God asks that we have enough trust that, if we put God at the center, if we put love and compassion at the center, if we put those who are desperately in need at the center—then we will “receive a hundred times more now in this present age…and eternal life in the age to come.”

But what it all comes down to is this: how do you define success?

Homily for the Twenty-Seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time October 3, 2021

Mon, 04 Oct 2021 12:49:00 GMT

This weekend, after a layoff because of the Covid-19 pandemic, our religious education classes are starting again, and our young people are returning. For this reason, I want to begin with the second part of today’s gospel—about children.

Let’s begin with a story. A family was seated in a restaurant. The server took the order from the adults, then turned to their young son. “What will you have, young man?” she asked. The boy replied, “I want a hot dog.” The mother then interrupted, “No hot dog. Give him the boneless chicken fillet, the mashed potatoes, some vegetables…” Ignoring her, the server turned to the boy. “Ketchup or mustard?” she asked. “Ketchup,” he replied, a happy smile on his face. “Comin’ right up,” the server said, returning to the kitchen. Among the adults at the table there was stunned silence. After a moment, the boy turned to his parents. “Know what?” he said. “She thinks I’m real.”

According to the gospel reading, Jesus also thought that children were real. You can imagine that things were pretty hectic, Jesus was teaching in different places, and the schedule was tight. So, perhaps to keep things moving, the Apostles tried to stop parents from bringing their children for special attention to Jesus. Jesus, the gospel tells us, became indignant when he found out what was happening. “Let the children come to me,” he says, “do not prevent them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.” Then Jesus uses the children as an example of faith and discipleship: “Amen, I say to you, whoever does not accept the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it.”

Now, as we read this Scripture passage, we might think, what’s so extraordinary about that? Why wouldn’t Jesus love children? The truth of the matter is that children did not automatically have status in that society. Their personhood often seemed to grow with their age and their usefulness to family and society. Israel had a patriarchal society, so boys were typically wanted and treated better than girls. Marriages were arranged, often in such a way as to improve the status of a family.

So, what Jesus does is to raise the status of children by encouraging adults to imitate them in the way they could accept Jesus and his teaching: if you do not accept the kingdom of God like a child, you will not enter it.

Let’s not forget that Jesus did the same thing for the status and self-worth of the poor. In Matthew’s famous judgment scene, in which Jesus separates sheep from goats, he actually identifies himself with the poor and the marginalized: 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, and you came to visit me. In a society that often considered poverty as a punishment for sin, and poor people as getting what they deserved, this was huge!

Now, let’s go back to the first part of the gospel which deals with a subject that, for many, is very painful: marriage and divorce. I urge you to read my bulletin column in which I deal with this issue in greater detail. One of the important points Jesus makes is that he goes back to the beginning. What was God’s original creative intention when he created the human race as male and female? Was it that relationships should break down and end up in heartache, both for the parents and their children? Did God intend that the family, the basic building block of society, should fall apart, destroying a sense of stability and peace? Of course not! But once sin entered the picture, God’s original intentions became marred, and incredible sadness entered the world.

When it comes to divorce, then, the Church walks a fine line. On the one hand we want to teach about the beauty and stability of marriage and help married couples to live up to it. And on the other hand, annulments are possible because human beings are in fact imperfect and often enter a relationship that, for one reason or another, has something crucial lacking and never becomes a lasting, life-long relationship.

But I want to point out something that is often overlooked in this gospel passage. According to the Law of Moses, only the husband could get a divorce by writing a divorce document stating his reasons for doing so. Quite often, the reasons were rather trivial, and as a result women were being treated like property rather than equal partners in a relationship. So, only a husband could get a divorce, yet listen to what Jesus says: “Whoever divorces his wife and marries another commits adultery against her.” No more whimsical, trivial patriarchal divorces! Men, treat your wives with the love and respect they deserve. But Jesus then goes on to state what in that society was impossible: “if she [the wife] divorces her husband and marries another, she commits adultery.” How do you like that? It may be about something less than ideal, but Jesus’ teaching elevates the status of women, as he had done with children and the poor. Women could now say, like the young boy in the restaurant, “Jesus think’s we’re real!” As one further example of this: who’s the first witness to the resurrection of Jesus? A woman, Mary Magdalene! The Church came to call her “the Apostle to the Apostles”—for Jesus, the Risen One, sends her to tell the Apostles the Good News.

So today’s gospel invites us to ask, who’s status needs protection today, in our time? Whom should I stop treating as if that person is expendable, nonessential or disposable? The gospel proposes looking at how we treat children, women, the poor and those who are different from us. For Jesus, no one is expendable; no one is beyond salvation. We need to hear that, and we need to examine our conscience if we really mean to be followers of Jesus.

Homily for the Twenty-Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time September 19, 2021

Mon, 20 Sep 2021 10:51:00 GMT

I want to take a look at today’s readings from the point of view of ambition: when is ambition a good thing, and when is it bad? Let’s begin with a story…

The story is told of a baseball player back in 1945 who played for the St. Louis Browns, perhaps the worst team to take the field with a win-loss record that was pathetic. They had a player who lasted only one year. He was an outfielder. He was not even a regular and he never got a homerun. Yet this guy has to qualify as a legitimate candidate for the Hall of Fame. The young man’s name was Pete Gray.

As a young man, Gray had a burning desire, an absolutely overwhelming ambition, and that ambition was to play major league baseball. And he did it, despite the fact that he had only one arm. However, that one arm, coupled with a tremendous desire, enabled Pete Gray to get all the way to the major leagues. So many times, ambition is the thing that makes a positive difference.

Let me give you another example of an ambitious man, and one I happen to admire. He was a politician, but it’s not his politics I want to focus on. Rather, he had ambition that was tempered by integrity. His name was John McCain.

McCain returned to the Senate floor about a week after his office had announced that he had brain cancer. He gave a speech about the great need for a more bipartisan approach in Congress. Then breaking with most members of his party, he voted against the repeal of what was commonly called “Obamacare”. The Affordable Care Act was not something McCain supported, but the vote was about repealing some of its measures without offering anything to replace it. Later, when a reporter asked him why he had voted as he did, he replied, “I thought it was the right thing to do.”

The point I want to make is that McCain had a healthy kind of ambition, moderated by common sense and the desire to be of genuine service to his constituents. In a world that has increasingly separated into hostile camps, McCain was, at least in this instance, a voice of reason who put the common good and bipartisan compromise above selfishly thinking only about wielding power. He called for working together to find solutions to the problems faced by the American people.

By contrast, St. James speaks in our second reading about “jealousy and selfish ambition” which leads to “disorder and every foul practice.” It’s the kind of ambition experienced by the Apostles in today’s gospel. Jesus had been telling them about his destiny in Jerusalem, where he would be “handed over to men and they would kill him.” Later, when the Apostles admitted to arguing over who was the most important, Jesus rather dramatically reprimanded them for their selfish ambition, focusing on a child, and teaching, “If anyone wishes to be first, he shall be the last of all and the servant of all.” Jesus modeled and called for servant leadership, not blind and ruthless ambition, clawing one’s way to the top without much regard to whom you hurt along the way.

I recently came across an anonymous article that began “the world needs men and women who…” I’m not sure who wrote it or when, but it certainly seems to fit today’s need. See what you think…

The world needs men and women…

who cannot be bought;

whose word is their bond;

who put character above wealth…

who will not lose their individuality in a

crowd;

who will be as honest in small affairs as in

greater;

who will make no compromise with wrong;

whose ambitions are not confined to their

own selfish desires;

who will not say they do it “because

everybody else does it”…

who are not afraid to stand for the truth

when it is unpopular;

who can say “no” with emphasis, although

all the rest of the world says “yes.”

I’m not suggesting that all politicians will have to act like members of the choir, and it’s not really politics that concerns me. What I am deeply concerned about is that selfish ambition is poisoning our ethics, our integrity, and our ability to get along. It’s difficult to have a pleasant conversation, to have honest differences, to express opinions, to debate important issues. Our life in common has suffered.

But I believe that we as Christians are being called, now more than ever, to live up to a better standard. I’m not suggesting that we’re better than anyone else; it’s just that Jesus expects more of us because we are his disciples, trying as best we can to follow his way—the way of humility, service and, above all and always, love.

Homily for the Twenty-Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time September 12, 2021

Mon, 13 Sep 2021 16:49:00 GMT

We are observing the twentieth anniversary of 9/11. In a recent issue of St. Anthony Messenger memories are shared about a Franciscan priest whose name came to be known around the world. The article states, “Franciscan Father Mychal Judge is listed as victim number one of the 9/11 attacks in New York City. A fire chaplain for the city’s firefighters, Father Mychal was on the scene of the attack and praying for those who were jumping from the building when the first tower collapsed. The force of the collapse threw him backward across the lobby into the escalators. He died of blunt force trauma to his head. The photo of him being carried from the rubble has become a haunting icon of that day.” Fr. Mychal’s funeral was televised throughout the world. It is estimated that over 81 million people watched the funeral.

Fr. Mychal is representative of all those who were running toward the disaster while everyone else was running away from it: firefighters, police, and civil officials. Many of them became victims of the disaster, carrying the scars of that day. Another Fire Department Chaplain, Fr. Chris Keenan, for example, reports having five medical conditions from the time spent digging in the pit, looking for survivors or remains of those who died: cancer, esophagus, lungs, post trauma stress disease and sleep apnea. There are over 1,700 being treated for cancer in the FDNY alone.

One might ask: where was Jesus in all of this? Today’s gospel gives us an answer. Jesus asks his closest followers about his identity. First, who do others say that I am? And second, and more importantly, who do you say that I am? Peter gets an A+ for his deep insight that this is the long awaited Messiah and Savior of the world.

But then Jesus reveals what type of Messiah he is. Not a glorious king or a leader of an army that will drive the hated Romans out of Israel. Not one who has come to get to the top, but rather a servant who prefers to serve those at the bottom. Then his destiny is revealed: Jesus is headed toward Jerusalem, where he says he will suffer, be tortured and humiliated, and crucified; he also makes note of the fact that he will rise again, but that part of it doesn’t seem to register with Peter.

Passages like this remind me of one of my favorite television memories of Jackie Gleason in The Honeymooners . In one episode Ralph Cramden, played by Jackie, says to his wife, “Alice, I’m the king around here. Do you here that Alice? I’m king. I’m the king and you’re nothing!” Alice, without missing a beat says, “Right, Ralph. Do you know what that makes you? The king of nothing!”

I think that’s why Peter reacts as he does. What Jesus says about being humiliated, suffering and dying makes him a very strange king—a king of nothing. Or even a king of less than nothing.

And what does Jesus do? He certainly doesn’t back off. He strongly, rather viciously, reprimands Peter and even calls him a Satan who is trying to trip him up. Jesus says that he’s heading toward Jerusalem, toward torture, toward disaster, toward death. He’s not running away from suffering and death; he’s aiming straight at it.

And there’s your answer about where Jesus was on 9/11. Like Fr. Michal Judge, like the firefighters and police officers, he was heading toward the disaster. He certainly wasn’t running away, as Peter wanted him to. He knew that people there needed him every step of the way. It was as if he were being re-crucified that day, not once, but thousands of times. And not only with those were who immediately impacted, but also with their families and friends, with their communities, with the millions of people all around the world who were watching the horrific disaster taking place. No! Just as two thousand years ago, Jesus wasn’t running away from the cross; he was still on it, still being the gateway between death and eternal life, still offering hope, still wiping away tears, still walking with all those who were being crucified on 9/11.

And we can broaden that. Where is Jesus…when someone you love dies? When you receive a diagnosis of cancer? When Covid strikes a neighbor? When you don’t know how you’re going to pay all the bills? When the world seems to be falling apart? Where is Jesus? He’s certainly not running away. He’s with you, with us, meeting the disaster head on and promising that, just as the cross didn’t have the last word, neither will your particular disaster have the last word. Together with Jesus, we not only go to the cross, we—joined with him—go through it.

And in today’s gospel he invites us, his followers, to come after him, with courage and faith take up the cross because, as we sing in the hymn, “it is by dying that we gain eternal life.” We are mortal, which means that in one way or another we wear out, we experience pain and suffering, we live in a less than perfect world. But that’s not all of who we are. There’s a spark if divinity within us as well—which means that there’s an eternal destiny in us. And as followers of Jesus, we are asked to run toward those who are suffering, hold their hand, reassure them, and let them know that Jesus is with them to take them through the disaster to an eternal home.

Homily for the Twenty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time September 5, 2021

Tue, 07 Sep 2021 12:15:00 GMT

September 5, 2021

Am I my brother’s (and sister’s) keeper?

Let me begin with a story….A woman was standing on a curb, waiting for the traffic light to change. On the opposite curb was a girl about 17 years old. The woman noticed that the girl was crying.

Hours later the tear-filled eyes of that girl continued to haunt that woman. Over and over she said to herself, “Why didn’t I turn to her and say, ‘Can I be of help?’ Sure, she might have rejected me, but so what! Only a few seconds would have been enough to let her know that someone cared for her. Instead, I passed on by. I acted as if she didn’t exist.”

What do you think? Was the woman being hard on herself? Did she really have to reach out to a perfect stranger? Why did her conscience torment her? Should she have said or done something? What would you do?

Let me share another story, this time from a young priest…. It was a couple days after Easter and our priest was exhausted. The last thing he wanted to hear was that he had a visitor.

Before he had a chance to respond, a young woman had been let in, and there she was at the door of his office. She asked if they could talk. The priest’s voice said, “Certainly!” but his heart begged him to take off for the day and rest.

At any rate, he sat down to talk with the stranger and listen to her story. Her story was long and it was heartbreaking. And when the priest realized how much more difficult the story was to tell than for him to hear it, he forgot his other plans, and started to listen with his whole heart and soul.

Afterward, he thought to himself, that young woman left the office some time later, still carrying her problems with her. But she also left knowing that she was not alone and that someone thought she was important enough to hear her out.

Now, let’s take a look at our gospel reading. First, we are told that “people” brought to Jesus a deaf person who also had a speech impediment. Evidently, having heard about Jesus’ ability to heal, the text says they “begged him to lay his hands on him.” I don’t imagine it was a huge crowd that brought the man, but probably a few close friends or neighbors who cared enough about the man to want to do something that could possibly help him. I admire them for their compassion and I love the idea that there was a sense of a loving community there. Unlike Cain in the first part of the Bible, who is confronted by God about his brother’s murder, unlike Cain, who responded, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”—these friends replied, “Yes! We definitely are our brother’s keepers!” Isn’t that a beautiful thing?

And then, notice what Jesus does. There’s this huge crowd that is waiting for Jesus to speak and teach, to pray and respond to their needs, and what does Jesus do? He drops everything, takes the deaf man away from the crowd, and gives him his total attention. The world waits, yet Jesus has time for and gives his attention to one poor deaf man.

Both the friends who brought the man and Jesus pay attention to the man, and he is given a new lease on life. That’s what happens when we make ourselves consciously present to each other. It’s as if we resurrect people, give them new life, and bring them new hope.

Just the other day someone asked me if it felt strange for me to be a priest in this community, in my own home town. They wondered if it felt awkward. I said no. It was the people of this town who supported and encouraged me. Teachers in this town gave me an excellent education. Neighbors befriended me. My parish helped to bring me to Jesus. The people of this town shaped my life and cheered me on.

Community is important. That’s why it’s so disheartening to see such division in our politics and in our society. Certainly, individuals will have differing opinions and convictions, but that doesn’t make us enemies. That doesn’t give us the right to hate and harm those who are different from us. Instead of throwing stones or grenades at each other, we might learn from the example of the friends of the deaf man, who wanted only what was good for him. And, of course, we can learn from the example of Jesus, who gave his full and undivided love and attention to anyone who needed him.

As food for thought, you may wish to consider Cain’s question to God. Am I my brother’s, my sister’s, my neighbor’s keeper? What is my obligation to my brothers and sisters in the community?

Homily for the Twenty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time August 22, 2021

Mon, 23 Aug 2021 13:27:00 GMT

After taking a weekend off last week to honor Mary, we now return to Jesus’ teaching on the Eucharist in what is called the Bread of Life Discourse, Chapter 6 of John’s gospel.

To help us understand what is happening in this passage, I want to start off with a rather goofy story.

One day I was standing on a road. I was just standing there, looking at something on the road up ahead. The thing I saw was a huge, mean-looking bull. And this bull was blocking my path. I knew that to keep moving I was going to have to get past that bull. It scared me just to think about it. For a long time, I stood still, looking at the bull, hoping and praying it would somehow move from my path so I could continue along the road. However, nothing changed, except I heard a distant voice whisper, “Do whatever it is you have to do in order to continue along the journey.”

That was the day I decided to take a deep breath, gather all the strength I could muster, and take the bull by the horns. I knew that in so doing I would have to accept whatever consequences followed—good, bad or indifferent. I set aside my doubts and fears and marched right up to that bull, grabbed those horns, and said, “All right, bull! You’ve got to get out of my way or fight with me—which will it be?”

Well, you’ll never believe what happened next! That crazy bull sat down right on the road, sighed, and spoke to me. “What took you so long getting here?” he asked. “I’ve been standing here waiting to offer you a ride. Hop up on my back and show me where it is you want to go.” What was considered an insurmountable problem turned out to be a great blessing instead. All that I needed was the courage to grab the bull by the horns.

Well, that’s kind of what’s happening in our Scripture readings today. Our first reading takes us to a transition time in the history of Israel. Moses and the older generation that came out of Egypt have died off, and now Joshua is the new leader and successor to Moses. Joshua realizes that he needs a commitment from the people, and so he “takes the bull by the horns” and, without mincing words, puts the stark choice the people have to make before them: “If it does not please you to serve the Lord, decide today whom you will serve, the gods your fathers served beyond the River or the gods of the Amorites in whose country you now dwell. As for me and my household, we will serve the Lord.”

In this case, Joshua gets a positive response and commitment: “Far be it from us to forsake the Lord for the service of other gods.” They then refer to the freedom from slavery that God had given the people, and the many miracles that took place along the journey. So they “grabbed the bull by the horns” and declared their fidelity to the one true God.

In our gospel reading things have come to a turning point. Because Jesus has said that he is the Bread come down from heaven, and that they must consume his flesh to have eternal life, many have found this kind of talk to be too much for them to accept. And so many leave, refusing to be followers of Jesus any more.

Jesus then doesn’t back down. He, like Joshua hundreds of years before, grabs the bull by the horns. In the saddest question in the Bible, Jesus turns to the Twelve Apostles, those who have shared in his life and ministry, and asks, “Do you also want to leave?”

In this case, too, there is a positive response. Peter and the other Apostles have seen the powerful miracles Jesus has performed. They have heard his preaching and teaching. And so, Peter, speaking for the entire group says, “Master, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and are convinced that you are the Holy One of God.”

And now these readings are placed before us. It is our moment of decision, our opportunity to grab the bull by the horns. Jesus is asking us to think of him as a necessary part of our diet, to consume him, to receive life by being so deeply attached to his life that it’s as if we are digesting him so that he can be metabolized as acts of kindness, water for the thirsty, food for the hungry, shelter for the homeless and love for the unloved.

Think of what Jesus offers in this Bread of Life discourse! “Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood has life eternal, and I will raise him or her up on the last day.” That’s what we’re offered here at the Table of the Lord, a steady diet of Jesus’ teaching and of Jesus himself, including his divinity, so that we will have eternal life.

Now, some people say they “get nothing out of the Mass.” That might be because they have not grabbed the bull by the horns, that is, they have not made a decision like Joshua or Peter. To them, and to all of us really, the question of Peter is now addressed: to whom shall we go? It is Jesus who offers the words of eternal life! Do you have a better alternative? To get something from the Mass you have to decide what you want, and what you most need, in life. To whom will you go? If it is Jesus you want, if it is eternal life you want, then decide to go for it. Come here starving for Jesus. Come here aching for every word he speaks. Open up your hungers, your hurts, your disappointments, your anxiety. Come with your questions. If you are bored, you don’t understand why we gather here. I’m not here to entertain you. I’m here to help feed you. But you have to show up hungry. So, grab the bull by the horns. What is it you want? What is it you need? What aches inside you? What feels empty? You are here as a participant, not a spectator. Let’s explore together. If there’s something you don’t understand, tell me. If I’m falling short, let me know what you need. But don’t come here thinking about what you’re going to have for lunch or dinner. Come here hungry for Jesus. Come here hungry for the words of eternal life. Come here hungry for the living bread come down from heaven. If you do that, God can feed you. But know this: God never forces himself on anyone. You have to want what God has to offer. Otherwise, God doesn’t stand a chance.

Homily for the Solemnity of the Assumption of Mary - August 14, 2021

Tue, 17 Aug 2021 11:06:00 GMT

During my vacation these past two weeks, I toured some of the famous mansions that the very wealthy built as summer retreats in Newport, RI. Not only were the buildings themselves impressive on the outside, but the buildings were filled with the best of everything on the inside. I have photo after photo of the most beautiful wood and marble, furniture, chandeliers, paintings, tapestries and china. It was evident that no expense was spared to create a lifestyle worthy of the rich and famous.

Which reminds me of one of my favorite stories… A woman who had been used to every luxury and all marks of respect died. When she arrived in heaven, an angel was sent to escort her to her house there. They passed many lovely mansions and the woman thought, each time as they came to it, must be the one allotted to her. When they had passed through the main streets, they came to the outskirts where the houses were much smaller; and on the very fringe they came to a house which was little more than a shack. “That is your house,” said the conducting angel. “What!” said the woman. “That! I cannot live like that.” “I’m sorry,” said the angel, “but that is all we could build for you with the materials you sent up.”

All of which is another way of saying that I have never seen a hearse followed by a U-Haul.

Today we celebrate heaven. On this Solemnity of the Assumption of Mary, the Church teaches that, because Mary was the mother of God’s Son, no corruption was allowed to touch her. Thus, instead of dying and being placed in a tomb, Mary was taken, body and soul—assumed into heaven. And one of the key things we remember about Mary was that she never lived in this world in a Newport-style mansion. She was forced to give birth in a stable because nobody had room for her.

One of the great themes associated with Mary is her humility, simplicity and lowliness. When the angel Gabriel comes to her, asking for her permission to be the mother of God’s Son, Mary identifies herself as the “handmaid.” I googled the word and found that a handmaid is a female servant, the subservient one in a relationship. And that is how Mary sees herself: “I am the servant [handmaid, handmaiden] of the Lord. Let it be done to me as you say.”

Then, what does Mary do right after that? After learning that she has been chosen for a most singular honor, she doesn’t focus on herself, doesn’t get puffed up, doesn’t call a news conference to share the news. Instead, she has learned that her elderly cousin, Elizabeth, is pregnant. And so, (according to today’s gospel) she “traveled to the hill country in haste to a town of Judah where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth.”

Finally, consider the song Mary sings in celebration of all that God is doing, a song that we often refer to in Latin as the Magnificat (magnifies)—Mary’s soul magnifies, or proclaims the greatness of God. We might overlook this, or fail to get the point, but the song, when you analyze it, is rather subversive. It celebrates people who are humble, and lowly like Mary—not the rich Newport crowd. Just think of what Mary says: God has “shown the strength of his arm and has scattered the proud in their conceit. He has cast down the might from their thrones, and has lifted up the lowly. He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty.”

So, if we find ourselves drooling over mansions or envying the lives of the rich and famous, the Church gives us Mary today, and every day, as an example. While the wealthy woman of the story I shared was forced to live in a shack, Mary didn’t even have to die to be enthroned as the Queen of heaven and earth. She became precisely the person that God admires, the humble person to whom God’s heart goes out, the lowly person whose heart is open because it is not filled with the riches of this world. As a matter of fact, Mary was just like her Son, who relied on the charity of others and didn’t even, as he said, have his own place to lay his head.

So once again, God’s ways, and God’s priorities, are not the same as those of this world. Somehow, we have managed to turn God’s values upside down, and instead of running in haste to help a poor person in need, we chase after dreams of winning the lottery and living in Newport mansions. After touring the mansions, and then touring today’s Scripture passages, I had to stop and reflect. I encourage you to prayerfully reflect on the example of Mary as a way of coming to terms with your own priorities.

Homily for the Eighteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time August 1, 2021

Mon, 02 Aug 2021 10:08:00 GMT

Three seekers were encouraged to find what had been called the cave of wisdom and life. They made careful preparations for what would be a challenging and arduous journey. When they reached the place of the cave they noted a guard at the entrance. They were not permitted to enter the cave until they had spoken to the guard. He had only one question of them, and he demanded that they answer only after talking it over with one another. He assured them that they would have a good guide to lead them through the regions of the cave. His question was a simple one, “How far into the cave of wisdom and life do you wish to go?”

The three travelers took counsel together and then returned to the guard. Their response was, “Oh, not very far. We just want to go far enough into the cave so that we can say that we have been there.”

The response of the guard manifested none of his great disappointment as he summoned someone to lead the three seekers a short distance into the cave and then watched them set out again after a very short time, set out to make the journey back to their own land.

In today’s gospel reading related to the Eucharist, you have various persons who are obviously seeking something. There is a vast crowd that comes to Jesus, and they are at least curious about him. Why did they come? What did they hope to get?

Right off the bat, Jesus says that many came to him because he was a free meal ticket. He says, “Amen, amen, I say to you,” [which makes it a rather formal pronouncement] “you are looking for me not because you saw signs but because you ate the loaves and were filled.” They were physically hungry and Jesus fed them, and even though it appeared to be a miracle [feeding thousands with a few loaves of bread and a couple of fish], that doesn’t arouse their curiosity or make them wonder, at a deeper level, who Jesus is, where he gets his power, or how they might profit further by getting to know him better, listening more intently to his message, and asking what he might provide at a spiritual level.

Now, it is obvious from the gospels that Jesus is concerned about human, physical hunger. When he saw the pitiable condition of the crowd, it was as if he were punched in the stomach, moved by deep compassion for them. And so, he does indeed feed their bodies.

But then Jesus dialogues with those who want to go deeper: “Do not work for food that perishes but for the food that endures for eternal life.” We can see that they are aware of their religious tradition because they speak about the manna that God gave their ancestors in the desert when they complained that they were hungry. Right, Jesus says, true bread that comes from God. But what are you hungry for? Once your stomachs are full…are you hungry for a meaningful existence? Are you hungry to overcome a sense of loneliness? Are you restlessly hungry, dashing from one thing to the next, and you’re still not satisfied? Do you really want to have all your hungers fulfilled? Well, then, listen to what I offer: “I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me will never hunger, and whoever believes in me will never thirst.”

So now it’s our turn. We seekers stand at the entrance of the cave of wisdom and life. We come here for the Eucharist, but why? Using the imagery of the cave, how far do we want to go in? Just a short way in, like the three seekers, so we can basically say, I’ve been there? I’ve taken care of the obligation to be present for Mass? Or do we seek something more? Do you come here week after week, but still leave hungry? Jesus promises “whoever comes to me will never hunger, and whoever believes in me will never thirst.” Is that something you want? Do you want to stop being lonely? Do you want a feeling of fulfillment? Do you want real connection, a sense of belonging? Well, that means you want to go deeper into the cave of life and wisdom, deeper into the mysterious life-giving power of Jesus Christ present in the Eucharist. And that takes time, time to get to know one another, just as it took time with your best friends, time spent in prayer, time really listening, time aching, hungering, thirsting: Jesus, my Lord and my God, I ache for you! I hunger! I thirst! There are times when I feel like I’m running on empty! Feed me, lead me, guide me….

I’ve checked out other parts of the cave, I’ve dabbled in this and that, but nothing has really clicked, nothing else has ever fully satisfied. [If you can say that, you’re on your way.] You’re really searching. You know you can’t do it on your own. You know you need God to feed you, to hold you, to heal you.

If you’re sick of being hungry, pray…Jesus, help me to find the way; Jesus, heal me, hold me, feed me. I don’t want to be hungry anymore!

Keep coming to the Source of life itself. Come to Jesus, really come to him with empty hands and open heart. Don’t settle for being able to say that you’ve been to Mass. Come because, deep inside, you’re starving, and you just don’t want to be hungry anymore. Jesus has promised: “Whoever comes to me will never hunger, and whoever believes in me will never thirst.” Go deeper into that cave of life and wisdom, go deeper into the life-giving mystery of the Eucharist—the life and love of Jesus himself—and be fed, really be fed!

Homily for the Sixteenth Sunday of the Year July 18, 2021

Mon, 19 Jul 2021 09:59:00 GMT

I want to focus on one phrase of today’s gospel. It says that when Jesus saw the crowd he was “moved with pity”. Actually, in Greek, it’s a very unusual word, a much stronger word, meaning something like “moved in the bowels”. In other words, Jesus had such compassion for the crowd that he was punched in the stomach when he saw what condition they were in. So there is something more than mere “pity” going on here. Having pity is nice, but it doesn’t go far enough. Let’s spend some time analyzing this compassion that Jesus felt.

First, compassion can be felt at an early age. An incident involving Babe Ruth illustrates that. Babe Ruth hit 714 home runs during his baseball career and was playing one of his last major league games. But he was no longer as agile as he had been. He fumbled the ball and threw badly, and in one inning alone his errors were responsible for most of the five runs scored by Cincinnati.

As Babe walked off the field and headed toward the dugout after the third out, the fans yelled and booed. Just then a boy jumped over the railing onto the playing field. With tears streaming down his face, he threw his arms around the legs of his hero. Ruth didn’t hesitate for a second. He picked up the boy, hugged him and set him down on his feet, patting his head gently. The noise from the stands came to an abrupt halt. In fact a hush fell over the ballpark. The fans saw two heroes that day: Ruth, who, in spite of his dismal day, could still care about a little boy; and the small lad, who cared about the feelings of another human being. Both had melted the hearts of the crowd.

Compassion can also be found in great and powerful leaders. There is a story about the late Sam Rayburn, a former Speaker of the House of Representatives. One of his friend’s daughters was critically injured in a car accident and early the next morning Rayburn knocked on his friend’s door. “I just came by to see what I could do to help,” he said. The father replied that there was nothing to do. “Well,” Rayburn said, “have you had your morning coffee yet?” The man said that he had not taken time for breakfast. While Rayburn was working in the kitchen, his friend came in and asked, “Mr. Speaker, I thought you were supposed to be having breakfast at the White House this morning?” “I was,” said Rayburn, “but I called the President and told him I had a friend who was in need and that I couldn’t come to the White House.” What a different world this would be if we could learn to become more caring and unselfish—if we practiced compassion.

Of course, you have to see a need before you can be compassionate. There was a man everyone knew as “Old Bill.” He was hired as a school crossing guard. Every morning and every afternoon “Old Bill” manned his corner, leading the children across the street, back and forth, to school and home. Mrs. Franklin, who happened to live on the corner, got into the habit on hot afternoons of bringing Bill a tall, cold glass of fresh lemonade and a few cookies. Bill thanked her shyly and waited for the children.

Then one day there was a knock at Mrs. Franklin’s side door. There stood “Old Bill” with a sack of peaches in one hand and a dozen fresh-picked ears of corn in the other. He seemed embarrassed as he said, “I brought you these, Ma’am, for your kindness.”

“Oh you shouldn’t have,” exclaimed Mrs. Franklin. “It was really nothing, but some lemonade and cookies.” Then the crossing guard said, “Maybe it wasn’t much to you. But, Ma’am, it was more than anyone else did for me. So, thank you.”

Sometimes, compassion can be truly heroic. Many years ago in the Kingdom of Jordan, two Bedouin youths got into a fight, tumbling to the ground in their fury. One boy pulled out a knife, plunging it fatally into the other’s chest. In fear he fled across the desert, fled from the boy’s vengeance-seeking relatives, fled to a Bedouin sanctuary, called a “tent of refuge,” designed by law for those who kill unintentionally or in the heat of anger.

At last he reached the refuge, a black-tented encampment of a nomad tribe. The boy flung himself at the feet of the leader, an aged sheik, and begged him: “I have killed in the heat of anger. I implore your protection. I seek the refuge of your tent.” “If God wills,” the old man responded, “I grant it to you, as long as you remain with us.”

A few days later the avenging relatives tracked the fugitive to the encampment. They described the assailant to the sheik and asked, “Have you seen this man? Is he here? For we will have him.” “He is here,” said the sheik, “but you will not have him.”

The relatives demanded that he be turned over. “No! The boy has my protection,” said the sheik. “I’ve given my word, my promise of refuge.” “But you don’t understand,” the relatives implored. “He killed your grandson.” The old man was silent. No one dared to speak. Then, in visible anguish, with tears running down his cheek, the old man stood up and asked, “My only grandson. Is he dead?” “Yes, your only grandson is dead.” “Then…” said the sheik, “then this boy will be my grandson. He is forgiven, and he will live with us as my own. Go now; it is finished.”

In the case of Jesus, as with this sheik, they felt what happened in the very bowels of their being, punched in the stomach. What they showed was far more than pity. They were being compassionate.

Pity stands at a safe distance, barely noticing, not wanting to get its hands dirty. But compassion leads to action—like a young boy hugging his hero at a ballpark, a Speaker of the House preparing breakfast for a distraught friend, a woman bringing cookies and lemonade to an old man, a sheik offering a new life to a young man who, in the heat of anger, killed his only grandson. Compassion wants to help, to show love, to bring relief, to provide healing, to offer mercy and forgiveness. It doesn’t stand at the sidelines of life. Compassion says, even from the cross, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Compassion imitates the Good Samaritan who, upon seeing a man bleeding at the side of the road, does not close his eyes, pretending not to see, but reaches out to a fellow human being in need.

So if you see someone in need, or someone being maltreated, and you feel pity, that’s a start. But today’s gospel asks for more: to imitate Jesus, you don’t just move on. Let the poverty hit you, let the injustice kick you in the gut. The word “compassion” comes from two Latin words that literally mean “to suffer with”. That’s what Jesus felt in today’s gospel, and it is what the gospel challenges us to feel, and then to have the courage to act. The journey from pity to compassion is one that moves us from the sidelines to the very heart of life, from indifference to conviction, from mere pity to genuine love.

Homily for the 15th Sunday in Ordinary Time July 11, 2021

Mon, 12 Jul 2021 12:08:00 GMT

Our gospel reading today is a missionary one: the twelve Apostles are sent on a mission, and they are given particular marching orders. There is an urgency about the mission. They are to travel light, not get bogged down, bring Jesus’ message, and cure sick people. A question I have, however, is how do they know whether or not they will be successful? How would Jesus measure success? Let’s spend some time thinking about that…

The story is told of an older man who was walking along a beach at dawn. Ahead of him he noticed a youth picking up starfish and flinging them into the sea. Finally, catching up with the youth, he asked him what he was doing. The answer was that the stranded starfish would die if left in the morning sun. “But the beach goes on for miles and there are millions of starfish,” countered the old man. “How can your effort make any difference?”

The young man looked at the starfish in his hand and then threw it to the safety of the waves. “It makes a difference for this one,” he said.

That reminds me of an incident in the life of Saint Mother Teresa. Someone was visiting one of her missions in India, and he felt overwhelmed by the poverty and sickness and the sheer numbers of people in need. He asked, “Mother, with an endless number of people living in such destitute conditions, how do you ever expect to be successful?” Mother Teresa responded, “God doesn’t expect us to be successful. He asks us to be faithful.”

Sometimes, when somebody faces a problem and comes up short over and over again, it is easy to get discouraged and want to give up. For example, Thomas Edison tried two thousand different materials in search of a filament for the light bulb. When none worked satisfactorily, his assistant complained, “All our work is in vain. We have learned nothing.” Edison replied very confidently, “Oh, we have come a long way and we have learned a lot. We know that there are two thousand elements which we cannot use to make a good light bulb.” If Edison had listened to his assistant, we would still be using kerosene lamps.

Let’s consider some ways of looking at success and failure. Quite recently, the Turners Falls High School softball team returned to us as State champions. If they had lost that final game, would they have been failures? I recently read about a basketball team at a small Midwestern Catholic college. At a Mass before a title game, the team chaplain suggested that the most important thing would not be whether they won the championship game or not. The important thing would be what they became in the process of trying to win the title. He suggested they consider such questions as:

While not every coach would agree that this was the best pep talk before an important game, the question of success and failure remains. If they lost the game, would that mean for the rest of their lives that they were losers?

Or consider, how parents measure success or failure. Over the years, I’ve known many moms and dads who have felt that they failed because their adult children no longer go to church. I found a reflection from a parent that may be helpful…

One final area to consider. When I look at the divisiveness and mean-spiritedness in our nation, when I consider how people can look at the same thing and come up with completely opposite conclusions, when I think about the massive scale of violence in our nation, when I reflect on the poverty, the racism, the lack of civility…the list goes on and on. I find that my head swims and I end up feeling discouraged and helpless. But how do I define success and failure? The direction in which our country or our world goes is way beyond my pay grade. I certainly can be concerned and pitch in when there is something specific I can do. But there is a part of the world in which we can have more of a direct effect. That’s right here in our own neighborhood, where people live in poverty, sometimes run out of food, come up short on their rent, can’t pay their utilities, feel discriminated against because of their color or because they don’t speak English very well. Here is where we can have a greater impact. Here is where we as a church community can make a difference. I support various national and international charities to be sure, but more and more, I focus on the local, and I ask what can I do to make life better, a little more humane, more compassionate, more caring, more fair, more peaceful, more just—not just in abstract wishful thinking, but through concrete acts of support, solidarity and sensitivity. This is how God is calling us to be faithful. That is how we can hope to be successful: to take in what we learn about Jesus, what he stood for, what he did, how he helped people out, and imitate him. That’s how I can be successful! And I can encourage you, and urge you to examine your heart, look deeply within, and ask yourself: How is God asking me to be successful? How is God asking me to be faithful—in the concrete, here and now where my actions can have a real impact?

Homily for July 4, 2021

Tue, 06 Jul 2021 10:43:00 GMT

It was a bitter, cold winter in northern Virginia many years ago. The old man’s beard was glazed by winter frost while he waited for a ride across the river. The wait seemed endless. His body became numb and stiff from the frigid north wind.

He heard the faint, steady rhythm of approaching hooves galloping along the frozen path. Anxiously, he waited while several horsemen rounded the bend. He let the first one pass by without an effort to get his attention. Then another passed by, and another. Finally, the last rider neared the spot where the old man sat like a stone statue. As this one drew near, the old man caught the rider’s eye and said, “Sir, would you mind giving an old man a ride to the other side?”

Reining his horse, the rider replied, “Sure thing. Hop aboard.” Seeing the old man was unable to lift his half-frozen body from the ground, the horseman dismounted and helped the old man onto the horse. The horseman took the old man not just across the river, but to his destination, which was just a few miles away. As they neared the tiny, but cozy cottage, the horseman’s curiosity caused him to inquire, “Sir, I notice that you let several other riders pass by without making an effort to secure a ride. Then I come up and you immediately asked me for a ride. I’m curious why, on such a bitter night, you would wait and ask the last rider. What if I had refused and left you there?”

The old man lowered himself slowly down from the horse, looked the rider straight in the eyes, and replied, “I’ve been around these parts for some time. I reckon I know people pretty good. I looked into the eyes of the other riders and saw there was no concern for my situation. It would have been useless even to ask them for a ride. But when I looked into your eyes, kindness and compassion were evident. I knew, then and there, that your gentle spirit would welcome the opportunity to give me assistance in my time of need.”

Those heartwarming comments touched the horseman deeply. “I’m most grateful for what you have said,” he told the old man. “May I never get too busy in my own affairs that I fail to respond to the needs of others with kindness and compassion.”

With that, Thomas Jefferson turned his horse around and made his way back to the White House.

Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time Father’s Day June 20, 2021

Mon, 21 Jun 2021 14:12:00 GMT

This incident of the disciples and Jesus in the boat reminds me that, when the Pope blessed the entire world at the height of the Covid-19 pandemic, he referred to the fact that the world-wide illness showed that we were all in the same boat.

I read recently, however, a commentary that suggested that the pandemic revealed that we are in rather different boats. Some of us are in yachts. We could work from home and have high-speed internet. Others were in row boats. They were considered essential workers, and they had to show up every day to serve our needs and keep things functioning. Still others found themselves hanging on to a piece of driftwood, losing their jobs, having a hard time getting essentials, barely making it.

Today’s gospel, Mark 4:35-41, is at the heart of the traditional image of the Church as a boat. If Jesus is indeed with us, keeping us safe and calming the storms that threaten us, we need to help others to reach safety. Our task is not just to pray together in churches, but to care for one another, help each other to be safe, gratefully acknowledge those who meet our needs, and meet the needs of those who are barely hanging on. That’s how we truly get to be “in the same boat.”

And some thoughts for Father’s Day…

Once upon a time, more than seventeen hundred years ago, a young man decided to become a saint. He left his home, family and possessions. He said goodbye to relatives and friends and walked off into the desert to find God. He walked through the desert sands until he found a cave. “Here,” he thought, “I will be alone with God.” He prayed day and night in the dark cave. But God sent him great temptations. He imagined all the good things in life and wanted them desperately. However, he was determined to give up everything in order to have God alone. After many months the temptations stopped. St. Anthony of Egypt was at peace, having nothing but God.

But one day, God said, “Leave your cave for a few days and go to a distant town. Look for the town shoemaker. Knock on his door and stay with him for a while.” Anthony walked to the distant town, found the shoemaker’s house and knocked on the door. A smiling man opened it. He noticed how tired and hungry the hermit looked. “Come in,” he said. “You need something to eat and a place to rest.” The shoemaker called his wife. They prepared a fine meal for the hermit and gave him a good bed to sleep on.

The hermit stayed with the shoemaker and his family for several days and then said goodbye and returned to the cave. God asked him, “What was the shoemaker like?” Anthony responded, “He is a simple man. He has a wife who is going to have a baby. They seem to love each other very much. He has a small shop and he makes shoes. He works hard. They have a simple house. They give money and food to those who have less than they have. He and his wife believe strongly in you and pray together. And the shoemaker enjoys telling jokes.”

God listened carefully. “You are a great saint, Anthony,” he said. “and the shoemaker and his wife are great saints, too.”

On this weekend when we honor fathers, we wish them, who serve in so many different ways, a happy Father’s Day. May God bless you for all you do and all you are!

PLEASE TAKE NOTE

Mon, 14 Jun 2021 12:00:00 GMT

PLEASE TAKE NOTE

Masses will be downstairs in Fr. Casey Hall, where it is cooler, during the months of July and August .

We are currently not using the main doors of the church (7 ^th Street) because they are in need of major repairs .
Contractors have informed us that the doors will need to be removed and repaired in their shop.
Please use only the side entrance , approaching from the parking lot.

Homily for the Eleventh Sunday in Ordinary Time June 13, 2021

Mon, 14 Jun 2021 11:54:00 GMT

Spiritual writers down through the centuries have observed that we have, in effect, two “bibles”—two distinct ways in which God is revealed to us. Of course, the Scriptures make up the Bible we know and love. But long before the written Word, God is revealed in what God has done in creation. All you have to do is know how to look. That’s what I’d like to explore today in light of today’s gospel.

There’s a particular rose bush in our rose gardens that I find fascinating. When the bud appears, it’s a little, tiny thing, about a quarter of a fingernail. But then it opens and opens, and has so many layers of petals that it actually looks crowded. And I wonder how on earth does that happen? Are all those layers somehow there in the bud, in miniature? I suppose that botanists probably have figured out that there’s some kind of rose DNA that has it all mapped out, and all the rosebush has to do is follow the map! But to me, it’s still a wonder. And I think that’s why I enjoy working in the gardens so much: they are just full of wonder and they make me feel like Adam and Eve must have felt when they were given the super-perfect garden called Eden to live in. When I stop long enough to smell the roses, to really take note of what’s happening, I feel connected to the Creator of it all—a very awesome God.

The gift of wonder and awe is considered one of the ways in which we can come to a powerful sense of the presence of God. In addition to working in the garden, astronomy is another pathway in which I have gazed in awe at creation. Consider: it takes a little over eight minutes for the light of the sun to travel to the earth at 186,000 miles per second. The light traveling at that same speed from the next nearest star takes 4 ½ years to get here! I googled “how many stars are there in the Milky Way galaxy”. Try it. The answer I got was 400 billion! How do you even begin to deal with a number like that?

In a recent newspaper article there was a story about astronomers who are studying super-bright bursts of energy from gamma rays (different than x-rays). According to the article, a ten-second burst of these gamma rays releases more energy than the sun would release in ten billion years! The God of creation simply becomes more awesome the more I learn from the science that studies the cosmos.

Jesus’ teaching in today’s gospel, I believe, falls into a similar category. He’s talking to every-day people about something that was very familiar to them. How does a little seed turn into a plant, or a bush, or a huge tree? In our day, scientists study these things and come up with explanations or hypotheses about how they work. But does that really take away from the wonder and awe that you can feel in the presence of the “miracle” of that kind of growth?

Many parents will tell you that they feel this kind of reverent awe at the birth of their child. I often speak about the awesome mathematics involved in that birth: 1 + 1 = 3! It’s like a window opening to heaven, giving us a hint that points to God. The power of human beings to create a new human being is the closest we humans come to the creative power of God.

One of the Psalms, Psalm 19, speaks of creation’s power to reveal. It begins, “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament proclaims his handiwork.”

Now, to get to the point of today’s Scripture. Jesus’ teaching in today’s gospel are meant to reassure his followers that God is at work in their lives. Particularly in dark or challenging times, when we may feel small or insignificant or overlooked, like a tiny mustard seed, that is precisely when we need to trust in God, who works mysteriously but lovingly for our good. We cannot understand fully the processes of growth in nature, or the powerful forces present in our universe, but they nonetheless point to an awesome God with incredible creative power who loves us beyond our ability to imagine. Jesus taught often that, in the face of adversity, fear is useless; what is needed is trust.

Finally, consider the beautiful cycle of nature that, if you look closely, has a revelatory power. Each winter, the trees all around us look “dead”—having been stripped of their foliage. But each spring new life buds forth once again. It is our faith that something similar happened with Jesus. On Good Friday he was, indeed, dead. But on Easter, life exploded, and Jesus lives, never to die again. The mystery of life and death throughout creation points to the Mystery of life that never ends. Thus, the two “bibles” mesh, revealing the incredible, powerful love of God.

Homily for the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ June 6, 2021

Mon, 07 Jun 2021 09:40:00 GMT

A teacher posed a question to his class of thirteen-year-old students: “What do you want to be remembered for?” None could answer, but the teacher chuckled and said, “I didn’t expect you to be able to answer it. But if you still can’t answer it by the time you are fifty, then you will have wasted your life.”

Some of those students went to their sixtieth class reunion and one of them asked, “Do you remember that question we were asked back when we were thirteen year olds? They all remembered it, and they all said it had made a big difference in their life, although they didn’t understand it until they were in their forties. One of the students, who was a motivational speaker, said that during his career he often asked people that question. He considered it important because the question induces a person to renew oneself because it pushes him/her to see themselves as a different person—the person one can become .

Today we celebrate a Feast that honors the Sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ. I wanted to focus on one statement that is made at each and every Mass. At the end of the consecration of the bread and wine, we hear Jesus’ words: Do this in memory of me .

So, it would seem that what we’re doing here is rather important because this is the way that Jesus wanted to be remembered. Do this in memory of me . Why do you suppose he said that?

I believe Jesus gave us this Sacrament because it was his way of giving himself to us totally. One of the early ways in which what we do here was described is the “breaking of the bread”. The early Christians would have one large bread, broken and eaten by everyone present—thus not only symbolizing but creating unity: one bread, one body.

Also, note that it is bread that is broken—just as Jesus’ body was beaten and whipped and crowned with thorns. And we also have the wine that is poured: the outpouring of Jesus’ life-blood to the very last drop. The total gift of Jesus’ Body and Blood is not just remembered, although that’s important, but actuated and made real, given to each succeeding generation, and to each Christian of every age—a total gift of self and of love: not a photo, not a mere symbol, but Jesus Christ broken and poured out, a total gift, a total, real presence .

It has been said that we “are what we eat.” Well, in this case, that’s also true: by eating the Body of Christ we become the Body of Christ—we are the ones who bring Jesus to the world. We are his ears, discovering each day what the world needs; we are his mouth, speaking his truth, standing up for those who are left out and have no voice; we are his hands, bringing food to the hungry, drink to the thirsty, clothing to the naked, comforting the lonely; we are his feet, bringing the message of love and hope with us wherever we go, even to the ends of the earth.

We do these things, nourished by the total love of the Body broken and the Blood poured out, because Jesus asked us to be his Presence, to feed the world starving for love. We do these things in memory of Jesus here, inside the church, so that we don’t forget our job, our mission, once we leave the church. We can so easily forget what is important, we can lose sight of what is worth being remembered for; and so every time we gather we are told: Do this in memory of me . We remember how he loved us, to his death, and we celebrate that love, live that love, become that love, so that a broken world can be fed, blessed, and healed.

Homily for the Solemnity of the Holy Trinity

Tue, 01 Jun 2021 12:35:00 GMT

May 30, 2021

In the abstract, the doctrine of the Holy Trinity involves some very strange math. We are saying: 1+1+1=1 (Father + Son + Holy Spirit = one God). But what I’d like to do is to bring the meaning of the Trinity into the concrete. What does this basic tenet of our faith have to do with everyday life?

I recently read a story about a youngish boy who felt inferior and unaccepted by many. He lived with his mother, and no one seemed to know who his father was, and so a lot of people gossiped about it, and it made the boy feel uncomfortable. He grew up in the rural South, and one day he went into a church, Laurel Springs Christian Church. The place had a minister who was both attractive and frightening. He had a chiseled face and a heavy beard and a deep voice. The boy didn’t know why, but that minister did something for him. However, he was afraid that he was not welcome there because no one knew who his father was, and so he would go in just in time for the sermon, and when it was over he would move out because he was afraid that someone would say, “What’s a boy like you doing in a church?”

One Sunday some people lined up in the aisle before he could get out, and he was stopped. He felt a hand on his shoulder, a heavy hand. It was that minister. The boy trembled in fear. The minister met him eye to eye, and seemed to stare at him for a while. The boy knew what he was doing; he was going to guess who his father was. The minister then said, “Well, boy, you’re a child…” Oh, no! He knew what was coming! “You are a child…of God. I see a striking resemblance.” Then the minister swatted him on the bottom and said, “Now, you go claim your inheritance.” The boy reports leaving that church a different person. In fact, it was really the beginning of his life.

Every person’s situation is different. But we probably have all had the experience of feeling alone, or different, or unlucky, or left out. My dad died when I was a junior in high school; he died putting in a full day’s work. A blood clot hit him, and just like that, he was gone. I felt robbed, cheated. My mother lived a much longer life. But when she died a full thirty years later, I had the feeling of being orphaned. Within my immediate family, I was the only remaining member, part of the new oldest generation. It felt strange, and I felt oddly alone.

During the course of the pandemic we have been experiencing, many of you have told me of your loneliness, of how much you missed the hugs of grandchildren or grandparents, how much you missed the regular get-togethers with family and friends. The aloneness made you feel sadly orphaned, split off from the rest of the world. And, imagine, those who became seriously ill with Covid-19, those who were put into isolation in strange places on strange machines often died without the comfort of their families—again, the experience of being orphaned, cut off.

I think it is to this type of experience that St. Paul speaks so well in our second reading today. Paul writes: “Brothers and sisters, those who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you received a Spirit of adoption, through whom we cry, ‘Abba, Father!’ The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ…”

In our moments of loneliness and fear, our God has adopted us, making us his children. The word “Abba” is from the Aramaic, the language Jesus spoke, and scripture scholars tell us it is closer to “daddy” than the more formal “father”. In other words, we have been brought into an intimate relationship with God our Father and with Jesus our brother, through the working of the Holy Spirit. And not only that, we’ve been written into the will: we are “heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ.” Everything Jesus has received or inherited, so have we. We’re part of the family! We belong to a community of relationship with God and with each other. We’re not alone, we’re not abandoned, we’re not orphans!

That’s good news, isn’t it? But we know there are many people in our world, and right here in the neighborhoods where we live, who do not feel wanted, or needed or loved. When we meet them, can we just ignore the way they feel? Can we be indifferent to their pain? Can we fail to respond to their need? I think not. We need to tell them: You are a child of God. Now, come and claim your inheritance. I’ll help you, and I’ll show you where the good news is preached, where the good news is practiced, where the good news is real. It’s in my heart…and it’s in my church!

Homily for the Seventh Sunday of Easter

Mon, 17 May 2021 10:30:00 GMT

Making God Visible

Homily for the Seventh Sunday of Easter

May 16, 2021

Today I want to focus on our second reading, where we read: “No one has ever seen God. Yet, if we love one another, God remains in us, and his love is brought to perfection in us.”

No one has ever seen God…and yet we have been given a task by God. St. Paul puts it this way: we are “ambassadors for Christ, God as it were appealing through us” (2 Cor. 5:20). God making an appeal through us; God becoming known because of us. How does this work?

Let me share a couple of stories that I think will help. First: Several years ago a group of salesmen were having a regional sales convention in Chicago. They assured their wives that they would be home in plenty of time for Friday’s supper.

One thing led to another, and the meeting ran overtime, so the men had to race to the airport, tickets in hand. As they barged through the terminal, one man inadvertently kicked over a table supporting a basket of apples. Without stopping they all reached the plane in time and boarded with a sigh of relief. All but one. He paused and experienced a twinge of compassion for the girl whose apple stand had been overturned. He waved goodbye to his companions and returned to the terminal. He was glad he did. The ten-year-old girl was blind.

The salesman gathered up the apples and noticed that several of them were battered and bruised. He reached into his wallet and said to the girl, “Here, please take this ten dollars for the damage we did. I hope it didn’t spoil your day.” As the salesman started to walk away the bewildered girl called out to him, “Are you Jesus?”

The man didn’t know what to say. I suppose he could have said, “No, but I’m one of his ambassadors, one of his representatives.”

Second story: During a presidential campaign, a reporter was assigned to cover William McKinley. His newspaper was violently opposed to McKinley, and he was supposed to travel on the train with McKinley and send back negative stories at every opportunity.

At first he did—and McKinley knew it. But one bitterly cold afternoon the reporter fell asleep, huddled on the green plush end of the unheated railroad car. McKinley came by, stopped and spread his own overcoat over the man.

When the reporter awoke and found out what had occurred, he resigned from the paper. He could no longer malign a man big enough to answer his criticisms with kindness.

McKinley, perhaps without knowing it, was an ambassador of Christ, at least in this instance.

St. John says that “no one has ever seen God,” and then at the end of the reading states, “God is love, and whoever remains in love remains in God and God in him. The blind girl, probably used to the rough and tumble of a major airport asked a man who was kind, “Are you Jesus?” The man who went back to help her was rooted in love and compassion. William McKinley was used to the rough and tumble of politics, yet he did not allow politics to rob him of his soul. He saw a cold man lying in the cold—not a critic or an enemy, but a fellow human being.

God is love, and yet no one has ever seen God. And I suppose something similar could be said about love: I have never seen love walking down the street. But I have seen people in love. I have encountered people choosing to do the loving thing. I have witnessed enumerable loving actions—many quite ordinary, but some, demanding and even heroic. It is love put into practice, especially when it would be easier to hate, that makes us ambassadors for Christ, representatives of God. By abiding in love, living in love even in the difficult circumstances of our lives, that love becomes visible, and God who is love becomes real for others.

It’s as simple as that, and as challenging and demanding as that. Pope Francis often makes reference to the story of the Good Samaritan. When others were too busy or too indifferent or too uncaring, the Samaritan bent down to help the man, beaten and bleeding, beside the road. So much of our world today is beaten and bleeding. Pandemic. Unemployment. Racism. Toxic politics. Jesus desperately needs ambassadors of love. Where will he find them, do you suppose?

No one has ever seen God. Yet we can make God visible each and every time we choose love over hate, compassion over indifference, forgiveness over revenge. It’s all in what we choose to do.

Homily for the Sixth Sunday of Easter May 9, 2021

Mon, 10 May 2021 11:28:00 GMT

Receiving the Fullness of Joy

I wanted to focus on a promise made by Jesus in today’s gospel. He says that his joy may be in us and our joy may be complete. I feel this is rather important because we live in a world that is going through a lot of challenges. We’ve been dealing with the pandemic, with isolation and loneliness, with societal and political division, and many feeling depressed and anxious. So, what is this joy Jesus is talking about, and how do we get some?

First, I want to begin with an old European story, which recognizes that inner joy is a powerful force that can shield us from a lot of things that can do us harm. See what you think…

A traveler came upon a barn where the devil stored seeds that he planned to sow in the hearts of people. There were bags of seeds variously marked “Hatred,” “Fear,” “Lust,” “Despair,” “Unforgiveness,” “Envy,” “Greed”…

Out from the shadows, the devil suddenly appeared and struck up a conversation with the traveler. He gleefully told the traveler how easily the seeds sprouted in the hearts of men and women everywhere.

“Tell me,” the traveler asked, “are there any hearts in which these seeds will not sprout?” Glancing about carefully, the devil slyly confessed, “These seeds will never sprout in the heart of a kind, generous, thankful and joy-filled person.”

So, having a heart full of kindness, generosity, thankfulness and joy can be a vaccine against everything that knocks us down and makes us feel lousy about ourselves. So, how do we get this joy, a joy that “makes us complete,” as Jesus promises?

Notice what he says: “Remain in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will remain in my love…I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and your joy may be complete. This is my commandment: love one another as I have loved you .”

I recently read an article that argues that we can succeed in loving as Jesus did because God created us to love. Thus, the commandment is not some arbitrary, external directive, imposed on us from the outside. Rather, love is part of the inner structure of who we are—a given, sort of like gravity, or the speed of light. When we love each other well, when we love in the right way, then we are in alignment with the way God made us. It’s our nature to love. I am reminded of the old saying that you have to be taught to hate; we’re not born to hate.

So, Jesus says that, when we love as he has loved, then we will not be in competition or contradiction with who we truly are. When we tell the truth in love, when we offer each other encouragement and support, when we sacrifice for others, when we reach out in love to the stranger, the marginalized the forgotten and the lost…all of these actions connect us to God and fill us with joy.

But when we hold back from love, when we insist on always winning and being right, when we turn up our noses at certain people and write them off as inferior or unworthy of our concern, then we’re living contrary to love, out of sync with the way God made us.

Since we are celebrating Mother’s Day, I want to honor motherhood and to give thanks to mothers, grandmothers, mentors and role models who teach love by loving. Here’s one mother’s way of describing her gift…

I give you my love which means that I accept you, without reservation, just as you are and will be.

I give you my personal presence in order that you will have security.

I give you my ears, in the sense that I will never be too busy to listen to you.

I give you my counsel only when it is necessary or you ask for it, so that you might avoid some of the mistakes I have made.

I give you my consolation when you have failed or feel discouraged, but I will not always protect you from the consequences of your sins.

I give you instruction in the way of the Lord so that when you are older, you will not depart from it.

I give you my daily prayers that the Lord will keep you and guide you…

This I give you with all my love.

There’s an old Jewish proverb that God couldn’t be everywhere, so he invented mothers. And mothers, grandmothers, mentors and role models, though not necessarily perfect, give us love that is stronger than the force of gravity, a love that is like God’s love, a love that fills our hearts with kindness, generosity, thankfulness and joy. It’s the love for which we were created.

Homily for the fifth Sunday of Easter, May 2, 2021

Mon, 03 May 2021 10:02:00 GMT

Homily for the Fifth Sunday of Easter

May 2, 2021

Since Jesus spoke within a rural community, he naturally used images from farming and raising sheep—images that his audience would readily understand. I recently read a little article about this gospel passage that wondered how Jesus would talk with people today who knew nothing about farming or raising sheep. Here’s what the author came up with from the world of modern computers: he might describe himself as the indispensable software and the one he calls his Father as the mainframe computer.

Of course, whether it’s from the world of agriculture or from the world of computers, there’s the deeper question of what is Jesus getting at with this imagery. Let’s begin with a story.

Shortly after mid-term exams, a student was walking across campus. A friend of her mother’s asked her how she had done. She replied that they were not too tough, except for one professor’s. She said, “Her tests are next to impossible to pass. I have to study much harder for her tests just to keep up my grades.” The friend asked, “But do you learn more from all that studying for her tests, or from the teachers who are not so difficult?” She replied, “Well, yes, I do seem to understand her course better.” Then the friend asked her if she had ever sharpened a knife. She said that her father had taught her how to sharpen a knife when they went on a camping trip. Her friend then asked, “Did you use a stone or a towel?” “What?” she questioned. “You can’t sharpen a knife on a towel!”

“Exactly,” replied the friend. “You can’t sharpen a knife on a towel. A knife can only be sharpened on a hard surface so that it will be sharp enough to fulfill its purpose and cut what needs cutting. Students and children cannot be sharpened only on soft surfaces. They are sharpened on the hard surfaces of teachers and parents, so that they will be sharp enough to ‘cut it’ in life and fulfill their life purpose.”

One of my absolutely favorite stories is about James Garfield, who before becoming the twentieth President of the United States, was the president of a college in Ohio. On day he was approached by the father of a young student seeking admission to the college. The father criticized the length and the difficulty of the coursework. “Can’t you simplify the course work? My son will never get through all this academic work. There should be a shorter route.”

Now, getting back to Jesus’ imagery. He is the vine, we are the branches. To have real life, we need to be connected to him. This comes about when we turn to him regularly in prayer, and stay with it long enough so that our heart can be quiet enough to receive what Jesus has to offer us: advice when we are confused, encouragement when we feel like giving up, comfort when life has kicked us in the teeth, a new way of looking at things when we’re at a dead end. It’s not enough to just quickly ask for our latest need or to rattle off some memorized prayers. No, quiet yourself and talk to him about whatever is on your mind or in your heart. Then stay quiet while his heart speaks to yours.

One time, when I was first ordained, I had spent a long time preparing a prayer service for a special occasion. Then, in a church that seats 1,000, only 19 people came. I was, to say the least, disappointed. I asked God: Is this what you called me for? Is this why I was ordained? The following weekend, I was in a penance room, where there was a Bible on a table, and something urged me to break open the Bible and read. So I did. My eyes landed on the last verse of a lesser-known book called “Ecclesiasticus” – or, alternately, Sirach. My eyes happened to fall on the very last verse, verse 30 of chapter 51: “Work at your tasks in due season, and in his own time God will give you your reward.” Whoa! I thought, you mean this prayer thing actually works?

Then there’s the part of Jesus’ words about the branches getting pruned. I know about that from working in our rose garden. If you have dead branches, or a part of the bush that’s not doing well, you cut it off, thereby getting rid of the stuff that’s of no use, and making room so that the healthy parts will grow better. Sometimes, later on, there are branches that get diseased or eaten by bugs. You don’t want that to destroy the whole rest of the plant, so you spray it, and you cut off the part that has no chance of producing something beautiful.

So there are two parts here for us to consider. First, are we connected, spiritually, to Jesus, who is the Source of our life and well-being? And second, do we have some unhealthy stuff, or stuff that’s making part of us half-dead, that we should be dealing with? You can’t always wait for some miracle that’s going to magically make everything better. We need to use our spiritual cutting tool, God’s Word, that gives us all the directions we need—sort of a “Better Homes and Gardens” for the soul. How to live a richer, more beautiful, and more satisfying life—because we’re listening to the right gardener, the expert for our souls.

One final thought. Sometimes we can be absolutely blind about what’s going on in our souls. That’s why it can be helpful to have a wise advisor—a guide, a spiritual director, a confessor, a counselor, a spouse or a good friend. Sometimes, they can see more clearly what’s bothering us, what’s not good for us, what’s healthy and what isn’t. That’s why God places good and caring people in our lives.

So to think and pray about:

Homily for the Third Sunday of Easter April 18, 2021

Tue, 20 Apr 2021 10:20:00 GMT

April 18, 2021

There was an interesting news item on CBS evening news on August 25, 2020. A woman was found unresponsive in her home. Paramedics were called, and they worked for a half-hour trying to revive her, but failed. They connected with an emergency room doctor, and the woman was declared dead. More than an hour later, she was about to be embalmed in a Detroit funeral home, when, suddenly the woman opened her eyes. They rushed her to the hospital, and she recovered fully.

Can you imagine the story the witnesses to this event had to tell?

Well, the situation in today’s gospel is even more dramatic and challenging than that. Jesus’ closest followers saw, if only from a distance, Jesus crucified. They saw his blood pour out of him, and the soldier’s lance pierce his heart. They saw, if only from a distance, that he was placed in a tomb, where a heavy stone was rolled into place to seal him inside. Now, three days later, Jesus is standing in front of them, alive, talking…and they think they’re seeing a ghost. As I said, this is far more dramatic than the woman in Detroit! As a matter of fact, Jesus has to prove who he is by showing his “credentials”—the fact that he has flesh and bones, and the wounds of the crucifixion and the soldier’s spear. Plus, he takes a piece of baked fish and eats it in front of them! And at the end, he says to them, “You are witnesses of these things.”

Can you imagine the story these witness had to tell?

Actually, we don’t have to imagine, because we are reading the stories they told—stories preserved and handed on, from generation to generation for two thousand years. In all that time, the stories have not died out. They have incredible staying power.

Why did they tell these stories? How could they not? They went to their death telling their stories. They knew that the people of their day needed something to believe in, something to hope for, and something to live for. Life was pretty tough in the outposts of the Roman Empire, and Christianity spread like wildfire. Furthermore, they wrote down their stories because they hoped we, in each successive generation, would continue to be witnesses to the story of Jesus Christ. He died, and he rose, never to die again. And because of him, that is also our destiny.

Now how are we to be witnesses? Let me answer by sharing a couple of stories. The first incident has to do with two young men, one an American and the other from India, who were roommates at an international conference. During a break in the proceedings, they found themselves talking to each other about religion. The young man from India turned out to be very hostile toward Christianity. The young American tried to discern the reason for this hostility. “Is it something in Jesus’ teachings that turns you off?” he asked.

“On, no,” came the reply, it’s not anything like that. The thing I resent most about Christians is that they do not live like Christians.”

Quite an indictment, is it not?

My second story has to do with a Life magazine article from many years ago (December 1988), when a famous preacher, the Rev. Robert McAfee Brown, was asked, “What is the meaning of life?” He wrote, “I believe we are placed her to be companions—a wonderful word that comes from the Latin cum panis , ‘with bread.’ We are here to share bread with one another so that everyone has enough, no one has too much….There are many names for such sharing companions: the Body of Christ, the Kingdom of God, the Communion of Saints. And while the goal is too vast to be realized fully on this planet, it is still our task to create foretastes of it in this world. We are to generate living glimpses of what life is meant to be…to counterbalance the otherwise immobilizing realities of tyrants, starving children, senseless death and just plain greed. We are here to be companions along the journey of life, to share bread with one another, to ‘build up the Kingdom of God here on earth as it is in heaven,’ to love one another as Jesus first loved you.”

Those first witnesses who told the story of Jesus’ resurrection were convincing, not just because of their words, but because of their lives . People could see that they were different, that they lived a better way—and they wanted to be part of it.

And what was true for their day is still true for ours: actions speak louder than words. If we are to be witnesses of Jesus’ resurrection, our faith in him has to change us! Because he is the Master of life and death, his words, his truth, his way have to produce in us far more than a nod and a yawn. The story is too astounding to bore us! It’s too life-changing to leave us in neutral! If life truly doesn’t end in a tomb, that’s incredible news that needs to be lived so as to be shared. Otherwise, why bother coming here week after week?

People are desperate for something to believe in, for a truth that will give them hope, for love and companionship that lets them know they are never alone on the journey of life. As Christians, we know Jesus is with us, and he can be with them, as well. All we have to do is live as if it matters . That’s how we become witnesses. That’s how the story will never die.

Homily for the Second Sunday of Easter April 11, 2021

Mon, 12 Apr 2021 11:38:00 GMT

Homily for the Second Sunday of Easter

April 11, 2021

I was reflecting on so-called “Doubting Thomas,” and was wondering what the opposite of the Doubter might look like. I found this very charming story to help our reflection.

One night while babysitting, a grandfather passed his granddaughter’s room and overheard her repeating the alphabet in an oddly reverent fashion. “What on earth are you up to?” he asked.

“I’m saying my prayers,” explained the little girl. “But I can’t think of exactly the right words tonight, so I’m just saying all the letters. God will put them together for me, because he knows what I’m thinking.”

It makes me think of the day I made my First Communion. I was so excited that I woke up real early, and woke up my parents in the process. I just couldn’t wait to get to church so that I could receive Jesus. And now, I think about the many ways in which I have lost my innocence, complicated the truth, created sophisticated explanations, and built up a reasonably comfortable life that is not fully in keeping with what Jesus asked for.

At about the same time as my First Communion, my grandfather died. They had the wake in the house, so my parents thought it best if I slept at a neighbor’s house for the duration of the wake. I was brought over to say good-bye to grandpa, and to offer some prayers. I recall noting that several of the people there were crying, and wondering why. If heaven was as good as they said it was, and my grandfather was in heaven, why cry?

You see, like the little girl who trusted that God would finish her prayers, believing that Jesus had risen from the dead presented no problem for me when I was eight years old. Surely, I was one of those, as Jesus said in today’s gospel, who was blessed because I believed without seeing.

But of course, as we mature, our world, and the way we think about it, changes. We’re exposed to the scientific method in which the establishment of a fact requires more than somebody’s word for it. We require proof. When I was taking geometry in high school, we had to put QED, “quod erat demonstrandum”—“which was to have been proved” at the end of each problem we solved. The teacher wouldn’t simply take my word that I knew what I was doing. He required proof. And I remember learning somewhere along the way that Missouri is known as the “Show me State”—which means that the people of Missouri aren’t easily fooled. They require proof.

And when it comes to faith in God, even believing in the existence of God, there are experiences we have than can rock the foundation, and we’re not quite as accepting as when we were eight-year-olds. Difficult and painful things happen. Someone we love gets cancer and dies. A marriage falls apart. Innocent people, even children in their schools, get shot to death. The Jews were nearly exterminated in the Nazi death camps. So, in the face of so much misery and death, it becomes easy to wonder. And doubt. And from the depths of our souls we scream: If you exist, God, I need some proof here.

And so, I try to put myself in Thomas’s shoes. Can you imagine how he felt? The one he had put his life’s hopes in had let him down. The one he had believed to be Messiah and Lord had been condemned in a sham of a trial and cruelly put to death. Thomas was probably angry, numb, afraid, disillusioned, confused, depressed, and lost in an ocean of grief. And now his friends, those he had shared his life with, now they come forward with this crazy story, and he wants to know what they’ve been drinking.

Of course, we’ve just read the rest of the story, which records Thomas’s words of belief, calling Jesus “My Lord, and my God.” The story has a happy ending. But you know, Thomas is a lot like us. We know what it is to doubt. We know what it is to require proof. And I think this is precisely why the story of Thomas is recorded. Because he needed proof, that makes him a good, solid witness. He wasn’t gullible. He wasn’t walking around carrying Easter lilies and singing Kumbaya. Before he would become a witness to the Resurrection of Jesus from the dead, he needed proof, he required solid evidence.

And there is a further reason that makes Thomas’s witness compelling: in the end, he was willing to die a martyr’s death, still believing in the Resurrection. People are very seldom willing to die for a lie. But they will die clinging to the truth. And this is what Thomas did. He went to his grave believing in the Resurrection. He had his proof. And he has shared his testimony with us—and anyone who is willing to listen.

Throughout this Easter Season we will here other stories of how other disciples came to believe, how their belief changed their lives, and how they chose death rather than changing their story. And we will be asked, over and over again, in all the messiness and promise, all the misery and hope, all the challenges and joys of our lives: Do you believe, even though you have not seen?

Homily for Easter Sunday, April 4, 2021

Wed, 07 Apr 2021 12:00:00 GMT

Homily for Easter Sunday

April 4, 2021

There are many ways of looking at Resurrection. For example, intellectually, we can say that Jesus of Nazareth was crucified, that he died and was buried. Then, on the third day, he rose from the dead, never to die again. That, of course, is correct, but does it go far enough? Is it enough to leave Resurrection as an abstract idea or definition? I’d like to suggest that we need to put “meat on the bones” of this understanding of Resurrection. To begin, let me share two stories.

The first is about a man named Charlie, who sat by the bed of his young son, just out from major surgery. Dreadful thoughts kept creeping into Charlie’s mind. Why hadn’t he called the doctor sooner? Why had he not suspected that his son’s troubles were more than a stomach ache? Why? Why?

Presently, the youngster stirred, opened his eyes and saw his father sitting nearby. The boy stretched out his small, fevered hand to his father and said, “Hold my hand, Daddy; I hurt so bad.”

Charlie took his son’s hand; the small boy smiled weakly and then drifted off to sleep once again. Then Charlie, taking a cue from his son, bowed his head, closed his eyes, reached toward heaven, and whispered, “Hold my hand, Father; I hurt.”

The second story is about a harried young mother who was beside herself when the telephone rang, and she heard with relief the kindly voice on the line, “Hi sweetheart. How are you?”

“Oh, Mother,” she said, breaking into tears, “it’s been an awful day. The baby won’t eat, the dishwasher broke down. I tripped on the stairs and sprained my ankle. I haven’t had a chance to go shopping and the house is a mess. And, to top it off, we’re having company for dinner tonight.”

“There, there, darling, everything will be all right,” the soothing voice on the line said. “Now sit down, relax and close your eyes. I’ll be over in a half hour. I’ll pick up a few things on the way over and feed the baby. Also, I’ll call a repairman I know who will be at your house to fix the washer this afternoon. Now stop crying. I’ll take care of everything. In fact, I’ll even call George at the office and tell him to come home early.”

“George?” the distraught housewife exclaimed. “Who’s George?”

“Why George…you know, George, your husband!”

“But my husband’s name is Frank.”

A brief pause ensued, then the voice hesitantly asked, “Excuse me, is this 555-1758?”

A tearful reply said, “No, this is 555-1788.”

“Oh, my, what a dreadful mistake,” apologized the embarrassed voice on the phone. “I’m so terribly sorry. I must have dialed the wrong number.”

After a brief pause, the would-be daughter asked, “Does this mean you’re not coming over?”

Now, let’s take a new look at our understanding of Resurrection. In the first story, the father not only takes his son’s hand; he has the faith to ask God for God’s hand, for God’s presence in that most difficult moment. In the second story, the would-be mother exudes love, sympathy and compassion. Thus, we have the two aspects of love that Jesus taught: one hand reaching upward in prayer, in a real and meaningful relationship with God; and the other hand reaching outward in loving service to one’s neighbor, particularly those most in need.

When we read the accounts about the early Church in Scripture, we find that for the first Christians it wasn’t enough to define Resurrection, to know what happened. Resurrection literally changed their lives, made them passionate about their faith, led to a genuine sense of community, impelled them to make sure no one was in need, and drove them to share the message with anyone who would listen. In other words, it didn’t just change their minds; it changed them .

And so, on this Easter Sunday, as we gather to celebrate Resurrection, let us look into our hearts and souls. If Jesus is truly risen, and we now receive his gift of eternal life, should we not live differently, should we not be more compassionate and loving? Think about the opportunities we have to serve during this difficult time of pandemic. Many live in isolation and loneliness, some are suffering anxiety and depression, some have an empty chair at their Easter dinner, some have lost their jobs, many children are adrift without normal education or friendship. We have countless opportunities to bring the love and hope of Easter to others, so long as Easter is a lived reality and not just an abstract thought.

Homily for Holy Thursday, April 1, 2021

Wed, 07 Apr 2021 11:59:00 GMT

Praise of those who serve: the saints next door

Homily for Holy Thursday

April 1, 2021

A woman was asked by a teacher to tutor a boy who was in the hospital, so that he could keep up with his schoolwork. The woman agreed. When she got to the hospital, she discovered that the child was in the burn unit. She tried to tutor him the best she could, stumbling through an English lesson, ashamed at putting him through such a senseless exercise.

The next day, when she returned to the hospital, a nurse asked her, “What did you do to that boy?” Before the woman could apologize for the mess she had made, the nurse interrupted her: “You don’t understand. His entire attitude has changed. It’s as though he’s decided to live!”

When the boy was asked what had changed, he explained that he had completely given up hope until this young woman had arrived. With joyful tears, he explained, “They wouldn’t send a tutor to work on nouns and verbs with a dying boy, would they?”

Sometimes, we are invited into people’s lives and into places and events that, on the surface, have no meaning or purpose to us. We ask ourselves, what are we doing here? What purpose do we have here? Often we define our lives by what we can see or understand. We forget that we are part of something larger than ourselves.

Something like that happens to the disciples in today’s gospel reading—and especially to Peter. Peter was a man of traditional values. He knew his place. He was the student, and Jesus was the rabbi. Peter’s place was to listen—and if he could do some small service for his master, he would do it, out of respect and deference.

Then he looks down and sees Jesus kneeling in front of him, probably with his hand outstretched, wanting to wash Peter’s feet. Peter reacts according to the way he sees the world, according to what is “normal”.

Now, to understand this more fully, let me ask you: What do you think of when you see a pitcher, a basin and a towel? Maybe you’ve used a basin and a towel in your home. A child who is sick has thrown up, and you have to clean up the mess. A dog has made a mess on the floor, and you have to take care of it. Or maybe you’ve been in a hospital in a condition of weakness and illness, and a nurse comes with a basin and a towel to wash you—something you’ve been doing perfectly well for yourself all your life. A basin and a towel are humbling—are they not? That’s the situation Peter finds himself in, on a grand scale. Jesus, the eternal Son of God and about to be Savior of the world, wants to wash Peter’s feet. It’s embarrassing, and unnecessary, and unseemly, and Peter wants none of it. I think we can understand Peter’s discomfort. The same sort of thing happened when Pope Francis first became Pope. Instead of washing the symbolic feet of twelve priests, which had been the custom, he went to a youth detention center, and he started washing real feet of young incarcerated people, males and females, Muslims as well as Christians…and it caused quite a stir.

During the past year, we have (in a sense) had our feet washed in a way we never did before. I’m thinking of so-called “essential workers” who were forced to work, exposing themselves to a virus that we didn’t know much about. I’m talking about doctors, nurses, other healthcare workers, first responders, supermarket cashiers, those at the wheel of a garbage truck, mail delivery people, meat packers, vegetable pickers and bus drivers. While many of us stayed safely at home, they served us in a way that enabled us to survive. They are the unsung heroes, the “saints next door,” as Pope Francis called them, who gave tremendous service and washed our feet, serving our needs.

The fact that Jesus does it is a game changer of epic proportions. It reverses the normal way we look at things and invites us to turn our usual thinking about what is important upside down. Jesus came to serve, not to be served. And he invites us to get down from the high horse of privilege and supremacy of any kind, and to imitate him. Even those closest to him, including Peter, had a hard time understanding or dealing with this.

Perhaps when Jesus was nailed to a cross, showing that there is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for a friend, Peter began to understand. The Roman centurion understood. He knew what it was like to, in effect, lie down on a grenade, giving one’s life to save one’s comrades, one’s buddies, one’s loved ones. Mary and the other women who stood at the foot of the cross most likely understood because they knew what it was to serve, not just out of necessity, but of love.

The advice columnist Ann Landers was once asked, “What question are you asked most often?” She responded, “People ask: Why am I so lonely, so depressed?” And what advice does she give? To get involved. To find someone who needs help, perhaps someone who is worse off than you are, and help that person. And you know what? It works. People who are intent on loving and serving others tend to forget their own problems, or at least, see them in a wider context. Serving others, offering humble love, can bring healing.

It is interesting to note that on this Holy Thursday, when we remember the institution of the Eucharist, that we do not have a gospel reading from one of the other evangelists, who describe the beginnings of the Eucharist at the Last Supper. Instead, we have John’s gospel about the washing of feet. The two types of accounts actually fit together quite well. In the Eucharist we remember and re-create the profound act of Jesus’ great love and service: the Bread that is broken is the flesh that is pierced, lacerated and broken on the cross. The Chalice, which holds the pooled Blood of Christ, recalls the blood that was pooled at the foot of the cross. We are called to, and asked to share in, this great act of love: the sacrificing of self, the forgetting of self, so that we can serve others in love. Jesus led the way and showed us how, and he invites us to do the same.

Normally, on Holy Thursday we have the washing of feet to recall what Jesus did. But this year because of covid-19 restrictions, we can’t do that. But that ritual is actually a symbol of the real washing of feet, when we act like Jesus by serving others in love, surprising others because, like Jesus, we are willing to turn the world upside down and to serve rather than selfishly making ourselves the center of attention.

Homily for the Fifth Sunday of Lent, March 21, 2021

Mon, 22 Mar 2021 12:12:00 GMT

Homily for the Fifth Sunday of Lent

March 21, 2021

Today, as we continue our reflections for this Year of St. Joseph, I want to focus on a statement in our second reading from the Letter to the Hebrews: “Son though he was, he learned obedience from what he suffered; and when he was made perfect, he became the source of eternal salvation for all who obey him.”

Let’s begin with a story. Two battleships assigned to a training squadron had been at sea on maneuvers in heavy weather for several days. The visibility was poor with patchy fog, so the captained remained on the bridge, keeping an eye on all activities. Shortly after dark, the lookout on the wing of the bridge reported, “Light, bearing on the starboard bow.” The captain called out, “Is it steady of moving astern?” The lookout replied, “Steady, captain,” which meant it was on a dangerous collision course with the ship.

The captain then shouted to the signalman, “Signal the ship: We are on a collision course. Advise you to change course 20 degrees.” Back came a signal, “Advisable for you to change course 20 degrees!” In reply the captain said, “Send: I’m a ship’s captain. Change course 20 degrees, now!” “I’m a seaman second class,” came the reply. “You had better change course 20 degrees, now!” By that time the captain was furious. He spit out a command, “Send: This is a battleship. Change your course immediately.” Back came the reply, “This is a lighthouse!” The battleship changed course.

In a section on Joseph as an obedient father, Pope Francis notes that in a series of dreams God revealed his plan to Joseph, which in each case required a course correction.

“Joseph was deeply troubled by Mary’s mysterious pregnancy. He did not want to ‘expose her to public disgrace,’ so he decided to ‘dismiss her quietly’ (Mt 1:19). In the first dream, an angel helps Joseph resolve his dilemma: ‘Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit’…. ‘When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him’ (Mt 1:24).

“In the second dream, the angel tells Joseph: ‘Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod is about to search for the child to destroy him’ (Mt 2:13). Joseph did not hesitate to obey.

“In Egypt, Joseph awaited with patient trust the angel’s notice that he could safely return home. In a third dream, the angel told him that those who sought to kill the child were dead and ordered him to rise, take the child and his mother, and return to the land of Israel (cf. Mt 2:19-20). Once again, Joseph promptly obeyed….

“In every situation, Joseph declared his own ‘fiat’ [let it be], like those of Mary at the Annunciation and Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane…. During the hidden years in Nazareth, Jesus learned at the school of Joseph to do the will of the Father. That will was to be his daily food (cf. Jn 4:34). Even at the most difficult moment of his life, in Gethsemane, Jesus chose to do the Father’s will rather than his own.”

So…as our second reading says, “Jesus learned obedience through what he suffered.” I always found that statement strange and hard to deal with. But during my serious illness a little over two years ago, I think I got an insight into what the author meant when you don’t have the strength to even lift yourself up out of a hospital bed, that tends to remove a false sense of pride. It makes you less arrogant. And it makes you more grateful, appreciating the tender mercies of the nurses, doctors, chaplains and visitors. Suffering makes you more humble, much more open to the opinions of others.

In the Old Testament, when the prophets who speak for God ask the people to repent or convert, what they are asking for is that the people take an honest look at themselves, and ask: Where am I heading? Do I need to make a course correction in my life, much as the captain of the battleship had to change direction so as not to crash into the rocks where the lighthouse signaled its message of danger.

My time of suffering revealed two things: (1) that there is a God, and (2) that it’s not me. And if I am not God, then I have to be open to a wisdom and a love that has my best interests at heart, and wants to keep me from crashing on the rocks. In becoming a human being, the tradition tells us that Jesus became like us in all things but sin. That meant that he had to learn obedience, and the school where he learned the most was in his suffering. In that way he became the lighthouse, the source of eternal salvation for all who obey him.

So the question is: are we heading in the right direction, or do we need to make a course correction? We can learn a great deal from St. Joseph, and from Jesus himself, as we bring this important question to our reflection and prayer throughout this week.

Homily for the Third Sunday of Lent March 7, 2021

Mon, 15 Mar 2021 11:13:00 GMT

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Lent

March 14, 2021

As we continue our walk with St. Joseph during this Lenten Season, let us begin with a verse from today’s Gospel: “Whoever lives the truth comes to the light, so that his works may be clearly seen as done in God.”

Pope Francis writes: “St. Joseph was a carpenter who earned an honest living to provide for his family. From him Jesus learned the value, the dignity and the joy of what it means to eat bread that is the fruit of one’s own labor. In our own day, when employment once more becomes a burning social issue, and unemployment at times reaches record levels even in nations that for decades have enjoyed a certain degree of prosperity, there is a renewed need to appreciate the importance of dignified work, of which Saint Joseph is an exemplary patron….Working persons, whatever their job may be, are cooperating with God, and in some way become creators of the world around us.”

An American Indian tells about a brave who found an eagle’s egg and put it into the nest of a prairie chicken. The eaglet hatched with the brood of chicks and grew up with them. All its life the changeling eagle, thinking it was a prairie chicken, did what the other prairie chickens did. It scratched in the dirt for seeds and insects to eat. It clucked and cackled. And it flew in a brief thrashing of wings and flurry of feathers no more than a few feet off the ground. After all, that’s how prairie chickens were supposed to fly.

They say for children to flourish when they leave the nest, they need to have both roots to give them a firm foundation, and wings to be able to navigate their way into the future. St. Joseph, the worker, the just man, provided roots and wings, dignity and a sense of satisfaction, as examples for the young Jesus. Jesus could then bring his message and show the way, with authority and a sense of purpose, using images from everyday life that spoke to people who often felt left out and shut out, enabling them to believe that they, too, were God’s children. And we, as his followers, are called to enable and empower others, helping them to soar like an eagle—especially if they’ve been beaten and battered down to think they’re prairie chickens+

Homily for the Third Sunday of Lent March 7, 2021

Wed, 10 Mar 2021 13:02:00 GMT

Homily for the Third Sunday of Lent

March 7, 2021

Continuing our Lenten journey in light of Pope Francis’ document declaring this a Year of St. Joseph, we begin with the Scripture: “You shall not have other gods besides me”—the very beginning of the Ten Commandments, such an important part of our faith heritage. Jesus taught us to call God “Our Father”. How do St. Joseph, along with the important people in our lives, reveal God to us?

Let me begin with a story. In 1989 there was an 8.2 earthquake that almost flattened Armenia, killing over thirty thousand people in less than four minutes. In the midst of all the devastation and chaos, a father left his wife securely at home and rushed to the school where his son was supposed to be, only to discover that the building was as flat as a pancake. After the traumatic initial shock, he remembered the promise he had made to his son: “No matter what, I’ll always be there for you.” With tears running down his face, he began digging and removing piled up rubble. Others who arrived on the scene tried to pull him away, saying that the situation was hopeless. But the man kept digging. He asked the others: are you going to help me? They remarked that fires were breaking out and explosions were happening everywhere, and that it was too dangerous to continue. But he kept digging. Police arrived and told him to go home. They would handle it now. But he refused and kept digging for eight hours…twelve hours…twenty…thirty six. Then at the thirty-eighth hour he pulled back a boulder and heard his son’s voice. He screamed his son’s name, “Armand!” He heard back, “Dad! It’s me. I told the other kids not to worry. I told them that if you were alive, you’d save me. There are fourteen of us left out of thirty-three, Dad.” His father said, “Come on out, boy!” The son responded, “No, Dad! Let the other kids out first because I know you’ll get me! No matter what, I know you’ll be there for me.”

Pope Francis points out that St. Joseph has enjoyed tremendous popularity throughout the history of the Church as a beloved father, who placed himself at the service of God’s entire plan of salvation. According to Pope Saint Paul VI, Joseph turned his vocation of domestic love into a superhuman offering of himself, his heart and all his abilities, giving a love placed at the service of the Messiah who was growing to maturity in his home.

Pope Francis writes, “Thanks to his role in salvation history, Saint Joseph has always been venerated as a father by the Christian people. This is shown by the countless churches dedicated to him worldwide, the numerous religious institutes, confraternities and ecclesial groups inspired by his spirituality and bearing his name, and the many traditional expressions of piety in his honor. Innumerable holy men and women were passionately devoted to him.”

In my own life, St. Joseph seems to have followed me around. As a child, I loved the statue of St. Joseph in church because Joseph had such a beautiful, compassionate face, and he held the infant Jesus with incredible care and love. I remember the nuns sharing a story of how Joseph was chosen—they collected the walking sticks of various men, and Joseph’s was the only one that bloomed with lilies, thus indicating that he was divinely chosen. My pastor when I was growing up was named Joseph. After my father died, I had an uncle who was named Joseph. In Belgium I was ordained a deacon by Cardinal Leon-Joseph Suenens in a church that had the earthly remains of Joseph de Veuster, now known to the world as St. Damien the leper of Molokai, Hawaii. I was ordained a priest by Bishop Joseph Maguire. For six years I lived at Mt. Marie and served as chaplain to the Sisters of St. Joseph—preaching at about twenty-five of their funerals each year. And most importantly, when I was in high school, my father died on March 19, 1968—the feast of St. Joseph on the church’s calendar.

My earliest memories of my own father were: when he would pick me up in his arms and hold me to his cheek, to this day I remember the delightful roughness of the stubble of his five o’clock shadow, and when I tried to hug him, my arms were too short to reach all the way around. I was blessed to have these fathers watching over me—my biological father, Stanley, and my spiritual father Joseph, and indeed, all who bore the name and lived the spirituality of Joseph. And all of them reminded me of God, whom Jesus taught us to address with confidence as “Our Father.”

The first of the Ten Commandments, as we heard in our first reading, is: I am the Lord your God; you shall have no other gods besides me. The Bible teaches that we are made by God and for God. This means that we have a huge desire for meaning, a wish for belonging, an ache to love and be loved. No one and nothing else, no “other gods”, can satisfy these desires and longings. I have come to know God through the love of all those who, like St. Joseph, mirrored a love that can only be divine. And this is how we come to God, through Saints and family members, heroes and teachers, and the rest of creation—flowers, rainbows and stars: all speak to us of their Creator, all remind us that in the midst of the challenges and difficulties of life, there is a presence that comforts, challenges and nourishes us.

And once we have experienced that love, we have opportunities to show that kind of love to others; to those who have no father or mother; to those who have been abused or neglected; to those who feel unloved and left out. Just as St. Joseph modeled the love of God in his family and his community, so can we. When others are living in hopelessness and despair, our tender and compassionate attention can give them hope and help them to know the God who can heal their pain and fill their emptiness with an infinite love. The gift we have received can now be shared as a gift.

Homily for February 28, 2021

Mon, 01 Mar 2021 12:45:00 GMT

Homily for the Second Sunday of Lent

February 28,2021

As we did last weekend, we are going to use Pope Francis’ document for the Year of St. Joseph to guide our reflection on this Second Sunday of Lent.

We begin with the text from our second reading, Paul’s letter to the Romans: “If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son but handed him over for us all, how will he not also give us everything else along with him?”

The Holy Father writes: “Joseph accepted Mary unconditionally. He trusted in the angel’s words. The nobility of Joseph’s heart is such that what he learned from the law he made dependent on charity. Today, in our world where psychological, verbal and physical abuse towards women is so evident, Joseph appears as the figure of a respectful and sensitive man. Even though he does not understand the bigger picture, he makes a decision to protect Mary’s good name, her dignity and her life. In his hesitation about how best to act, God helped him by enlightening his judgment.

“Often in life, things happen whose meaning we do not understand. Our first reaction is frequently one of disappointment and rebellion. Joseph set aside his own ideas in order to accept the course of events and, mysterious as they seemed, to embrace them, take responsibility for them and make them part of his own history….The spiritual path that Joseph traces for us is not one that explains, but accepts.”

Here’s a kind of “quirky” story to illustrate this idea of trusting and accepting the strange twists and turns of life. It’s a Jewish story about a donkey, a rooster, and a lamp. Rabbi Moshe took a trip to a strange land. He took a donkey, a rooster, and a lamp. Since he was a Jew, he was refused hospitality in the village inns, so he decided to sleep in the woods. He lit his lamp to study the holy books, but a fierce wind came up, knocking over the lamp and breaking it. The rabbi decided to turn in, saying, “All that God does, God does well.” During the night some wild animals came along and drove away the rooster and thieves stole the donkey. Moshe woke up, saw the loss, but still proclaimed, “All that God does, God does well.”

The rabbi then went back to the village where he was refused lodging, only to learn that enemy soldiers had invaded it during the night and killed all the inhabitants. He also learned that these soldiers had traveled through the same part of the woods where he lay asleep. Had his lamp not been broken he would have been discovered. Had not the rooster been chased, it would have crowed, giving him away. Had not the donkey been stolen, it would have brayed. So one more Rabbi Moshe declared, “All that God does, God does well!”

As St. Joseph found from experience, Scripture scholars point out that, quite often, God “writes with crooked lines.” Human stubbornness, anger or weakness can often thwart God’s hopes for the people, and things get really messed up, but in the end, as things play out they seem to find a way of getting back on track. So Jesus, the king of the universe, had to be born in a stable; so King Herod tried to kill him; so the family had to hurry, flee to Egypt and live in a foreign land. But that did not stop salvation from coming into the world. Joseph just put one foot in front of the other, did what he had to, and trusted that somehow things would work out. Jesus would show the same kind of dogged trust and fortitude as he trudged, battered and beaten, on the way to the cross. They had learned humility and acceptance: “If God is for us, who can be against us?”

As we did last weekend, we are going to use Pope Francis’ document for the Year of St. Joseph to guide our reflection on this Second Sunday of Lent.

Homily for the First Sunday of Lent February 21, 2021

Tue, 23 Feb 2021 09:43:00 GMT

Homily for the First Sunday of Lent

February 21, 2021

On the weekends of Lent, we are going to focus on one particular part of the readings, and then relate it to some aspect of Pope Francis’ teaching about St. Joseph—who, as the protector of Jesus and Mary, is also seen as the patron and protector of the universal church.

Let us begin with part of our Responsorial Psalm:

Good and upright is the Lord,

thus he shows sinners the way.

He guides the humble to justice,

and teaches the humble his way.

(Psalm 25:8-9)

Many years ago, during a visit to the Holy Land, I happened to be at the ruins of St. Peter’s house in Capernaum. There were many large blocks of granite, columns of various sizes, and so forth. A little Israeli boy was running about exuberantly, when suddenly he fell and skinned his knee. With tears running down his face, he was yelling, “Abba, Abba…” which is rendered “Father” or “Daddy”—the opening word of the prayer that Jesus taught, the Lord’s Prayer. That is the kind of loving trust that Jesus invites us to have in God—a humble, loving trust that he learned first in his family, from Joseph and Mary.

In a section on Joseph as a “tender and loving father” Pope Francis teaches that “Joseph saw Jesus grow daily “in wisdom and in years and in divine and human favor” (Lk 2:52). As the Lord had done with Israel, so Joseph did with Jesus: he taught him to walk, taking him by the hand; he was for him like a father who raises an infant to his cheeks, bending down to him and feeding him (cf. Hos 11:3-4). In Joseph, Jesus saw the tender love of God: “As a father has compassion for his children, so the Lord has compassion for those who fear him.”

Of course, we must never forget the role of Mary who would have been the first model for Jesus of the motherly side of God. In the many weddings I’ve had over the years, one of the most popular readings is St. Paul’s hymn to love in his first letter to the Corinthians, chapter 13. I found a beautiful “mother’s paraphrase” of that Scripture, reminding us of Mary’s role with Jesus, and indeed, the role of any mother with her child.

Though I speak with the language of educators and psychiatrists and have not love, I am become as blaring brass or a crashing cymbal.

And if I have the gift of planning my child’s future and understanding all the mysteries of the child’s mind and have ample knowledge of teenagers, and though I have all faith in my children, so that I could remove their mountains of doubts and fears and have not love, I am nothing.

And though I bestow all my goods to feed and nourish them properly, and though I give my body to backbreaking housework and have not love, I am nothing.

Love is patient with the naughty child and is kind. Love does not envy when a child wants to move to grandma’s house because “she is nice.”

Love is not anxious to impress a teenager with one’s superior knowledge.

Love has good manners in the home—does not act selfishly or with a martyr complex, is not easily provoked by normal childish actions.

Love does not remember the wrongs of yesterday and love thinks no evil—it gives the child the benefit of the doubt.

Love does not make light of sin in the child’s life (or in her own, either), but rejoices when he or she comes to a knowledge of the truth.

Now abides faith, hope and love—these three are needed in the home. Faith in Jesus Christ, eternal hope for the future of the child, and God’s love shed in our hearts, but the greatest of these is love.

Pope Francis, considering the difficulties and challenges that Joseph and his family faced, concludes: “All too often, we think that God works only through our better parts, yet most of God’s plans are realized in and despite our frailty….The evil one makes us see and condemn our frailty, whereas the Spirit brings it to light with tender love. Tenderness is the best way to touch the frailty within us. Pointing fingers and judging others are frequently signs of an inability to accept our own weakness, our own frailty. Only tender love will save us from the snares of the accuser. That is why it is so important to encounter God’s mercy, especially in the Sacrament of Reconciliation, where we experience his truth and tenderness….We know that God’s truth does not condemn, but instead welcomes, embraces, sustains and forgives us….”

The Holy Father continues, “Even through Joseph’s fears, God’s will, history and plan were at work. Joseph, then, teaches us that faith in God includes believing that God can work even through our fears, our frailties and our weaknesses. Joseph also teaches us that amid the tempests of life, we must never be afraid to let the Lord steer our course. At times, we want to be in complete control, yet God always sees the bigger picture.”

I think, once again, of a delightful story about prayer. Years ago an old lady down south had no money to buy food. But with complete trust in God, she got down on her knees and prayed aloud, “Dear Lord, please send me a side of bacon and a sack of cornmeal.” A scoundrel happened to be passing by, and he heard the lady’s prayer. He decided to play a trick on her. He went and bought a side of bacon and a sack of cornmeal and threw them down the chimney of the old lady’s house. She, of course, was jubilant because the Lord had answered her prayer, and went all around the town proclaiming how the Lord had responded to her. The scoundrel then told everyone what had really happened. The wise old lady quickly replied, “Well the devil may have brought it, but it was the Lord who sent it!” In one way or another she had trusted, and in one way or another God took care of things.

These are the lessons we learn from the life of Joseph and Mary. Mary was asked to be the mother of God’s Son—outside the normal order of things. Joseph was then told in a dream to accept what had happened and to take Mary into his home as his wife. In Bethlehem, things didn’t work out too well, so Joseph had to improvise, and found a stable where the child could be born. The next thing he learns in a dream is that King Herod is out to kill the child, so he should take Jesus and Mary and hide in Egypt. In all these ways, trusting in God and using some ingenuity, Joseph provided for and protected his family. Now Pope Francis reminds us that St. Joseph has a similar role in the Church. If our circumstances are perplexing, if we don’t know exactly which way to turn, if our options seem limited, and if the world seems crazy especially during this time of pandemic, we have someone to whom we can turn in St. Joseph. With tenderness and love he helped salvation to enter our world. If we turn to him, he can help us to hear God’s whispering in our hearts, he can help us to discern the way forward, he can teach us that God can be trusted, and that tender love is always the way.

Homily for Ash Wednesday, February 17, 2021

Tue, 23 Feb 2021 09:40:00 GMT

Homily for Ash Wednesday

February 17, 2021

There is a story about two men, both Italian sculptors and contemporaries, named Donatello and Michelangelo. One day Donatello received delivery of a huge block of marble. After examining it carefully, Donatello rejected the marble because it was too flawed and cracked for him to use.

Now this was long before forklifts and hydraulic lifts, so the workmen moved the heavy load by using a series of log rollers. Rather than struggle back to the quarry, the quick-thinking haulers decided to deliver it down the street to Michelangelo. After all, he was known to be a little absent-minded. He might not realize that he had not ordered a three-ton block of marble.

When Michelangelo inspected the marble, he saw the same cracks and flaws as did Donatello. But he also saw the block as a challenge to his artistic skills. It became a personal challenge he could not pass up. So Michelangelo accepted the block of marble that Donatello had already rejected as too flawed and too cracked to be of any use. Michelangelo proceeded to carve from that seemingly useless block of marble what is considered to be one of the world’s greatest art treasures—the statue “David.”

Now, we can look at Ash Wednesday in gloomy terms: the old, traditional formula reminds us, “Remember that you are dust and unto dust you shall return.” And, of course, we know that’s true; one day death will come to all of us. But that is of little help if it paralyzes us with fear.

On the other hand we can look at this Lenten Season as having more to do with how we live, than with the fact that we will die. One article I read on the subject suggested that the biblical call to repent isn’t like the threat that many of us heard years ago: “Wait till your father gets home!” when we did something wrong. God wants to be more to us than an answer to a threat. The article suggested we look at it this way: “an invitation to make room in our hearts and lives for a God who wants to fill up our empty spaces and doesn’t take no for an answer.”

In other words, God is like Michelangelo, who sees the cracks and flaws in us, but wants to work with us to bring out the masterpiece that is there. We get to that masterpiece by chipping away at the flaws. And there are three traditional tools in the sculptor’s studio.

Fasting: can we let go of our reliance on things we really don’t need so we can rely more on God? It’s not necessarily desserts so we can lose weight, but something more substantial: talking about people, resentment and refusal to forgive, insisting on always being right or having our own way. What do we need to chip away at?

Almsgiving (charitable giving): there are others who are lacking even basic necessities, and in reaching out to help them in their brokenness, we help to heal our own. It’s a great way to take the spotlight off our own ego.

Prayer: spending some quality time with the one who created us, knows us better than we know ourselves, and loves us more than we can imagine. It is through prayer that we allow the master Sculptor to help us in the chipping away at the cracks and flaws that keep us from being fully who the bible says we are: persons made in the image and likeness of God.

May you have a blessed Lent.

Homily for February 14, 2021`

Tue, 16 Feb 2021 10:16:00 GMT

Homily for the Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time

February 14, 2021

Today, we’re going to reflect on the importance of “touch” since in our Gospel reading Jesus heals a leper by touching him. To begin: do you remember the story of King Midas? According to the myth, Midas was a very wealthy king who ruled the country of Phrygia. He had everything a king could wish for. He lived in luxury in a grand castle. He shared his life of abundance with his beautiful daughter. Now, even though Midas was very rich, his greatest happiness came from possessing gold. One day, he happened to encounter the god Dionysus, who was grateful for the way Midas had treated a friend of his, and so Dionysus promised that he would grant one wish to the king. After reflecting for a few moments, Midas asked that everything he touched would turn to gold. And, of course, the whole thing backfired: if he tried to eat a grape, the grape turned to gold. And, without thinking, he embraced his daughter, and she turned to gold. In the end Dionysus felt sorry for Midas, reversed the wish, and returned everything to its natural state. King Midas’s touch was based on greed, which blinded him and nearly led to the destruction of everything he held dear.

In our gospel passage Jesus encounters a leper. Because leprosy was so contagious, the laws about how to deal with it were very strict, as we heard in our first reading. Lepers were to live apart from the community, and it was against the law for anyone to touch them. And so the leper approaches Jesus in a tentative way: “If you wish, you can make me clean.” Jesus chooses to put love above the letter of the law, and so he stretches out his hand, and touches the leper, who is cured immediately. We don’t know how long the man had leprosy, but he suffered its consequences: not only was he disfigured by the horrible disease, but he was forced to exist in isolation. Can you imagine living that way, as many did, for years, without any meaningful human contact, without being touched by another human being? And so, what Jesus did was a double healing of both the disease and the loneliness that went along with it.

Some scholars ask: Why did Jesus have to touch the leper, especially since it was against the law, and a simple command could have sufficed? I believe it is because Jesus knew how much the leper longed to be healed not just of his disease, but also from the loneliness of being cast off from the human community.

This weekend we are celebrating Valentine’s Day, and I wanted to show you a card I picked up. On the cover there is a bear, and he is holding a large heart. Above the image it says “Valentine Hug” and inside it simply says, “for you.” That card struck me as being ironic, and even cruel. Can you imagine, for instance, a grandparent longing to give a big bear hug to a grandchild, but unable to do so because of the pandemic we are undergoing? And this has been going on for just under a year. No one knows how long the leper in the gospel had to live apart from everyone he held dear, unable to experience a human touch. I sent one of the bear-hug Valentine’s cards to a young cousin. And in it I wrote that I didn’t find virtual bear hugs very satisfying, and I couldn’t wait for the day when we could be healed and hug each other for real.

I recently read about some research that was done by Tiffany Field, who is the head of the Touch Research Institute at the University of Miami. In the mid-seventies she was working in a neonatal intensive care unit, and the nursing staff was trying to figure out how to help preemies to grow and be discharged faster. The answer was touch! Once they started massaging the infants, they started to gain weight and make better progress.

She includes information about a very serious situation in an orphanage in Romania. The children there had very little touch, and almost no human contact, and so they suffered developmental delays. They were half their expected height and weight for their age. Many had autistic-like symptoms.

More recently, Ms. Field was involved in a study of touch at airports (this was prior to the pandemic). She discovered that there was almost no touch going on (people greeting each other, welcoming or saying farewell, comforting children, and the like). Everyone was on their smartphone, including couples traveling together, as well as parents and children. Ms. Field notes that the reduction of touch is especially problematic for children. Kids today are often touch-deprived, not only because of smartphones but also because of rules limiting touch in schools (and I might add at churches). She suggests that parents have to make a special effort to provide as much touch as they can to ensure the proper development of their children.

The same can be said of the elderly, who often live in isolation without much human contact. I recently read about a man who died at the age of seventy-six, even though he was alert, intelligent, healthy—and yet, desperately unhappy. The article pointed out that in this case the man had chosen isolation. After the death of his wife, his family and friends tried constantly to get him out and involved. He was invited on trips, to clubs, and to dinners. He would refuse, but with his very next breath he’d lament his isolation and loneliness.

In the gospels Jesus created a sense of community among those he invited to follow him. And he always seemed to be on the lookout for those who, like the leper in today’s gospel, were cut off from the community. He didn’t tend to limit his followers to a private spirituality in which there was only a one-to-one relationship with God. Individual prayer and meditation were obviously important, but not enough. Rather he challenged people not only to love God, but to love others, even as they loved themselves.

Finally, I wanted to share one of my favorite stories about prayer and all the difference it can make when we are feeling lonely or isolated (as many do because of the restrictions brought about by the pandemic). It’s a story of an elderly man who was bedridden. One of his oldest friends paid a visit one day. The ailing man confessed that whenever there was a sermon about prayer, it always seemed to go over his head, because it was so abstract and theological. The visitor said, “Let me tell you how I pray. I place an empty chair next to me, and I envision Jesus sitting in the chair. I then talk to him about whatever is on my mind and in my heart, and then I try to listen for a response.” A few weeks later the ailing man’s daughter spoke to the parish priest about how she found her father on the day he died. It seemed he had fallen out of bed, but his body was in a twisted position. His head was on the seat of the chair, as if it was resting on someone’s lap! So you see, in the inner room of prayer, that man was able to overcome any isolation or loneliness he might have felt. Rather, he realized that love, and God, were only a prayer away. Thankfully, his friend was able to steer him in the right direction. And it is the same for us. Even though we have to practice social distancing, we can still call those who may be alone and isolated, letting them know that we care and that we are praying for them. It may be, for now, only a virtual touch, but it can make all the difference in the world.

Homily for February 7, 2021

Mon, 08 Feb 2021 14:25:00 GMT

Homily for the Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time

February 7, 2021

Today I want to focus on a very difficult subject, introduced by our first reading from the Book of Job, namely, why do innocent people have to suffer? Job started out doing quite well, having a wonderful family, a nice home, plenty of land, flocks and herds, lots of friends. Then, in a moment everything changed: people started to die, robbers came and stole things, Job develops a repulsive skin disease—it’s a giant soap opera in biblical story form. But the question is quite serious: why do innocent people, like Job, have to suffer.

Homily for January 24, 2021

Mon, 25 Jan 2021 10:39:00 GMT

Homily for the Third Sunday in Ordinary Time

January 24, 2021

In today’s gospel passage Jesus begins his public ministry as an evangelist, announcing the gospel, or good news. He states the theme, the foundation for all he will teach and all he will do: “This is the time of fulfillment. The kingdom of God is at hand. Repent, and believe in the gospel.”

We find that Jesus was a very effective evangelizer. When he calls the first disciples, what do they do? Simon Peter and his brother Andrew “abandoned their fishing nets and followed him.” With James and John it’s even more dramatic: “So they left their father Zebedee in the boat along with the hired men and followed him.” I have often wondered how Zebedee felt when his sons abandoned him and the family business. At any rate, Jesus was very effective as a preacher and evangelizer. Why do you suppose that was so?

Let’s begin with a story about a more modern spreader of the gospel. A young missionary spotted a woodcutter at work in a forest. “What a perfect opportunity for me to make a convert for Jesus,” he thought when he learned the woodcutter had never heard of Jesus Christ. All day as the man chopped wood, carried it to his wagon and walked back to chop another load, the young missionary preached to him about Jesus. Toward the end of the day he asked, “Well, are you ready to accept Jesus Christ?” “I don’t know,” replied the woodcutter. “All day long you spoke to me of this Jesus who helps us with all our burdens, yet you never helped me with mine.”

This story remind us that Jesus calls us, not just to have the right ideas about him and to know the doctrine the Church teaches. He calls us, first and foremost, to a way of life. The young missionary did not succeed because he forgot that actions speak louder than words.

One of the extraordinary documents on evangelization, or spreading the gospel, was written many years ago by Pope Paul VI. Perhaps the most memorable line from the entire text is this: “Modern man listens more willingly to witnesses than to teachers, and if he does listen to teachers, it is because they are witnesses.” In other words, you have to practice what you preach. That, I believe, is what made Jesus so attractive. He didn’t just talk about compassion; he showed it to those who were marginalized and forgotten. He didn’t just preach that we should take care of the sick; he touched and healed those who came to him. He didn’t just warn others about the danger of having too many possessions; he lived as a poor man. He was the real thing, the genuine article.

Another aspect of Jesus’ proclamation was that there was an urgency about his message. If he called someone to follow him, he meant today, not tomorrow. One of the classic examples of delayed conversion is that of St. Augustine, who lived some four centuries after Christ. Augustine was a very gifted young man who received a top notch education. He enjoyed the good life, being somewhat of a playboy. His mother, Monica, a devout Christian, prayed for many years for her son’s conversion. At a certain point, Augustine felt the attraction and the beauty of the Christian faith, but he was not ready to change his ways. His famous prayer at that time was: “Lord, make me chaste (sexually pure), but not yet!” Later, when Augustine was converted to the faith, he wrote beautifully about how God never gave up on him:

Late have I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient, ever new, late have I loved you! You were within me, but I was outside, and it was there that I searched for you. In my unloveliness I plunged into the lovely things which you created. You were with me, but I was not with you. Created things kept me from you; yet if they had not been in you they would not have been at all. You called, you shouted, and you broke through my deafness. You flashed, you shone, and you dispelled my blindness. You breathed your fragrance on me; I drew in breath and now I pant for you. I have tasted you, now I hunger and thirst for more. You touched me, and I burned for your peace.

In our own day one of the best known and most effective evangelists was Billy Graham. Graham told a self-deprecating story that reveals his sense of humor, but also indicates that the gospel was never far from his mind. One day, in an unfamiliar city, he asked a young boy where the post office was, and the youth gave him directions. Graham then told him about the prayer gathering he was having, and said, “If you come tonight, I’ll show you the way to Jesus Christ.” The child responded, “I don’t know…you didn’t even know the way to the post office.”

Sometimes, life itself evangelizes by confronting us with some painful issues. An elderly friend of mine once told me that when he was young, he flitted about here and there and he hardly ever thought about God. But as he got older, he had some health scares, had lost some people very close to him, and began to sense that he had to get into a right relationship with the Lord. He said, after putting it off for years, he had even bought a cemetery plot!

One final point about Jesus as an evangelizer. In his pronouncement, Jesus says, “The Kingdom of God is at hand.” But this kingdom is unique in that it is not a geographic kingdom. I like to think of it as an action: “kinging” or reigning. Jesus’ kingdom exists wherever people let him in, allowing Jesus to lead them to a life lived authentically. A few years ago, there was a rather effective approach that served as a reminder that we need to let Jesus into our lives on a daily basis. Do you remember the bracelets with the initials “wwjd”—what would Jesus do? Those bracelets reminded us to bring Jesus with us into the everyday, so that he could be king of our choices, decisions and concrete actions. Asking what Jesus would do helps us to overcome the things we don’t like, both in ourselves and in our world.

For example, if we don’t like the divisions in our society, we have little influence over society as a whole. But we can begin to model the behavior we want to see, by being reconciled with someone we dislike, speaking to someone we’ve avoided, or forgiving someone who has hurt us. Feeling sorry for people who are going hungry won’t end world hunger, but we can donate food or money to programs that help feed the poor in our community. Seeing the destructive power in the anger of those who attacked the capitol can move us to work on our relationship with someone that makes us angry. By asking what Jesus would do, we don’t live our faith in the abstract, in the realm of doctrines and definitions. By letting Jesus rule over our actions, we are becoming the real thing: a Christian not just in name, but in fact. We become more authentic human beings, more like Jesus. And we, in turn, become evangelizers who can have an impact on our part of the world.v

Homily for January 17, 2021

Tue, 19 Jan 2021 12:00:00 GMT

Homily for the Second Sunday in Ordinary Time

January 17, 2021

In what has become a classic in a very short time, the Disney film Frozen focuses on two sisters, Elsa and Anna, when they are young children. Elsa is sound asleep when her younger sister, Anna, tries to wake her up because she wants to play. Elsa groggily pushes her sister away and says, “Anna, go back to sleep.”

I’ll bet that any of you who are mothers or fathers have had similar experiences, when you are awakened by the call of a child in the middle of the night, asking for a drink of water, or insisting that you take care of the monsters that are hiding under the child’s bed. Maybe some of you instinctively replied, “Go back to sleep.”

This is the situation we find in our first reading. The young boy Samuel has been dedicated for service of the Lord in the temple. Our reading says that the Lord called Samuel, but the boy thought it was the old High Priest, Eli, calling. The boy wakes up the old man and says, “You called me. What did you want?” Eli replies (you guessed it): “Go back to sleep.”

Now, the important thing to remember is that Eli is a father figure, a role model and a mentor for the young Samuel. He finally figures out that it must really be God calling, even though that would be rare, and so he gives the boy advice: “Go to sleep, and if you are called, reply, Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”

We need to remember that throughout the Bible God finds ways of communicating with people. Consider the stories of the Christmas season, for example: Mary is visited by an angel, as are the shepherds; Joseph receives messages from God in dreams; when the infant Jesus is presented in the temple, the old man Simeon and the elderly Anna, who were extremely prayerful people, immediately recognize the child as the promised Savior and sing his praises to anyone who would listen.

Our Scripture readings today remind us that there is a more humble, but very important, way in which God teaches and speaks to us: through those who are older and wiser, parents and grandparents, teachers and mentors. In the first reading we have encountered the young Samuel, gradually learning his way under the guidance of Eli. In the gospel reading we read about John the Baptist pointing out Jesus to two of his disciples, and they in turn become disciples of Jesus, who serves as their Master and mentor.

Pope Francis speaks often about the importance of the role of older people and the incredibly important part they play in the formation of the young. It reminded me of the words of a little pamphlet I found years ago: “When a child thrusts his or her small hand in yours, it may be smeared with ice cream or jelly, and there may be a wart under the right thumb, or a Band-Aid on a little finger. But the most important thing about this little hand is that it is a hand of the future. This hand someday may hold a Bible or a revolver; play the church organ or spin a gambling wheel; gently dress a wound or tremble wretchedly, grasping a drug needle. Right now, that hand is in yours. It represents a full-fledged personality in miniature, to be respected as a separate individual whose day-to-day growth into adulthood is your responsibility.”

In recent days our world has become a very frightening place—a world of violent demonstrations and terrorist threats, a world of such divisiveness that people wonder who they can trust, a fragile world that requires the protection of thousands of armed National Guard troops.

Our nation, and indeed our world, are in desperate need of mentors and role models who can inspire us and show us the way to a safer, happier and more life-giving world. This weekend we honor one such mentor, Martin Luther King, Jr. In one of the most beautiful speeches ever given in America Dr. King said:

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I believe that, even through the frightening nightmare we are experiencing, our God is calling to us, asking each of us in our own way, as limited as we may be, to be examples, role models and mentors of a better world, a better way. We know there is a better way because we have learned it from Jesus Christ, from the Bible, from the Church, from all those who have taught and mentored us, and from our own conscience where, if we listen, we can hear our God showing us the way. If God can call little boys like Samuel, he can surely call us to live with truth and honesty, compassion and reason, justice and respect, love and peace. He can ask us to stand up to bullies, demand more of our elected officials, stand with those whose rights are being trampled on, and insist that those who do evil be held accountable. As surely as God called young Samuel, I believe that God is calling to us today, through the events of our day, to build a civilization of love and respect, to love our neighbors, and to treat others as we want to be treated. Our God is calling and we have a choice. We can treat God’s call as “spam” or “junk mail”—or we can heed old Eli’s teaching: “If you are called, reply, Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”

Homily for January 10, 2021

Mon, 11 Jan 2021 10:51:00 GMT

Homily for the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord

January 10, 2021

A story is told about a young boy, Johnny, who cried all the way home after the baptism of his baby brother. When asked what was wrong, Johnny replied, “That priest said he wanted us brought up in a Christian home, but I want to stay with you guys!”

The ritual of baptism predates Christianity, and can be found in many of the religions of the world, ancient and modern. Baptism, of course, makes use of water, and depending on which denomination or group you belong to, the process can be different. For example, when I was first ordained, I became friendly with a Baptist minister, who wanted to show me the new baptismal font they had recently installed, and when I got there, I found a rather large stainless steel pool, several feet deep. The reason was that his group of Baptists only baptized people as adults, and they did it by immersion into the pool of water—whereas we Catholics generally use a much smaller bowl-like structure, we pour the water over the head of the person being baptized, and we often baptize infants.

But we all use water, which has a powerful meaning and symbolism to it. We know that without water, we would soon die. Without water, we would not remain very clean or fresh-smelling. Water is very basic, and primal.

If we look at stories about water in the Bible, we can learn a lot about the deep meaning of baptism, and why it is used by so many religious groups. I want to look at two such passages. First, in the story of the beginnings of the Jewish people, we have the powerful drama of Moses parting the water of the Red Sea. You may recall that the Hebrews were fleeing Pharaoh’s army. After the Sea was parted, the Jewish people got through to the other side; Pharaoh’s army, however, were drowned in the water. A major point of the story is that, after passing through the water, the people were changed . Before, they were slaves. Now, they are free.

Second, the same can be said for the baptism that was administered by John the Baptist. As the people were going down into the water, they were drowning, dying to their past, giving up their sins, and coming up out of the water— different than they had been before.

Let me share another story. Hoping to find a few days’ work, a portrait painter visited a small town. One of his first clients was a person in shabby clothes, with a stubbly beard, and the smell of alcohol on his breath. After the artist had labored a little longer than usual, he lifted the painting and presented it to the man. “This isn’t me,” replied the astonished subject of the painting, as he looked at a smiling, well-dressed person. The artist had looked below the person’s exterior, saw his inner beauty and dignity, and captured it.

Our baptism is God’s gift, and the words spoken at Jesus’ baptism are a reminder of how God sees us: “You are my beloved son.” “You are my beloved daughter.” The two passages I shared with you are different in one major respect. John the Baptist focused on the individual; he was looking for evidence of individual, personal conversion on the part of the one being baptized. The passage about the Hebrew people at the Red Sea, by contrast, has a communal emphasis: it is the entire people that pass through the Sea together; they are given their freedom together; they make their way to the Promised Land together.

We now perform baptisms during the celebration of the Eucharist to emphasize this communal aspect of baptism. Baptism makes us part of a community, a family, a Church. It is baptism that forges the bonds between us and places us in service to one another. No one is expected to grow, or change, or become holy, or struggle, alone. We are God’s beloved children, meant to support and bring the best out of each other, to remind each other that underneath it all, underneath the dust and grime that can accumulate, we have a God-given dignity, which is what the portrait painter did. Our first reading today reminded us that God’s ways are not are ways. While we often see only the appearances, God is the artist who sees our hearts, knows who we are, and knows who we can yet become.

I also believe that the communal dimension of life celebrated in baptism is a reminder of a gift we have to offer our country during this difficult time. We seem to have lost the sense that we are one nation, one people—certainly with unique differences and various gifts, but with common dreams and ideals, values and beliefs, that knit us together and enable us to work for the common good. Our divisiveness certainly celebrates our individuality, freedoms and rights, but without a respect for each other and a sense of responsibility to each other we just might tear each other, and our nation, apart. We are better than that! We are God’s beloved, which makes us brothers and sisters quite incapable of surviving on our own. Just as God has given himself to us, God now asks us to give ourselves to each other. This is what our baptism asks of us.

Homily for Epiphany January 3, 2021

Mon, 04 Jan 2021 12:36:00 GMT

Homily for the Solemnity of the Epiphany

January 3. 2020

To understand today’s celebration, I want to begin with one of my favorite baseball stories. In 1947 Jackie Robinson became the first black player in the major leagues. The Brooklyn Dodger’s owner, Branch Rickey, told Robinson that he would be in for a lot of abuse, that he would be ridiculed and receive more verbal punishment than he thought possible. But Rickey promised that he would back Robinson all the way if he had the determination to make it work.

Very soon, Robinson started to experience the abuse Rickey foretold. There were derisive comments from opponents, fans, coaches, even his own teammates. One day around mid-season Robinson was having a particularly bad day. He fumbled several grounders, overthrew first base, and batted poorly. The crowd that day was being particularly nasty. Then something wonderful happened. Pee Wee Reese, the captain of the team, was playing shortstop. He walked over and put his arm around Jackie Robinson. Robinson later reflected on just how incredibly important that moment was: “That simple gesture saved my career. Pee Wee made me feel as if I belonged.”

Now we’re all familiar with the story of the “three kings” coming from afar in order to worship the new-born king. But the true significance of that is spelled out in our second reading from Saint Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. Paul writes that God has revealed a new mystery, something that, up until that point, was unknown. This is how Paul describes it: “It was not made known to people in other generations as it has now been revealed to his holy apostles and prophets by the Spirit: that the Gentiles are coheirs, members of the same body, and copartners in the promise in Christ Jesus through the gospel.”

Up to the time of Christ, it was only the Jews who were considered the “chosen people”. Much of the history contained in the Bible deals with God selecting the Hebrew people to be peculiarly his own, his special possession. It goes back to the time of Moses, when the Jewish people were slaves in Egypt. When they cried out for deliverance, God heard their plea, freed them from slavery and brought them to their own land. He was to be their one and only God, and they, in turn, would be his people.

What Paul is saying, and what is symbolized by the foreigners from the East, is that being the people of God is no longer limited to the Jews. It is as if Paul and the other Apostles have been called by God to be the Pee Wee Reese of their day. They are to put their arms around, not just the Hebrew people, but also the non-Jews, or Gentiles. Together, they are now one team, one people, one family, or as Paul writes, “the Gentiles are coheirs, members of the same body, and copartners in the promise in Christ Jesus through the gospel.”

The worship of Jesus by the Magi, who are non-Jews, is the dramatic announcement of the breaking down of former barriers, and the creation of a new inclusiveness, of people of every nation, culture and race. We are now partners, on the same team.

That is the spirit of today’s all-important Feast: God does not want us to put up barriers to salvation; he wants us to tear the barriers down. God doesn’t want any one group to feel superior to any other. During his ministry, Jesus would teach us all, regardless of our skin color, language, country of origin, or economic or social status, that we have one God to whom we pray as “Our Father,” making us all brothers and sisters in one human family. Today’s Feast of the visitors from the East explodes the nasty divisiveness that leads to the horrible mistreatment of people of color, immigrants, and those who are economically or socially less well-off. No, we are “coheirs, members of the same body, and copartners in the promise in Christ Jesus through the gospel.” Just as Pee Wee Reese’s embrace of Jackie Robinson changed the history of baseball, so the three kings’ worship of Jesus challenges us to embrace each other, indeed to embrace all people, in acknowledgment of our common humanity.

Homily for January 1, 2021

Mon, 04 Jan 2021 12:26:00 GMT

Homily for the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God

January 1, 2021

The story is told of a place far out into the Arabian Desert, so far out that very few people have even heard of it. There, in the middle of nowhere, stands a small fortress. In silence and isolation, it rises out of the timeless sands, ready to offer sanctuary and provisions to anyone who comes upon it.

It is said that Thomas E. Lawrence, better known as “Lawrence of Arabia,” found refuge in the little fortress countless times. When under attack, often against overwhelming odds, he would make his way to the remote desert sanctuary. It was his life support, a lifeline, that provided him with food, water, safety, and the opportunity to regroup, so that when he was ready, he could face the world again.

In our gospel today we have the following reference to Mary: “And Mary kept all these things, reflecting on them in her heart.” The Greek word in the original includes the idea of “treasuring” and “keeping safe”. After Mary’s initial visit from the angel Gabriel, asking if she would consent to be God’s son, Mary has had a long journey of about a hundred miles while pregnant. Then there’s no room in the inn or anywhere else, so she has to give birth in an animal stall. Now she hears the shepherds telling their part of the story. Like her, they have encountered angels, telling them the incredible news of a Savior being born for them, for the poor, in a poor setting. And Mary, exhausted, running on empty, not knowing what will happen or who will show up next, “kept all these things, reflecting on them in her heart.”

Mary had a sanctuary, not in the middle of the desert, but in the middle of all the hubbub and chaos of her life. She had an inner sanctuary wherein she could take some deep breaths, close her eyes, and turn to God in prayer. There she could experience the safety, the protection, the peace and the comfort you get when you enter into conscious communion with God. There she could find sustenance and renewed strength, so that she could then be ready to face the world again—refreshed, uplifted and empowered.

There are in all our lives moments when we experience exhaustion, exasperation and overload. We are living in such a moment now: people becoming ill and dying in the pandemic, people losing their jobs, students having to learn remotely, hour after hour of depressing news reports, having to be so careful—wearing masks, keeping social distance—and on and on. It just gets to be too much. Well, the good news is that we can do what Mary did: enter into our sanctuary of prayer, where we have treasured and kept safe better memories that can renew and restore us: memories of angels and shepherds, and magi, and the magic of childhood, and stockings hung by the chimney with care, and relatives gathering for a feast, for unto us is born a Savior, Christ the Lord.

When we feel tattered and worn, Mary reminds us that, even in the midst of chaos, Jesus is born, our God is with us, and deep within we have these treasured memories, in a sanctuary of conscious contact with God. On that Christmas day long ago, “Mary kept all these things, reflecting on them in her heart.” We have the ability to do the same, and thus find needed sanctuary in prayer.

Homily for December 20, 2020

Mon, 21 Dec 2020 13:11:00 GMT

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Advent

December 20, 2020

Several years ago, I read a story that had a profound impact on me. It was about a young minister who was upset because on his day off he was told that there was somebody in the office who needed to speak to him. He begrudgingly went into the office to find a young man in shabby clothes, a street person who had a stench indicating he had not bathed recently. As the street person’s story began, he explained that he had no place to stay. The young minister could see it coming: he was going to be asked for money. Deep down, he hoped that the housekeeper would interrupt and tell him there was an urgent task to attend to. As it happened the housekeeper did knock and told the minister he was wanted on the phone. So he excused himself and went to take the call.

When he came back, the office was empty; the street person had left. Feeling guilty, the minister decided to look for him, first by looking up and down the street, and then driving around the neighborhood. When he finally found the individual, he pulled his car over to the curb and said, “I’m sorry that I had to leave. Would you come back with me and finish our conversation?” The young man simply shrugged and said in a low voice, “You’re just like everybody else. No one wants to listen.” He turned around and walked off into the night.

In today’s gospel we have an example of someone who knew how to listen, Mary, the mother of Jesus. I get the impression that there was a simplicity and humility about her, as well as an openness and the ability to trust. Jesus would later remark that what is hidden from the learned and the clever is being revealed to those who are childlike.

Pope Francis teaches, over and over again, that if we want to find God, we have to go out to the peripheries, out to the edges. And in Mary we have someone who definitely fits the description. Many years ago, I visited Nazareth. A major lasting memory is that of the main “street” of the town, the area with all the souvenir stands and shops. It is basically a series of steps going up a hill. In the middle is a kind of ditch in which donkeys carrying various supplies bring goods up and down the hill. The day I was there, we saw a red liquid flowing down the ditch; further up the hill, we learned that it was the blood of an animal that a butcher was carving into pieces.

It is precisely to this town, poverty-stricken, far removed from the capital, that the angel is sent to ask a young girl to accept the seemingly impossible. God chose to come to her, to ask her for her cooperation in a plan to thrust the Son of God into poverty, into a part of the world where not much of significance seemed to be going on.

Pope Francis reminds us: “The poor are at the heart of the Gospel; we cannot understand the Gospel without the poor. The poor are like Jesus himself, who, though rich, emptied himself, made himself poor…” The Holy Father’s advice brings us to the true meaning of Christmas. He continues, “How often do we hear people ask: ‘What can I buy?’ ‘What more can I have?’ Let us use different words: ‘What can I give to others?’ in order to be like Jesus, who was born in the manger.”

The street person represented for the young minister all that was inconvenient, unsavory and frustrating about those living on the margins, the peripheries of society. He could have continued to be cynical, condescending and judgmental, but he realized that that would put him among the “learned and the clever” who would not enter the Kingdom of God. And he chose, in the end, to get off his high horse and look for the man who needed him. In our tradition Mary stands for a lot of things and she has many titles. Today I want to honor her role in the Christmas story by remembering that she is the mother of the poor—the Mother of those who live where God likes to be found. Mary can teach us how to let go of our prejudices, our racism, our judgmentalism and our arrogance, as we celebrate the birth of Jesus, who made us all brothers and sisters—with each other, and especially with the poor.

Homily for December 13, 2020

Mon, 14 Dec 2020 10:32:00 GMT

Homily for the Third Sunday of Advent

December 13, 2020

Many years ago an episode of Little House on the Prairie took us to the excitement of school children making homemade Christmas gifts for their parents. Because they have been well behaved, and because a serious winter storm is threatening, they are dismissed early. Now, many of these children have to walk a long way, and during their walk the storm turns into a raging blizzard, so that they can hardly see where they are going. When the parents arrive at the school, looking for their children, they learn that they will have to form search parties to find the children. During the search, many are overcome by exhaustion and frostbite. The children are found, but one man dies, having lost the strength to go on. The shadow of suffering and death casts a shadow over the gathering, and many find it difficult to rejoice when one of the families is no longer whole because a husband and father is missing. Charles Ingalls, played by Michael Landon, takes up a Bible, and with tears in his eyes, begins to read:

2 And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.

² (And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)

³ And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.

⁴ And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David :)

⁵ To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.

⁶ And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.

⁷ And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

The people in that schoolhouse, carrying the burden of pain and loss, turned to their founding story—not, in this instance, the Declaration of Independence or the Constitution, but the Bible, and its ancient, immediately familiar account of the birth of Jesus. As many times as they had heard it, the story never grew tiring or old. It was the story that on that dark, difficult Christmas day, gave them hope and comfort.

Today we celebrate what was known in former times by the Latin title, Gaudete Sunday. Gaudete is a plural command, intended for all the people: rejoice! We have heard in our first reading: “I rejoice heartily in the Lord, in my God is the joy of my soul.” And in our second reading Paul advises: “Rejoice always. Pray without ceasing. In all circumstances give thanks, for this is the will of God for you in Christ Jesus.”

There is a difference between the words “joy” and “happiness”. Happiness can be described as an emotion, a response to the feelings of the moment: contentment, good luck, prosperity or good fortune. Joy is more properly related to a state of one’s being, a deeper sense that all is well beneath the changing ups and downs of happiness. For us as Christians, joy can be experienced as a deep appreciation of the death and resurrection of Jesus, and the promise of eternal life underneath any of our feelings of the moment.

In a recent book entitled “Let Us Dream,” Pope Francis says this about our current situation: “Today our peoples lack joy: there is a sadness that no pleasure or distraction can relieve. As long as one part of humanity is suffering the most abject misery, how can any of us be joyful? But at the same time we see an awakening, a call for change, a sense that what has been is not all there is to come. The joy of the Lord is their strength, but they know they have a road to go before they can eat, drink, and rejoice in the new way of living” (page 45). The joy of the Lord is our strength that can keep us from becoming paralyzed by fear and sadness!

Pope Francis further analyzes our problem by stating, “If you were to ask me what is one of the ways Christianity has gone astray, I would not hesitate: it is to forget that we belong to a people” (page 106).

The pandemic we are in has revealed that we are in this together, that no one saves himself or herself. We need others to minister to the sick, provide needed services, offer comfort and support, organize a response, tell us how to keep safe, do research, and develop and then distribute a vaccine.

The scene from Little House on the Prairie shows clearly how much that little community needed each other in a crisis. It also reminds us of how an ultimate joy can be found, even in the midst of a crisis: hearing our story of the birth of Jesus gives us the joy of knowing that we are a part of God’s people. Our role is played out in serving, in being there for each other’s joys and sorrows, in reminding each other the reason for hope in a time of despair, the reason to hold onto the light in a time of darkness.

To say, “I have spirituality, I don’t need the church”—that tosses out the joy of belonging to a people. The Christmas story is not a private possession; it is good news to be shared, a story to be told, a story to be acted out by children when you don’t have to stay six feet apart, a story that leads to service, forgiveness, the overcoming of barriers, a story that brings joy and hope even in a time of pandemic.

This year we have the opportunity to experience Christmas at a deeper level than ever before. The birth of Jesus means that our God has come to save us—to save us all, as a people, as brothers and sisters, as one human family with one God and Father. And so, let us dig deep into the heart of our faith, and rejoice that our God comes to save us!

Homily for December 6, 2020

Mon, 07 Dec 2020 10:36:00 GMT

Homily for the Second Sunday of Advent

December 6, 2020

I found a paragraph that really spoke to me about the situation we find ourselves in:

We’ve just completed a difficult year. Twelve months ago, as we approached the familiar stories and scriptures of Advent and Christmas, life was “normal.” We moved about as we wished; we prepared for Christmas; we went to movies; we attended concerts; kids went to school; we bought what we wanted; we went out to restaurants; we visited friends and friends visited us; we assembled in groups larger than 10; we went shopping; we went to church; we went to work and received paychecks; we did all these things and a thousand more ... all without a second thought.

A few months later, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, our lives were turned upside down. You know what happened next because it happened to all of us. The entire world was suddenly different than any of us had ever experienced. Everything about life was affected: families, school, work, shopping, health care, eating, travel for work and travel for fun, finances, exercise ... every aspect of our lives was affected in one way or another.

So today, when we hear the ancient words, “Comfort, give comfort to my people, says your God,” our ears might strain to hear more. We wonder, is there comfort for us? These words of Isaiah were spoken during a particularly difficult time, when Babylonia had conquered the Jewish people and forced them into exile away from their homeland and out into other parts of the Babylonian empire. We’ve endured our pandemic for eight to nine months, but the Israelites were forced to live in exile for seventy years. So, you can imagine how they felt when the prophet Isaiah says, “Comfort, give comfort to my people, says your God….Like a shepherd he feeds his flock; in his arms he gathers the lambs, carrying them in his bosom and leading the ewes with care”—leading them safely home after the time of national suffering and upheaval.

In our time of global sickness, economic hardship, and social unrest, we are in dire need of comfort. In addition to our physical and social problems, many are also having psychological problems. The rate of suicide has gone up. There is more domestic violence. Many are living recklessly, without any sense of responsibility, endangering themselves and others by not listening to the scientists and medical authorities. Many feel like they’re at the end of their rope.

Let me share a story…. It’s a story about an oilman who started to drill a new well on his land. In oil jargon, the drilling pipe is called a “rope.” After drilling a deep hole, there was no oil to be found. The owner decided that it was a dead hole, and told the crew boss to cap the well. He would write it off as a complete loss. Meanwhile, the foreman called to the driller and asked how much “rope” was left on the rig. “About six to eight feet,” replied the driller. “Then keep on drilling deeper,” shouted the foreman. After drilling only two feet more, the well struck oil, and was one of the most productive wells in the entire oil field.

We can learn a lot about life from the drilling of an oil well; while there is still rope, there is still room for hope. In our case, there is a vaccine on the horizon. Masks, sanitizing products, and soap and water are available. We know what “six feet apart” looks like.

For many years now, I have believed that we here at Our Lady of Peace have a unique mission of dispensing hope. We do what we can to feed the hungry. We respond with incredible generosity to those who are struggling to make Christmas special and meaningful for their families (over $3,000 contributed to Adopt a Family, and counting!). And when people feel that no one cares and no one listens, somehow they instinctively know that they can come to Our Lady of Peace, ring our doorbell, and receive the help they need to keep going. “Comfort, give comfort to my people, says your God.” That’s not just God’s job. That’s our job, our mission—now more than ever.

It’s our job to check on each other, to call each other, to offer a listening ear and a helping hand, so that no one feels that he or she is in this all alone. It’s our job to dig deeper within ourselves, believing that we’re not at the end of our rope, because with God there is always more rope—and more hope. And then we can reach out to others and remind them of this truth that we have discovered. With God, there is always reason to hope:

“Like a shepherd he feeds his flock

and gathers the lambs in his arms,

holding them carefully close to his heart,

leading them home.”

Comfort, give comfort to my people, says your God.

Homily for November 22, 2020

Mon, 23 Nov 2020 10:07:00 GMT

Thy kingdom come…but how?

Homily for the Solemnity of Jesus Christ the King

November 22, 2020

Do you remember, when Jesus was asked which of all God’s commandments was the greatest, he gave two? First, to love God with all your heart, all your mind, and all your strength; and second, to love your neighbor as yourself. Here’s an interesting question: what if you are in a situation in which you cannot do both; what do you do then? Let me share a story to illustrate…

An old monk prayed many years for a vision from God to strengthen his faith, but it never came. He had almost given up hope when, one day, a vision appeared. The old monk was overjoyed. But then, right in the middle of the vision, the monastery bell rang. The ringing of the bell meant that it was time to feed the poor who gathered daily at the monastery gate. And it was the monk’s turn to feed them. If he failed to show up with food, the poor people would leave quietly, thinking the monastery had nothing to give them that day.

The old monk was torn between his earthly duties and his heavenly vision. However, before the bell stopped tolling, the monk had made his decision. With a heavy heart, he turned his back on the vision and went off to feed the poor. Nearly an hour later, the old monk returned to his room. When he opened the door, he could hardly believe his eyes. There in the room was the vision, waiting for him. As the monk dropped to his knees in thanksgiving, the vision said to him, “My son, had you not gone off to feed the poor, I would not have stayed.”

Interesting, isn’t it? You might think, logically, that rule number one is God, so you have to put God first. But this story seems to contradict that. When you think about it, however, the story shows that one of the best ways to love God is through others !

But we all know that can be hard to do, especially if you’re having a bad day. In the cartoon strip Peanuts, I always liked Linus who had an idealism about him, a kind of pure honesty. Remember, he believed that each year on Halloween if you waited in the pumpkin patch, and were very sincere, and truly believed, the Great Pumpkin would appear. One of Linus’s lines has always stayed with me… Once he got upset about something, maybe he was angry at his older, crabby, bossy sister, Lucy… Linus says, “I love mankind…it’s people I can’t stand!!”

It seems to me that Linus, even at his young age, realized that what the Lord asks us to do can be hard. We can feed the hungry, but they can take advantage of us and be ungrateful for all we do to them. We can give drink to the thirsty, but they might drool on us or contaminate our drinking glass. We can give someone some clothes we no longer need, but they can then try to sell the clothes so they can buy beer or cigarettes.

Several years ago, at a morning Mass, Pope Francis commented that faithful Christians are called to get their hands dirty, just as Jesus did. He recalled, for example, how Jesus, without shying away, touched and healed lepers. According to the religious leaders of the day, lepers were considered “impure”, and it was wrong, by law, to come anywhere near them. So leprosy was considered a kind of death sentence.

But here’s the point that Pope Francis was making: how many people were watching from afar and did not understand nor care. Some, he said, watched with bad hearts, ready to put Jesus to the test, to criticize and condemn him. Others watched from a distance because they lacked courage. But Jesus touching the marginalized demonstrated how God cares for each and every person, and thus, how we as Jesus’ followers are called to love.

So, I think Linus in the comic strip had a good insight. It is easy to love humanity, and often, far more difficult to love people. Linus clearly loved God and often quoted the Bible. But loving his mean, crabby sister, the know-it-all who made life miserable for others—that was a much bigger challenge.

There’s one further point I want to make about today’s gospel. Jesus teaches that we can love God through others, by showing God-like love and compassion to others. But there’s more. Jesus also teaches that we can love God in others: I was hungry, I was thirsty, I was naked, I was lonely. One of the privileged ways of encountering Jesus himself is by encountering him in those who are being crucified through poverty, injustice, contempt, abuse and neglect. The crucifix, so central in our church, is alive and well, right down to our day. In the poor and forgotten, in those who are robbed of peace and justice, in those who seldom hear a word of kindness or experience a deed of compassion, love is still being crucified. Love still waits to be served. How can love incarnate not care about the unloved? How can we, who are commanded to love, ignore love’s need? When we honor the cross, when we embrace the unlovable, that is when life conquers death, that is when love triumphs, that is when Jesus is King, that is when the kingdom comes, when God’s will is done on earth as it is in heaven.

Homily for November 15, 2020

Mon, 16 Nov 2020 10:01:00 GMT

Homily for the Thirty-Third Sunday in Ordinary Time

November 15, 2020

The story is told of a king who ruled his people wisely and well. He was loved by all the people in his kingdom. One day the king called in his four daughters and told them that he was going on a long journey, and that he was leaving them in charge during his absence. The daughters felt overwhelmed and thought they could never rule as well as their father. The king then told his daughters that he was going to give each of them a gift, and he hoped that the gift would teach them how to rule. The king put a single grain of rice in each daughter’s hand, and then left on his journey.

Several years later the king returned to find out what each daughter had done with her gift. The oldest daughter ran to her bedroom and brought back a crystal box in which she had kept the grain of rice with a golden thread tied around it. The second daughter presented a wooden box, explaining that, all these years, she had kept her grain of rice in the box, safely under her bed. The third daughter raced to the kitchen, found a grain of rice, and presented it to her father. Finally, the youngest daughter approached and said that she did not have the grain of rice her father had given her. When asked what she had done with it, she explained that she thought about the grain of rice for nearly a year before she discovered the meaning of the gift. She realized that the grain of rice was a seed, and so she planted it in the ground. Soon it grew, and from it she harvested other seeds and planted them. She said, “Father, I’ve continued to do this. Come outside, look at the results.” The king followed his daughter outside where he looked at an enormous crop of rice stretching as far as the eye could see. There was enough rice to feed the entire nation. The king exclaimed that this daughter had learned the meaning of how to rule, and placed his golden crown on her head. From that day on, the youngest daughter ruled the kingdom—wisely and well.

It’s interesting to compare this story to the one Jesus tells in today’s gospel. In both there is an expectation that the individuals would do something with the gifts they received. The three eldest daughters basically do little or nothing with their grains of rice—just like the one who does nothing with the talent he receives. The key difference is the contrast between the youngest daughter and the person who receives the single talent. In one case, a single grain of rice, put to use wisely, makes the daughter a queen. In the other case, the person who buries his talent is condemned. Why the difference?

I was thinking about the gifts in our society in this time of the Covid-19 pandemic. There are some people who have been particularly blessed who are able to keep themselves relatively safe. Using modern technology, they are able to work from home and be pretty much as productive as they had been in their place of employment. Other highly gifted people, including doctors, nurses and others in the medical profession have been called to use their gifts on the front lines of the pandemic. Many others, including workers in meat processing and other food preparation facilities, pharmacists, those who work in supermarkets, those involved in making deliveries, teachers and school personnel, have had to use their gifts in a way that often exposes them to the virus. The pandemic has revealed that, often, those who are disproportionately affected are those who live in poorer, more congested neighborhoods, those with less income, those without health insurance, people of color, and the homeless.

And so, we have neighbors who are using their gifts during this dangerous time in heroic ways. We have neighbors who work at jobs that are considered essential, and so they have little choice but to use their gifts if they wish to provide for themselves and their families. And we have neighbors who are most vulnerable, most unfortunate and least lucky, often because of their race, their location or their socio-economic status. The pandemic simply makes more evident what was there all along.

So, what are we called to do, as Christians, and as compassionate human beings? During this difficult time, especially with the pandemic, and with the holidays approaching, we are not being asked to take our grain of rice, put a pretty ribbon around it, and keep it safely hidden in a crystal box. We are not called to take our talents and simply bury them in the ground because we are afraid—afraid that there might not be enough for “them” and for “us”. If the wise use of our God-given talents has ever been required, it is now! There are countless opportunities to help the weak and the vulnerable, the poor and the forgotten, the sick and the homeless. There are countless opportunities to plant whatever seeds we have been given, to invest the gifts of compassion, mercy and justice. In one respect the corona virus makes no distinctions; anybody can get sick, anybody can infect another, anybody can either make things better or worse. But we cannot hide, think only of ourselves, and bury our gifts and resources in the ground. We’re better than that.

Homily for November 8, 2020

Mon, 09 Nov 2020 13:02:00 GMT

Homily for the Thirty-Second Sunday in Ordinary Time

November 8, 2020

In Jesus’ day it was a wedding custom for the bridegroom to go to the bride’s house in the evening. When it was announced that the bridegroom was coming, it was the job of the bridesmaids to go out with torches lit to welcome the groom into the house, where the celebration would then begin. Jesus uses the story to illustrate the need for preparedness while we wait for his return.

Obviously, our wedding customs today are different, and we normally don’t use torches that require oil. So, how do we maintain our readiness in an ongoing way? I’d like to reflect on that, focusing not on torches, but on the light itself. After all, Jesus taught that we are “the light of the world.”

Let me begin with a favorite story…. A man built a very prosperous business, and when he was getting on in years, he realized that he had no children to inherit what he had created. So he called in three nephews, deciding to test their creativity and problem-solving skills. He gave each of them an equal amount of money, instructing them to buy something that would fill his rather large office, and he directed that they had to be back by sunset.

All day long each nephew worked separately to fulfill his uncle’s wishes. Finally, when the shadows lengthened, they returned to give their report. The first nephew dragged in huge sacks of Styrofoam packing “peanuts” that nearly filled the office when the sacks were empty. After that was cleaned up, the second nephew arrived with bundles and bundles of helium-filled balloons that floated throughout the office, filling it better than the Styrofoam peanuts.

The third nephew stood silent and forlorn. His uncle inquired of him, “So what have you to offer?” “Uncle,” the nephew replied, “I spent half of my money to help a family whose house burned down last night. Then I ran into some kids in trouble and gave most of the rest to an inner-city youth center. With the little bit I had left, I bought this candle and some matches.” Then he lit the candle and its glowing light filled every corner of the room! The kindly old uncle then realized that here was the noblest of his family. He blessed the nephew for making the best use of his gift and welcomed him into his business.

The beauty of the story is that while it technically fulfills the uncle’s challenge, the candle’s light is, in a deeper sense, symbolic of the true light that the young man brought into the world. It was his kindheartedness and compassion that made him sensitive to the needs of the family with the fire and the youth who were getting into trouble. And rather than thinking only of lighting up his own life and securing his future, he was more concerned about the more desperate needs of others. He had a conscience, an interior readiness to be there for others when they needed help. He truly was light for the world, even without fully appreciating the full significance of the fact that, by thinking of other peoples’ needs ahead of his own, he was securing his future.

So, I don’t think Jesus is saying that we should dash out and buy oil for our lamps—or anything else, for that matter. He taught he could be found among those who were down and out: “I was hungry and you gave me food; I was thirsty and you gave me drink; I was naked and you clothed me”…and so on. By taking advantage in an ongoing way of the opportunities to make a difference, and to bring hope to others—that’s how we make sure we have enough oil to keep the light glowing.

I think this is particularly important during this increasingly difficult and anxiety-producing time of Covid-19, economic hardship, social division and personal upheaval. We don’t have the power to solve everything, but we have the ability to do something, to make a difference, one person at a time.

Consider what that might look like for you. Do you know anyone who is isolated or lonely? Someone facing serious illness or surgery? Someone facing a food shortage or coming up short with their rent or other bills? Someone who could benefit from a cheerful voice? All we have to do is what the third nephew did in the story: put someone else’s needs ahead of our own. Spread the light, and we’ll always be ready for the Master’s return.

Homily for November 2, 2020

Mon, 02 Nov 2020 12:35:00 GMT

Homily for All Souls Day

November 2, 2020

When I met with the Confirmation class for their rehearsal, I pointed out to them that, in Hebrew, the same word is used for both breath and spirit (Confirmation being associated with the Holy Spirit). I shared with them the ancient account of the creation of the human person, an account we find at the beginning of the Bible. The story is based on very ancient, common-sense observation: when a person is breathing, there is life; when there is no more breathing, the person is dead. And so the story reminds us that for us human beings there is an earthly part, sharing in the limitations of the earth (represented by the human “form” made from the clay of the ground). But there is also a divine aspect to our being, indicated by the fact that God breathes into the human form, and that is the divine action that brings life. God breathes life into us, we are created by God’s Spirit/Breath. What this means, I told those about to be confirmed, is that God wants to be, and in fact is, as close to us, as every breath we take.

During this horrible year of the pandemic, we’ve had a lot to deal with, a lot to process; and so, many of us feel overwhelmed and emotionally exhausted. In addition to Covid-19, on May 25 ^th of this year George Floyd had the knee of a police officer on his neck for eight minutes and forty-six seconds. A video that went viral brought about massive protests and demonstrations. This incident in Minneapolis brought back memories of another incident, on July 17, 2014, when in New York City Eric Garner was put in a chokehold, bringing him to repeatedly say, “I can’t breathe.” The life breath left Eric Garner and George Floyd, and they were no more.

One of the frightening aspects of the Covid-19 pandemic is that in serious cases those affected cannot breathe, and many are forced to be put on ventilators. In addition, because of the highly contagious nature of the disease, those taken to hospitals face incredible loneliness, many dying without their family at their side.

Those who have studied crucifixion, the method used by the Romans to execute Jesus, make the point that, ultimately, when a person becomes too weak to hold themselves up, the weight of the body causes suffocation, much like a chokehold, a knee on the neck, or the coronavirus pandemic.

In the story of Jesus’ crucifixion in the gospel of John, we read that Jesus “bowed his head and delivered over his spirit” (John 19:30). Here we find the double meaning of the ancient Hebrew word: in dying Jesus took his last breath , and gave the Holy Spirit. In that divine breath, that gift of the Holy Spirit, God is as close to us as every breath we take!

On this All Souls Day, when we commemorate and pray for our loved ones, the faithful departed, we do so in this unique year of the pandemic—a sickness that has affected people of every age, of every nation, and of all faiths. At the same time, it has revealed the disparities that exist in our society—disparities of race, of wealth, of social status. But as we do each year, we gather to pray, to be there for those who have lost loved ones, and to have our faith and hope rekindled.

We remember that on the cross Jesus could not breathe. We remember that except for a very courageous few, he was practically alone, for many who loved him either could not or would not be with him. We remember that he was a victim of injustice—the injustice of race, and culture, and social status.

And so, on this All Souls Day, we place all those who could not breathe into the loving embrace of the One who handed over his Spirit and loved us all to his very last breath. On this All Souls Day, we place those who died without family or friends into the loving arms of the One who knew what it felt like to be apart from those for whom he gave so much. On this unique All Souls Day we place all our beloved dead into the arms of the One whose life breath is eternal, whose Spirit brings life out of death, and whose embrace welcomes our departed loved ones into his heavenly kingdom. And we pray, “Dear Jesus, may they know the joy of seeing your face, and the warmth of your loving embrace, now and forever.”

Homily for October 25, 2020

Tue, 27 Oct 2020 13:50:00 GMT

Homily for the Thirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time

October 25, 2020

One day a pastor was walking along a country road with an old-time friend. As they strolled through the farmland, the pastor noticed a barn with a weather vane perched on its roof. At the top of the vane were the words: God is love. The pastor remarked to the friend that he thought this was a rather inappropriate place for such a message. “Weather vanes change with the wind,” he said, “but God’s love is constant.”

The friend walked along a little farther before he replied, “I don’t agree with you about those words. You misunderstand the meaning. The weather vane is indicating a truth: regardless of which way the wind blows, God is love, and such love is constant.”

In our language we have the phrase “fair weather friend”—referring to a person who stops being a friend in times of trouble or difficulty. We know from the gospels that Jesus had friends like that. In times of danger, Peter denied even knowing Jesus three times. Judas, of course, was initially attracted to Jesus and his teaching, but he chose to betray him to the authorities.

There’s a cute story about the Apostles and their reactions after Jesus proclaimed the beatitudes in the Sermon on the Mount. According to the story, Peter spoke up and said, “Do we have to write this stuff down?” Andrew asked, “Are we supposed to remember this?” James piped in, “Will we be tested on this?” Philip asked, “What if we don’t understand it?” Bartholomew inquired, “Is this an assignment to turn in?” John said, “The other disciples didn’t have to learn all this.” Matthew said, “When do we get off this mountain?” And Judas questioned, “What does this have to do with real life anyway?” Then one of the Pharisees asked to see Jesus’ lessons plans. And Jesus wept! It is significant that, of all the Apostles, only one was brave enough to stand at the foot of the cross in the time of Jesus’ greatest need.

What Jesus intended, of course, is that what he taught should be lived, and to add emphasis to his teaching, he lived it himself. His love was constant. When Peter asked him how often we are to forgive, Jesus gave the famous answer, “Not seven times, but seventy times seven times”—in other words, constantly. Later, as he hung upon the cross, Jesus himself prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” After the Resurrection, when Jesus met with the Apostles, he didn’t kick them out of office. In the case of Peter, he asked if Peter loved him; then to express his love and forgiveness for Peter’s failures, Jesus gave him the keys to the Kingdom. Even when the others faltered, Jesus’ love was constant. He was not a fair weather friend.

One of the intriguing aspects of today’s gospel passage is that, when Jesus is asked what the greatest commandment is, he responds with two. Because love is constant, intended for everyone and everywhere, the two commandments have to be understood together. This is commented on and clearly spelled out in the first Letter of John 4:20-21. “If anyone says, ‘My love is fixed on God,’ yet hates his brother [or sister], he is a liar. One who has no love for the brother he has seen cannot love the God he has not seen. The commandment we have from him is this: whoever loves God must also love his brother or sister.”

Earlier in the same chapter John writes, “Beloved, let us love one another because love is of God; everyone who loves is begotten of God and has knowledge of God. The person without love has known nothing of God, for God is love” (1 John 4:7-8). Again, love is constant. Genuine love is constant like God’s love, both in heaven and on earth. Even when we sin, God doesn’t hate us. Like the father of the prodigal son, he scans the horizon, hoping that we will return to his outstretched, loving arms, for God is love. Hopefully, like the prodigal son, we will have discovered that love is the only way that satisfies, that brings joy, that makes life worth living.

In today’s gospel Jesus teaches that everything—the Ten Commandments, the Beatitudes, the sermons, the stories, the ancient laws, the words of the prophets, the prayers of the Psalms—everything rests on love. Each time we fail to love, each time we choose to sin, each time we prefer to hate, each time we refuse to forgive—we are not in tune with God or the universe God has created. It was all meant for love from the very beginning. And no matter what else changes, God’s love will not, for God is no fair weather friend.

Homily for October 18, 2020

Mon, 19 Oct 2020 10:37:00 GMT

In 1961 the novel, Catch 22 , was published, and in 1970 it was made into a movie. Let me share with you what the author meant by a Catch 22 situation. The novel takes place during World War II, and a man named Yossarian is a bomber pilot. A pilot has to fly a given number of missions, and then he is allowed to go home. However, each time the bomber would reach the magic number, he would be foiled by Colonel Cathcart, who would retroactively raise the number. So the pilot was caught in what the author famously called a “Catch 22” situation—an unwinnable situation.

This is what Jesus’ opponents try to do in today’s gospel reading, setting up a question that they believe is unwinnable, a Catch 22 question, like “Tell me, Sir, have you stopped beating your wife?” Think about that: you lose simply by answering. The problem for Jesus was that if he said it was lawful to pay the tax, he would lose many of his supporters, who considered the occupation by the Romans unlawful. On the other hand, if he said that the tax should not be paid, then he could be arrested for breaking the law and inciting a riot.

Jesus’ answer, then, is ingenious; he provides an answer without getting trapped…but he also makes people think. I believe we all know what our obligations to Caesar are. I believe, for example, that most of us are honest, and that we pay our share of taxes. We may not like it, but we give to Caesar what is Caesar’s.

But what about the other half of Jesus’ answer, the part that should make us think. What does it mean to give to God what is God’s. One answer can be found in a concise verse of Scripture that we find in the Old Testament prophet Micah 6:8—“You have been told, O man, what is good and what the Lord requires of you: Only to do the right and to love goodness, and to walk humbly with your God.”

In order to flesh this out a bit, let me share two stories. The first is about Martin Luther King, Jr., who during a speech in 1967, provided one way of discerning what is right and good. Dr. King said, “Cowardice askes the question, ‘Is it safe?’ Expediency askes the question, ‘Is it politic?’ Vanity asks the question, ‘Is it popular?’ But conscience asks the question, ‘Is it right?’”

A second story is one I think of when it comes to humility. It will probably be different for you, but for me it presents a powerful lesson. After a large dinner at one of Hollywood’s stately mansions, a famous actor entertained his guests with stunning readings of Shakespeare. Then, as an encore, he offered to accept a request. A shy, older priest asked if he knew Psalm 23. The actor said, “Yes, I do and I will give it on one condition: that when I am finished you recite the same psalm.”

The priest was quite embarrassed, but consented. The actor then did a beautiful rendition: “The Lord is my Shepherd, there is nothing I shall want…” The guests applauded loudly when the actor finished, and then it was the priest’s turn. He got up and said the same words, but this time there was no applause, just a hushed silence and the beginnings of a tear in several eyes.

The actor savored the silence for a few moments and then stood up. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, I hope you realize what happened here tonight. I knew the words to the psalm, but this priest knows the Shepherd.” It took great humility for the actor to say what he did, and it speaks to my heart as a priest.

May we all learn to give to God what is God’s: Only to do the right and to love goodness, and to walk humbly with your God.

Homily for October 11, 2020

Wed, 14 Oct 2020 13:49:00 GMT

Homily for the Twenty-Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time

October 11, 2020

In today’s Gospel reading Jesus tells a story about a King who gives a wedding banquet in honor of his son. Unfortunately, some refuse to come, while others have excuses that, basically they’re too busy. But those on the margins of life, those left out or forgotten, hear the message, and experience God’s love, healing and justice. The wedding banquet is realized in our presence today through the Eucharist and serves as a foretaste of our ultimate, everlasting joy in heaven, where there will be no more sorrow, tears, pain or death.

I want to share a story to help us understand today’s gospel. It’s a story about a town with four neighborhoods.

Homily October 4, 2020

Mon, 05 Oct 2020 11:02:00 GMT

Homily for the Twenty-Seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time

October 4, 2020

Many years ago, during my seminary days, I visited one of the most magnificent churches I’ve ever seen: Chartres, which is about an hour train ride outside of Paris. Our guide told a story that I have never forgotten.

As the church was being built in the late 1100’s and early 1200’s, a visitor came to the site. He asked one of the workers what he was doing. He replied that he was involved in the grueling and exacting work of cutting stones so that they would fit exactly in the place where they were needed, high overhead.

The visitor went to another worker and asked what he was doing. The second worker said that he was putting together the chemical mixtures that would make the different colors of stained glass, and then cutting them, fitting them together, and using lead to keep them in place—to create some of the most beautiful stained glass windows in the world.

Finally, he came upon a woman who was sweeping one of the work areas with a rather primitive broom. And so, he asked her what she was doing. She replied, “Why, I’m building a cathedral!”

In our gospel reading Jesus uses the ancient imagery, found in our first reading (Isaiah), of a vineyard to describe the people of Israel. And the point of the story is that it is God who is doing the work of creating a people, a community. God is the creator who furnishes all the raw materials and blesses every aspect of the endeavor. And now, it is Jesus who is the creator of the new community of disciples, the Church. St. Paul spells this out in his letter to the Romans. With Jesus as our Head, we are the Body of Christ—each of us having a different role to play, much as the head, the hand and the foot provide different services for the body. It is Jesus who calls us together, distributes a variety of talents, gifts and ministries, and gives us the task of proclaiming the good news that we are loved and forgiven, and working for a world that is more merciful and just.

All of this is captured in the beautiful nineteenth-century hymn, The Church’s One Foundation :

The Church’s one foundation is Jesus Christ her lord; She is his new creation by water and the word; From heaven he came and sought her to be his holy bride; With his own blood he bought her, And for her sake he died.

For the last several weeks, I have been speaking about the division in our nation, in our world, and in our Church. I think we’ve forgotten who we are. We’re building one community in which everyone belongs, everyone’s dignity is protected, and the weak and most vulnerable are taken care of. As Christians, we’re building a Cathedral! As Americans, we’re building a beautiful, hopeful, compassionate and caring nation that should serve as a shining example to the oppressed of the world of what’s possible when we work together. And as human beings, we’re building up the human race, since Jesus taught us that we have one God, to whom we pray as Our Father , and that we, therefore, are one human family, one human race. That’s the crop that God is looking for! But I’m afraid that, lately, we’ve been producing a lot of wild grapes, hardly worthy of God’s creation, God’s vineyard, God’s kingdom, God’s Church.

We’re not just putting together the stones of a building. We’re not just creating pretty stained glass windows. Together, we are working—even if our task is as simple as sweeping the floor—together, we are building a Cathedral!

Homily September 20, 2020

Mon, 21 Sep 2020 09:36:00 GMT

Homily for the Twenty-Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time

September 20, 2020

The stories Jesus told were often comforting. At other times, they were challenging—forcing people to make some sort of decision or to look at some aspect of their lives in a new way. I must say that, of any of the stories Jesus told, this one has been the most difficult for me. And it is personal: I have experienced precisely this, what goes against a basic and profound sense of justice. At one of my summer jobs, I was put on an hourly rate. A friend of mine, because he had connections, was put on salary. That meant if the weather was bad and conditions did not allow other workers to come in, I still had to show up and do something else, while my friend could stay at home and still get paid! It just didn’t seem fair. And so it is with Jesus’ story: those who work only an hour get a full day’s pay, just like those who were there for the full day. And in the story they voice their complaint: “These last ones worked only one hour, and you have made them equal to us, who bore the day’s burden and the heat.”

Recently, I have started to make some sense of this story. Those who worked all day wanted everything to be based on strict justice. That is a good principle if you’re talking about labor and how employees are treated. But what if the story points to something else, something much deeper? What if the employer in the story stands for God, and we are the workers who will one day have to stand before him and give an accounting for our lives? Do we want the judgment to be based on a system of strict justice? Are we so sure about our character and conduct that we could pass any test whatever? Sounds pretty scary to me. After all, there are times when I haven’t listened to God, haven’t kept every commandment, haven’t pulled my weight. It is that awareness that makes me prefer a God who is compassionate and merciful, who realizes that we are frail, that we make mistakes, that like St. Paul, we know what we should do but at times don’t do it, and we know what we should not do, but at times we do it anyway! So I don’t want God to be a harsh judge who goes by the books. And thank God that Jesus is teaching in this story that God is compassionate and merciful, lavish in his generosity. The owner in the story asks the complainers: are you envious because I am generous? I think they would want God to be generous to them, but not to the losers of society, those at the bottom who rarely work, who rely on handouts. After all, they complain: “you have made them equal to us!”—the upright, the good people who have worked for everything we have. We keep your commandments, God: we’re your kind of people! We’re religious! You can’t be serious: making them equal to us!

Well, surprise, surprise! This is exactly what Jesus is doing. He’s not encouraging people to sin, that’s not it. But instead of putting people down and counting them out, as those religious leaders were doing, Jesus wants to lift them up and bring them in. And he’s saying to the upright: I’m not tossing you out. At the end of the day, you’re getting your pay; you’ll get your reward for all your hard work and dedication. But in my kingdom we’re not about tossing anybody aside, we’re not about labeling anybody a “loser”, we’re not considering anyone beyond redemption. We’re loving everybody, and especially the ones who need love the most. And by the way, everybody has one Father in heaven. That means they are your brothers and sisters, too.

Pope Francis has made one of the hallmarks of his papacy a crusade against what he describes as a “throwaway culture”. We live in a world where everything is seen as disposable, replaceable or temporary. We’re running out of places to put the junk we throw away. Dumps are full, so we’re floating trash out into the ocean. And we sometimes think of people as disposable, too. So Pope Francis asks us to go against this throwaway culture that wants more, more, more—bigger, better, faster, flashier—and to favor a sense of solidarity, of oneness, of protecting creation and our brothers and sisters, especially those who are weak, elderly and vulnerable. And Jesus even goes so far as to say, if you want to find me, go and encounter them: “For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, in prison and you came to visit me” (see Matthew 25:31-46). Yes, I am making them equal to you, and what’s more, I’m making them your ticket to heaven.

So the story about the workers in the vineyard is indeed about something much more than labor. Through this story, Jesus is proclaiming that, with God, there is a different economy at work, a different idea of what matters. It’s not about the bottom line. Instead, it’s about not forgetting, abandoning or despising the people at the bottom. It’s about not feeling superior if we happen to be fortunate. And if it’s about justice, it is a justice that is based on and fulfilled in showing compassion and mercy, on our part, and on God’s. And unless we want to take a chance on pure justice as the basis for our judgment, we need to start showing compassion and mercy to those who are left out and shut out. It’s only fair.

Homily for September 13,2020

Mon, 14 Sep 2020 10:49:00 GMT

Homily for the Twenty-Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time

September 13, 2020

One of my favorite religious stories is about the great preacher Reverend Norman Vincent Peale. After a morning service one Sunday, a lady came up to him and said, “I listened to your sermon, but I want to tell you that I itch all over.” The pastor smiled and replied, “I’ve had many results from my sermons, but that’s the most remarkable one I’ve ever had.” The woman went on, “I normally itch a great deal, but I itch worse when I’m in church. I sometimes feel that I should not come to church because I itch so badly.” The pastor became interested in this woman and asked for the name of her doctor and permission to speak to him.

Peale called the doctor, described the situation, and asked, “What’s wrong with her? She says she itches all over.” The doctor replied, “Oh, she’s got eczema.” Peale responded, “But I didn’t see any evidence of a rash.” The doctor replied, “It’s not on her arms. It’s on her insides. She has eczema of the soul.” Pastor Peale said that he had never heard of such a disease. The doctor admitted, “You’ll never find it on a list of diseases.” He went on to explain, “The woman has a virulent, violent, evil hatred of her sister. She feels that her sister defrauded her when they probated the father’s will. She hasn’t spoken to her sister for twenty years now. She is absolutely foul on the inside with her hate.”

When the woman came back to see the pastor, he explained to her what he had learned from the doctor. He suggested that she get down on her knees, surrender her hatred, and lovingly pray for her sister. She was reluctant at first, but finally agreed. Peale then said, “That isn’t enough! Tell Jesus that you love your sister.” Well, a few weeks later, the two sisters walked down the aisle hand in hand, and the woman with spiritual eczema didn’t itch anymore.

I did a little research on this and found that there is a Doctor named Robert Enright who includes forgiveness in his therapy sessions. He is helping women who have been injured in the past, many of them victims of abuse and incest. He set up two groups. One group included women who were receiving forgiveness therapy, and the other receiving more normal therapy without the forgiveness component. He found that the forgiveness therapy group had shown greater improvement in emotional and psychological health than the group that did not receive forgiveness therapy! Other researchers have had similar results. They find that forgiveness is healthy. It doesn’t mean that what the offender did was right, but forgiveness cleans the system of the stress that makes people feel like helpless victims. When we fail to forgive, oftentimes the other person simply goes along merrily with their life, while we continue to carry the poison of hatred and injured feelings inside us—and that takes a toll on our emotional and spiritual health. So, psychologists and researchers advise that forgiveness produces positive results in the person who forgives, whether or not he or she receives any kind of satisfaction or apology.

Jesus adds another dimension to the question of forgiveness. He asks us to imitate our heavenly Father, who has forgiven us, and never tires of forgiving us whenever we ask. Should we not want to imitate the one who knows us best? And, to be honest, there is a kind of selfish aspect to forgiveness: if we fail to forgive someone, can we honestly expect to be forgiven by God? When we ask forgiveness in such a case, we have less of a foundation to stand on.

One of the first stories I remember hearing as a young child was about a duel between the sun and the wind. They both claimed to be stronger than the other. So to prove it, they agreed on a contest. Who could get a coat off a man? The wind tried to dislodge the coat by blowing harder and harder. But it found that the harder it blew, the more the man pulled the coat to himself, only hanging on all the more. When it was the sun’s turn, it smiled a big smile, sending rays of warmth toward the man. As the man heated up, he gladly took the coat off—by himself!

For some time I have been receiving daily reflections from a place in New Mexico called the Center for Action and Contemplation. Recently, there have been items for meditation about justice: what kind of justice will have the most positive impact on people’s lives? The author points out that much of our system of justice is based on retribution—getting even, making a person pay, locking him or her up. He suggests that such a system doesn’t work that well, our jails and prisons get more and more full and, after release, many simply return to a life of violence and crime. There is a better approach called restorative justice, which seeks to heal rather than punish, and to restore dignity and relationships within the community.

The author invites us to take a good look at how Jesus dealt with people. Take Zacchaeus as an example. Jesus doesn’t belittle or yell at him; instead, he goes to his home, shares a meal, and treats him as a friend. The author concludes, “We think fear, anger, divine intimidation, threat and punishment are going to lead people to love. That doesn’t work! You can’t lead people to the highest by teaching them the lowest.” Jesus’ interaction with Zacchaeus the tax collector has a remarkable result. When bathed in Jesus love and forgiveness, the tax collector has a change of heart. There is no retribution; rather, there is restoration—Zacchaeus is restored to those he has harmed, to the larger community, to God, and to the best version of himself.

And so, Jesus invites us, in response to Peter’s question in today’s Gospel, “How often must I forgive my brother?” to practice forgiveness, not as a begrudging act, but as a lifestyle rooted in God. Forgiveness is so important to God that it is modeled for us not only in Jesus’ ministry, but also in his death. Even on the cross Jesus prays, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

We have been reflecting for some time about the divisiveness in our society, particularly in light of the coming election. Once again, I ask you to think about what we can offer, precisely as Christians, to the healing of our society. Today’s readings invite us to consider the power of forgiveness. Rather than getting even or desiring to punish those with whom we disagree, what we really need is healing, reconciliation and the restoration of a sense of community. Certainly those who have done wrong and broken the law will need to atone for what they have done. But that does not mean that we need to continue the cycle of mutual disrespect, suspicion and hate. Real change comes when we respect the God-given dignity of all people, and seek to build bridges of love rather than walls of hate.

Homily September 6, 2020

Tue, 08 Sep 2020 10:47:00 GMT

Homily for the Twenty-Third Sunday in Ordinary Time

September 6, 2020

There’s an old fable about a lion and a tiger. Both thirsty, the animals arrived at the water hole at the same time. They immediately began to argue about which should satisfy its thirst first. The argument became heated. Each one decided it would rather die than give up the privilege of being first to quench its thirst.

Stubbornly they confronted each other, and their emotions turned to rage. However, their vicious attacks on each other were suddenly interrupted. They both looked up toward the sky, and circling overhead was a flock of vultures waiting for the loser to fall. Quietly, the two beasts turned away from each other and withdrew back into the forest. The thought of being devoured was all they needed to end their quarrel.

In today’s gospel reading we find the description of a process of conflict resolution from Jesus himself. It presupposes that for any relationship there has to be some level of trust, respect and harmony, otherwise the relationship will not last. It further presupposes that there is value in the relationship—otherwise, why bother trying to resolve it?

During my final year in the seminary, I was asked to work as an advisor for the English-speaking Marriage Encounter in Europe. On one weekend, there was a couple who had been married for a number of years, but they hit a rough spot, and the relationship was starting to unravel. I asked both if they thought the relationship was worth saving. Both answered yes. I suggested that, at some point during the weekend, the couple find a quiet spot where they could look into their hearts and ask themselves, first of all, why they wanted the relationship to be successful; what was it about the other that they still loved. Then, I suggested that they write about what they were feeling, why they felt hurt, why they were arguing, and what they still loved about the other person despite the arguing—but to write in as loving a manner as they could. Then, they could come back together and with loving eyes and hearts, without any idea of condemnation or getting even, read what the other person wrote. Then, I asked them to speak to each other from their hearts. Fortunately, their love was greater than their disagreements, and they were reconciled.

I look at what is happening in our country in a similar way. If we are honest, I think we have to admit that we are about as divided as we’ve ever been. And it seems that each day more and more fuel is being added to the fire. In today’s paper, one demonstrator states that he believes there is a civil war coming to America. It hasn’t always been this way. My mind goes back to 9/11, that day when we were attacked by a foreign adversary. I will never forget the members of Congress, standing on the steps of the Capitol, singing as with one voice, “God Bless America”.

But today, our politics feels similar to that of the lion and tiger at the watering hole, neither wanting to back down, neither searching for any kind of compromise.

Whenever I preach, I like to apply what I’m saying to myself first. As I take an honest look at my own strong feelings about the political situation, I have to admit that, many times, I have been like the lion and the tiger at the watering hole. I can very easily butt heads by asking a question like, “How can these people be so stupid?” And as I read various columns and letters to the editor in our local newspapers, I see that there are plenty of people doing the same. But asking about the stupidity of people brings more heat than light. Certainly, we can discuss what is happening and what we believe to be right with passion and conviction. But if we do so out of hatred and anger, forgetting that we are, and have long been, neighbors, fellow-citizens, and friends—all sharing the blessings and shouldering the pains and mistakes that are made—we are in danger of destroying our mutual bonds and common humanity. If I believe I am right, and if I share my convictions with passion, it should be, however, because I love you, not because I think you’re stupid or I want to destroy you.

The process Jesus describes in the gospel is based on love, respect and truth. It is a non-violent process that seeks what is good and right. And it leaves open the possibility of a failure to come to an agreement, and a parting of the ways. But it seeks the good of the other, not the destruction. And so, as the debate continues, I believe we can be more productive if we resolve to bring the light of the gospel rather than the heat of our anger or hatred. We desperately need healing. In Jesus’ teaching we find the wisdom to speak the truth in love. This is the contribution we can make to the political debate precisely as Christians.

Finally, let us not forget the ancient story about the lion and the tiger. If we continue to rip each other apart, heedless of the damage being done, there are plenty of vultures, ready to step in, preparing to build a society that would be very different, with values very unlike those we now cherish. Let us pray that we may prefer to live in the light of truth, justice and peace, rather than going down in the flames of anger and hatred.

Homily for August 30, 2020

Mon, 31 Aug 2020 09:43:00 GMT

Homily for the Twenty-Second Sunday in Ordinary Time

August 30, 2020

Many years ago (1959) there was a novel by Muriel Spark called Memento Mori , which tells of a group of friends, all over the age of sixty-five, who one by one receive anonymous phone calls telling them, “Remember, you must die!” (translation of the Latin title). Not a very cheerful greeting, is it?

The novel, partly serious, partly humorous, tells how different individuals come to terms with the telephone message. Though reactions vary, a common reaction is fright. Still, the anonymous caller often causes the characters to think back over their lives and assess how they have lived—about the good they have done, as well as the not-so-good. In a way, the message they receive about death forces them to come to terms with the meaning of the life they have lived. Somehow death leads them back to life.

You may recall that two Christmases ago I was not able to be with you because I had a very serious infection. Right from the start, the doctors let me know that it was very serious, that I might need an operation, and that I might not make it. As in the case of the novel Memento Mori , I was forced to deal with the question of death…and of life. I made two discoveries about myself: one, that (surprisingly) I was not afraid to die; and two, I was able to say two very important things about the life I had lived up to that point: first, that I am loved by both the people in my life and by God; and second, that I had had a reasonably productive and successful life in that I had tried to do all I could to help people, especially those who were hurting or vulnerable.

In today’s gospel Jesus tells the disciples about the future that lies ahead of him: he is going to be rejected, tortured, humiliated, and that he will die. He also says he will rise again, but that’s so far off everybody’s radar that they don’t hear it. What they do hear is that Jesus, the one who has been identified as the Messiah, the long-awaited Savior, the Son of God, is going to die. And Peter, for one, will have none of it. “God forbid,” he says. “God forbid, Jesus, that any such thing will happen to you.” In Peter’s mind, this just doesn’t compute. The Son of God dying? No way! He wants to go back to the way things were before, to the vision and understanding that he had before: a Son of God with all kinds of power, to heal people, to work miracles, to multiply food for huge crowds, maybe eventually lead an army against the Roman Empire…let’s go back to that, Peter is undoubtedly thinking. Let’s go back to the neat, orderly and normal things just as they were before. But Jesus says there’s no going back! There will not be power and glory in any usual sense. Instead, there will be humility and service, the washing of feet, putting other people first, taking care of the needs of the neediest, and even laying down one’s life if love requires it. There’s no going back to the way things always were, the way we did things before. No…we’re moving ahead to a new Kingdom, and a totally new way of life.

In light of this gospel, the words of Pope Francis, teaching the world at his general audience on August 19 ^th , become all the more striking. The Holy Father speaks about the world before and after the corona virus pandemic. “The pandemic has exposed the plight of the poor and the great inequality that reigns in the world. And while the virus does not distinguish between people, it has found, in its devastating path, great inequalities and discrimination. And it has exacerbated them!

“The response to the pandemic is therefore twofold. On the one hand, it is essential to find a cure for this small but terrible virus, which has brought the whole world to its knees. On the other, we must also cure a larger virus, that of social injustice, inequality of opportunity, marginalization, and the lack of protection for the weakest. In this twofold response for healing there is a choice that, according to the Gospel, cannot be lacking: the preferential option for the poor . And this is not a political option; nor is it an ideological option, a party option. The preferential option for the poor is at the center of the Gospel. And the first to do this was Jesus….As he was rich, he made himself poor to enrich us. He made himself one of us and for this reason, at the center of the Gospel, at the center of Jesus’ proclamation, there is this option.

“Christ himself, who is God, despoiled himself, making himself similar to men; and he did not choose a life of privilege, but he chose the condition of a servant. He annihilated himself by making himself a servant. He was born into a humble family and worked as a craftsman. At the beginning of his preaching, he announced that in the Kingdom of God the poor are blessed. He stood among the sick, the poor, the excluded, showing them God’s merciful love….This is why Jesus’ followers can be recognized by their closeness to the poor, the little ones, the sick and the imprisoned, the excluded and the forgotten, those without food and clothing. We can read that famous parameter by which we will all be judged; we will all be judged. It is Matthew, chapter 25. This is a key criterion of Christian authenticity. Some mistakenly think this preferential love for the poor is a task for the few, but in reality it is the mission of the Church as a whole…”

So, no, Peter, there’s no going back to the way things were. No going back to the way it was before the crucifixion. No going back to the way it was before the pandemic. We have to die to all that! We have to die to all that was “normal”—the selfishness, the indifference, the grabbing at power, the injustice, the needless suffering of the poor. If we want to live, we must embrace the new normal.

Homily August 23, 2020

Mon, 24 Aug 2020 10:09:00 GMT

Homily for the Twenty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time

August 23, 2020

An ancient story is told about a Japanese tea master who was a traveling companion of one of the greatest samurai on a journey to a distant city. The samurai was honored not only for his courage and skill but also for his wisdom and understanding. His reputation was held in high esteem, and he was honored even in the distant city.

The tea master was in awe of the samurai, seeing the respect paid him. And so, while the samurai was asleep the tea master snuck into his room, took his armor and put it on. He then went about the city, where the people greatly honored him, and he felt it was possible for him really to be a samurai.

At this time, however, another samurai was living in the region. He had a reputation for being a bully and for being cruel and dangerous. He heard of the wise samurai’s arrival and went out to find him. The cruel samurai quickly found the other samurai, not realizing that it was only the tea master, and challenged him to a duel.

Ashamed and horrified, the tea master returned, took off his armor, woke the sleeping wise samurai and explained what he had done. The wise and understanding samurai forgave the tea master but told him sternly that he would have to meet the challenge. The wise samurai then asked the tea master to prepare a proper tea ceremony while he thought of a way to defeat the cruel samurai. He was deeply moved by the profound skill and attention of the tea master. He then told the tea master that he would face the cruel samurai, not as a samurai, but rather as a tea master.

So the next day at the appointed time the two men met for the challenge. The cruel samurai appeared in his armor, which made him very frightening. The tea master, on the other hand, came dressed in his ceremonial robes, and at once began a tea ceremony. The cruel samurai laughed at the sight, but soon observed the skill, concentration and discipline of the master of the tea ceremony. He thought, “If he prepares a simple tea ceremony with such skill and precision, how great a swordsman he must be!” The cruel samurai, thoroughly scared, prostrated himself on the ground, removed his sword, and begged forgiveness and mercy for his arrogance. The tea master forgave him and quickly left the city. He then thanked the wise samurai for helping him to know and to accept who he was.

Today’s gospel reading has to do with the identity of Jesus and how he was perceived by others, especially his closest followers. When asked who his disciples thought he was, Peter quickly gave the correct answer: “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” Jesus commends Peter for his insight and states that Peter’s knowledge was based on a revelation from heaven. Immediately following this passage, Jesus goes on to reveal that “he must go to Jerusalem and suffer greatly there at the hands of the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and to be put to death, and raised up on the third day.” At this, Peter tries to correct Jesus, saying, “May you be spared, Master! God forbid that any such thing ever happen to you!” Jesus then accuses Peter of being a satan, trying to make him trip and fall because he was “not judging by God’s standard’s but man’s” (see Matthew 16:21-23).

Peter’s problem was that he could not accept the idea of a Messiah who would be ridiculed, tortured, and be put to death like a common criminal. Instead, he expected Jesus to, as it were, put on the armor of a samurai, and do battle against the forces of evil, most notably the occupying Roman army. To Peter and the others, it must have seemed that Jesus was going to do battle against evil, sin and death, not with the sword of a noble samurai, but with a tea service!

How ironic, then, that at the crucifixion of Jesus, the Roman centurion remarks, “Clearly this was the Son of God!” This centurion, like the bully samurai, saw the noble, self-sacrificing manner of Jesus death, and surrendered to the beauty and the power that he saw. Jesus approached his death, not with the weapons of destruction and violence, but with the armor of love and compassion. And in the end he disarmed not just the centurion, but the power of evil, sin, and even death itself.

After many fits and starts, Peter came to know who Jesus was, and thus, who he himself was. He understood the wisdom of Jesus that God’s kingdom would not come by means of violence: “Put back your sword where it belongs. Those who use the sword are sooner or later destroyed by it” (Matthew 26:52).

The question posed to Peter and the others, is now placed before us. “Who do you say that I am?” The answer we give cannot be merely theoretical. As Peter found out, there are consequences. Jesus teaches, “If anyone wishes to come after me, he must deny his very self, take up his cross, and begin to follow in my footsteps. Whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. What profit would a person show if he were to gain the whole world and destroy himself in the process?” (Matthew 16:24-26)

Throughout his ministry Jesus showed himself to be a servant leader. He taught that he had come, not to be served, but to serve. At the Last Supper he washed the feet of his disciples and taught them to follow his example. From the start of his ministry as Pope and successor of Peter, our Holy Father Francis has surprised the world on numerous occasions. Each Holy Thursday, for example, rather than washing the feet of twelve priests in a glorious setting at the Vatican, he has gone to youth detention centers and to prisons to wash feet. His first journey as Pope was to Lampedusa, a small island between Sicily and Africa, the point to which many refugees fleeing violence in their home countries would come, hoping for safety and a better life for their families. Unfortunately, many have died in the attempt. The Holy Father has repeatedly modeled the path of humble service, often going to the world’s poorest and most dangerous places in the hope of calling the world’s attention to those who are in most need. Like Jesus, he goes out to the peripheries, confronting evil and sin, not with an army, but with the power of love and compassion. And like Peter, he continually responds to who Jesus is by the power of his example, and not with mere words.

Like Peter, we may get an A+ for knowing the answer to his question, “Who do you say that I am?” You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God. But the deeper implications of the question remain. If Jesus is our Messiah, our Lord and Savior, do we follow his example of self-sacrificing love and non-violent compassion, or do we place our trust in power, prestige and domination, like the cruel samurai?

Homily for August 16, 2020

Mon, 17 Aug 2020 10:00:00 GMT

Homily for the Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time

August 16, 2020

Let me begin by saying that today’s gospel passage is disconcerting, and difficult to read, because it goes against the usual image we have of Jesus. Jesus goes to the region of Tyre and Sidon, located in modern-day Lebanon. So, he is in pagan, or non-Jewish, territory. And a Canaanite (foreign) woman approaches him, asking that he cure her daughter who is quite ill. We are told that Jesus ignores the woman, not even saying one word to her. The disciples ask Jesus to send the woman away because she is bothering them. Jesus then argues that he was sent to the “lost sheep of Israel”. As the woman perseveres, Jesus refers to her in derogatory fashion: “It is not right to take the food of the children and throw it to the dogs.” Imagine! The all-merciful, normally compassionate Lord calling this woman a dog! It just doesn’t fit our usual perceptions. In the end, the woman perseveres and gets her wish. So, what’s going on here?

Scholars have generally taken one of two approaches. First, some argue that, as a human being, Jesus would naturally grow into his ministry. He often spent long nights in prayer, trying to discern his Father’s will, and at the beginning of it all, he fasted and prayed for forty days in the desert. Thus, his awareness that his ministry was universal, including all people, is something that he grew into. Second, other scholars contend that Jesus is actually testing the faith of the woman, or taking her initial faith and helping her to move deeper. In the end, he marvels, as he does after many of his miracles, “O woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.”

I would like to take a look at this passage in terms of the need for perseverance, inasmuch as the woman persevered until her wish was granted. Let’s consider the story of how perseverance paid off in the case of two individuals we know quite well. Thomas Edison tried two thousand different materials in search of a filament for the light bulb. When none worked satisfactorily, his assistant complained, “All our work is in vain. We have learned nothing.” Edison replied very confidently, “Oh, we have come a long way and we have learned a lot. We know that there are two thousand elements which we cannot use to make a good light bulb.” Thomas Edison persevered and the rest is history.

Or consider the case of an aspiring free-lance artist, who tried to sell his sketches to a number of newspapers. They all turned him down. One Kansas City editor told him that he had no talent. But the young man had faith in his ability and he kept going, trying to sell his work. Finally, he got a job making drawings for church publicity material. He rented a mouse-infested garage to turn out the sketches, and he continued to produce other drawings in the hope that someone would buy them. One of the mice in the garage must have inspired him, for he created a character called Mickey Mouse. And Walt Disney was on his way.

Jesus taught that we must persist in prayer. For example, in the parable about the corrupt judge, he speaks of a woman who kept pestering the judge to get her rights, even though the judge “respected neither God nor man” (see Luke 18:1-8). In the end the corrupt judge, fearing that the woman will do him violence, settles in her favor. Jesus asks, “Will not God then do justice to his chosen who call out to him day and night? Will he delay long over them, do you suppose? I tell you, he will give them swift justice.”

In another parable on prayer (Luke 11:5-8) Jesus presents the case of someone who goes to a friend in the middle of the night to ask for three loaves of bread because he has unexpected company. The sleepy friend tries to get rid of his caller because it is the middle of the night and his family is in bed. Jesus concludes, “I tell you, even though he does not get up and take care of the man because of his friendship, he will do so because of his persistence, and give him as much as he needs.” Our Lord then concludes, “So, I say to you, ask and you shall receive; seek and you shall find; knock and it shall be opened to you.”

Beyond perseverance, there is another aspect of today’s gospel I want to take a look at, namely that the Canaanite woman argues with Jesus. She is a woman on a mission, and she is not going to take no for an answer. When Jesus tells her it is not right to give the food of the children to dogs, she replies, “Please, Lord, for even the dogs eat the scraps that fall from the table of their masters.”

In the gospels, this is not the only case of someone taking Jesus to task. In the account of the death of Lazarus (John 11), Jesus delays in getting there after receiving the message that the one he loves is ill. After Lazarus dies, his sister Martha goes out to meet Jesus, and she accuses him: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would never have died.” Then she opens the door to new possibilities. “Even now I am sure that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” In other words, if you’ve got the power, use it. Do something.

There are stories similar to this in the Old Testament, including Abraham bartering with God on behalf of the residents of Sodom and Gomorrah (Genesis 18:16-32), and Moses interceding on behalf of the people after they had worshipped the golden calf (Exodus 32:7-14).

I often hear from people who have become angry with God, yelled at God, and have even sworn at God—and then feel guilty about it. Their gut level concern is: Why? How could you have let this happen? They may be referring to the death of a child, the development of a life-threatening illness, the loss of a job, the experience of an injustice. In my own prayer during this time of pandemic, I have yelled at God in my heart, “These are people who are dying, innocent people who happened to be in the wrong place! Why the elderly? Why the weakest people in nursing homes and veterans facilities? Why should these people, the poor, the weak, people of color, pay the price for a paralysis of leadership? Why? Don’t you care?”

My mind goes to the story about Jesus asleep in a boat during a violent storm at sea (Mark 4:35-41). The disciples, in fear for their lives, rouse Jesus and ask, “Teacher, does it not matter to you that we are going to drown?” Jesus, don’t you care what’s happening to us? I can imagine Jesus feeling hurt by the question as he responds, “Of course I care!” And then he speaks to the storm: “Quiet! Be still!” And then, the wind fell off and everything grew calm. And Jesus asks, “Why are you so terrified? Why are you lacking in faith?”

Jesus knows, and understands, that we, his followers, are terrified at times. That, at times of pain, duress and challenge, we find our faith is shaken. And it is perfectly OK to scream of our fright, to wonder about our faith, even to question the goodness of God. As a matter of fact, Jesus knows perfectly how we feel. After all, on the cross he screamed, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mark 15:34)

In the midst of this pandemic, of economic upheaval, of lost jobs, of racial injustice, of government incompetence, I join Jesus in asking, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken us?” And I continue to pray Psalm 22 from which our Lord’s words on the cross are taken: “O my God, I cry out by day, and you answer not; by night, and there is no relief for me. Yet you are enthroned in the holy place, O glory of Israel! In you our fathers trusted; they trusted, and you delivered them. To you they cried, and they escaped; in you they trusted, and they were not put to shame…” And, on and on, I pray, like the Canaanite woman, like Jesus himself. I pray of my fear, and my trust; of my anger, and my love; of my doubt, and my hope; of crucifixion, and resurrection; of confusion, and certainty… And then my eyes fall on the neighboring psalm, the beloved twenty-third, which offers comfort: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want….Even though I walk in the dark valley I fear no evil; for you are at my side”…

God, who is compassionate, understands our fears, understands when our heart is aching, understands even when we become furious. Then, somehow, if we stay with it, God can help us to move to a deeper level of reassurance, healing and trust. For help, you may prayerfully read the story of Jesus’ healing of a possessed boy (Mark 9:14-29). When our Lord says to the boy’s father, “Everything is possible to a person who trusts.” The father replies, “I do believe! Help my lack of trust!” Perhaps in a world of pandemic and anxiety, this is an honest and authentic prayer for us all.

Homily for August 9, 2020

Mon, 10 Aug 2020 11:39:00 GMT

Afloat on a Stormy Sea

Homily for the Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

August 9, 2020

I recently read a fascinating article written by a pastor who, along with three generations of his family, went on an Alaskan cruise. In the article he reflected on the ways in which the Church is more like a boat rather than a ship.

Homily for August 2, 2020

Mon, 03 Aug 2020 10:54:00 GMT

Homily for the Eighteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

August 2, 2020

A story is told of two brothers who worked together on a family farm. One was married and had a large family. The other was single. At the day’s end, the brothers shared everything equally, produce and profit.

Then one day the single brother said to himself, “It’s not right that we should share equally the produce and the profit. I’m alone and my needs are simple.” So each night he took a sack of grain from his bin and crept across the field between their houses, dumping it into his brother’s bin.

Meanwhile, the married brother said to himself, “It’s not right that we should share the produce and the profit equally. After all, I’m married and I have my wife to look after me and my children for years to come. My brother has no one, and no one to take care of the future.” So, each night he too took a sack of grain and dumped it into his single brother’s bin.

Both men were puzzled for years because their supply of grain never dwindled. Then one dark night, the two brothers bumped into each other. Slowly it dawned on them what was happening. They dropped their sacks and embraced one another.

Many years ago a noted churchman wrote an essay in Life magazine on the question, “What is the meaning of life?” He wrote: “I believe we are placed here to be companions—a wonderful word that comes from the Latin cum panis , with bread. We are here to share bread with one another so that everyone has enough, no one has too much….There are many names for such sharing companions: the Body of Christ, the Kingdom of God, the Communion of Saints. And while the goal is too vast to be realized on this planet, it is still our task to create foretastes of it in this world.”

Did you ever notice that in the Lord’s Prayer there is a redundancy, the repetition of basically the same word within one sentence: Give us this day our daily bread? Why is that? Scripture scholars suggest that Jesus may have been referring back to a central story of his peoples’ history. When God freed the ancient Hebrews from slavery in Egypt, and they went out into the desert, they soon complained that they had no food. And so God gave them the gift of manna, a bread-like substance that would appear like frost on the ground each morning. They were commanded to take only the amount they would need for one day (except for the day before the Sabbath when no work was allowed; then they were to gather a double amount). In this way they gradually learned, day by day, that they could trust their God to feed them and take care of their needs. Thus “give us this day our daily bread”.

The miracle of the multiplication of the loaves is the only one recorded in all four gospels. It must have made quite an impression on the early community and the gospel writers. Jesus showed himself as the all-important companion for the journey, the one who could feed his people while accompanying them, the one who could be trusted to care for his people even in a wilderness, out of the way place, or desert.

In our celebration of the Eucharist our God feeds us, giving us a foretaste of heaven, when there will be no more tears or sorrow, when no one will starve while others have too much, when every hunger will be satisfied. When we share our bread with the hungry, then we are living according to the pattern of the Eucharist, giving others the foretaste we have received, the glimpse of what life is meant to be because it is lived according to the pattern established by God.

In the dramatic last judgment scene described by Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 25:31-46) Jesus even identifies himself with those in need in such a way that, when we reach out to them, we are serving him. “Come. You have my Father’s blessing! Inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food. I was thirsty and you gave me drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me…” Thus, we welcome Jesus as a companion on the journey by feeding others as our God feeds us. Rather than looking down on the poor, we are called to look them in the eye and treat them as brothers and sisters. This is precisely what Jesus did when he fed the multitude in the wilderness. If we are his disciples, should we not do the same?

Homily July 26, 2020

Mon, 27 Jul 2020 11:36:00 GMT

Homily for the Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

July 26, 2020

Jesus’ parable about the buried treasure in the field reminds me of the famous story about a city in Germany named Weinsberg. Overlooking the city, perched high atop a hill, stands an ancient fortress. The townspeople are proud to tell about an interesting legend concerning the fortress.

According to the legend, in the 15 ^th century, in the days of chivalry and honor, enemy troops laid siege to the fortress and sealed all the townsfolk inside. The enemy commander sent word up to the fortress announcing that he would allow the women and children to leave and go free before he launched a devastating attack. After some negotiations, the enemy commander agreed, on his word of honor, to let each woman take her most valuable, personal treasure she possessed, provided she could carry it out herself.

You can imagine the enemy commander’s consternation and surprise when the women began marching out of the fortress…each one carrying her husband on her back.

Jesus’ story, of course, invites the hearer to struggle with the question of treasure. What do we treasure? One way in which I have looked at this was to think about all my possessions, including all my photographs and items that I had collected during my travels. What would I try to save if there were a fire in the rectory? I had read a book about a practice rooted in a Japanese spiritual tradition about tidying one’s space as a discipline to help us see what is beautiful and important. One of the things the author suggested was to take every photograph we possess—take them out of albums, out of drawers, off the walls—and put them in a big pile on the floor. Take each photograph and look at it, not just with the eyes, but with the heart. What kind of emotion, if any, does each photo elicit? So, I did that and narrowed them down, creating one album that preserves a photographic record of my life, my family and those most important to me. In case of a fire, after making sure any person in the house is safe, that is the one item I would take with me. It is a treasure.

Now, the stories Jesus tells suggest that there will be some effort involved to get the treasure. We might have to actually work at it. In the case of the treasure buried in a field, you have to put together the resources needed, and find the people you need to talk to, to be able to buy the field. In the case of the fine pearl, you have to examine it and test it to make sure it is truly the find of a lifetime—without tipping it off to everyone else. And then, again, you have to do whatever you need to do to get the funds to actually buy it.

A story involving former President of the United States James Garfield makes an important point on the need for effort to get one’s treasure. When Garfield was the president of Hiram College in Ohio, he was once approached by the father of one of the students seeking admission to the college. The father criticized the length and the difficulty of the curriculum. “Can’t you simplify the course work?” he asked. “My son will never get through all this academic work. There should be a shorter route.”

Garfield reportedly replied, “I believe I can arrange such a plan, but it all depends upon what you want for your son. When God wants t make an oak tree, he takes a hundred years. And, when God wants to make a squash, he requires only two months.”

The question Jesus raises, of course, is what do we truly want? What is the greatest treasure, the deepest desire of our hearts? An interesting answer was given by St. Augustine, a bishop who lived some 1,500 years ago. In contrast to God, he muses, what is man? While God is infinite and all powerful, the human person is rather puny. Yet, there is a connection between the two. Humans, such a small part of creation and short-lived as they are, still find a need to praise God. In spite of sin, each feels the longing to reach out to his Creator. Why is this? He realizes it is God’s doing. “You have made us for yourself, and our hearts are restless, until they can find rest in you.” Augustine had actually tried many ways to fill his restless heart: excessive pleasures, religions that turned out to be false, philosophy, and various distractions. In the end, they left him empty until he reached out and grasped the treasure offered to him all along: a loving surrender to the God who loves us infinitely.

So this week’s gospel is, in the end, very simple. It asks us to consider, in all honesty, what our treasure is. Are we satisfied, or might there be something more? Do we feel good for a while, but then feel empty again? If that’s so, we’re settling for a half-treasure, and we may need to search deeper: what, really, is our treasure?

Homily July 18, 2020

Mon, 20 Jul 2020 12:31:00 GMT

Please Don’t Pull the Weeds

July 19, 2020

Many people in this valley had the opportunity to work on the tobacco farms. When I was in college, I got to go in early, as soon as classes ended, and so I got to see more of the whole process: planting, cultivating, and hoeing. From time to time, I would take a step back to admire the work we were doing. When the weeds were removed, and the rich, dark soil was turned over, how beautiful it all looked. It made me feel like the steward of creation, the tender of the Garden of Eden as in the story of Adam and Eve.

Weeds have a way of taking over the world in unwanted ways. Several years ago, I went to the Expo, a world’s fair, in Montreal. It was a magical place, with unique exhibits, food from around the world, beautiful sights and sounds and smells. Then some years later, I returned to the site and discovered that most of it had been abandoned—I guess there’s not much you can do with large, hulky building made for masses of people. What struck me the most was how nature was taking back the place: huge weeds forced their way through cracks, creating a kind of forest of ugliness.

My earliest experience with weeds, however, was when I was a young child. My mother was weeding the flower garden, and she had to go in to answer the phone. So, I decided I was going to help her out. I started pulling left and right, until she came out and yelled for me to stop. The problem was that I couldn’t tell a weed from a flower, and so I was pulling out the good with the bad.

And as I reflect on it now, I wonder if there is some wisdom in my childish ways—a kind of dangerous wisdom. Let me explain. First, weeds can be a relative thing. Certainly weeds in a tobacco field are unwanted, but who would want tobacco suddenly springing up in your beautifully manicured lawn? Rose bushes are beautiful, but if they suddenly started appearing, helter skelter all over the lawn, that might be nice for a while, but it would make lawn mowing rather difficult.

Now, in the story Jesus tells, he notes that weeds and wheat are so intermingled, if you try to pull up one, you might take the other with it. That happened to me recently when I was trying to weed around some Easter lilies I had planted. For some reason, the weeds, with quite a strong root system, wanted to be best buddies with the lilies. I yanked out a weed and the lily came up with it.

If you apply this to people, this is where dualistic, black and white thinking gets dangerous. If we divide people into winners and losers, worthy and unworthy, useful and useless, likeable and unlikeable…this can lead to: racism , in which one group is considered racially superior to another; or ageism , in which those who cease to be productive can easily be cast aside as unuseful to society; or sexism in which one sex is considered more important or preferable. If you divide people into wheat and weeds based on their race, culture, sexual identity, religious preference—and you think you have the right to cherish one and denigrate, despise or cast aside the other—that’s dangerous.

Now, sometimes we don’t even realize that we are doing it because it’s part of our ordinary way of seeing the world. For example, when I was a child, I remember an explanation of sin and its effect on the soul. We would start out with a bottle of white milk. With each sin we committed, a black blotch would appear, and the milk would get blacker and blacker, at least until you went to confession, and then the milk would be white again. Did you ever stop to think that this can lead to thinking, at least subconsciously, that white is good, and black is bad? Or how about some of the western shows we used to watch? Weren’t the good guys often in white hats, and the outlaws in black? That’s part of our subconscious, too. And so, we live in a world in which we have to be reminded that black lives matter, that women matter, that Jews matter, that gay people matter. Sure, we all matter, but for some it doesn’t need to be said because it’s implied in the very way we see the world. We’ve divided the world into weeds and wheat, and we often don’t even recognize it. We don’t know one from the other, any more than I knew a weed from a flower as a child.

And that’s why Jesus’ advice in today’s gospel is so important. He’s saying that in this case the weeding is above our pay-grade, beyond our understanding, best left up to God and the angels at the end. We’re simply not qualified for the job, and when we’ve tried it, we’ve made an awful mess.

Homily July 12, 2020

Sun, 12 Jul 2020 10:12:00 GMT

Caring for the Seeds of Faith

July 12, 2020

Today’s story about the farmer sowing seed reminds me of a story I once read about Benjamin Franklin. As you may know, Franklin was a scientist who liked to find out how things work and why. He learned that sowing plaster in the fields made things grow better. When he told his neighbors, they thought this was kind of far-fetched and they wouldn’t believe him.

After a while Franklin let the matter drop and said no more about it. Instead, he went into the field early the following spring and sowed some grain. Close by the path, near where everyone walked, he traced some letters with his finger and applied plaster, mixing it in well with the seeds.

After two weeks, the seeds began to sprout. Ben’s neighbors were surprised to see, in a deeper shade of green than the rest of the field, plants spelling out in large letters: “This has been plastered.” Ben Franklin didn’t have to argue any more about the benefit of plaster for the fields. As the season went on and the grain grew, these bright green letters rose up above all the rest, declaring for all to see, “This has been plastered.”

Now, the interesting thing about Jesus’ story is that he is applying it to the human heart. How fertile is the soil of our heart when we hear the word of God? You can’t know what kind of soil you have until there is some growth. And just as in Benjamin Franklin’s case, the proof was in the growth, so it is with the seed of faith. People cannot see our faith in the abstract. The proof of what kind of soil we have, what kind of faith we have, and what kind of disciples we are—is in a life well lived more than in words well said.

Do you remember the story of Johnny Appleseed? It’s a rather local story, for he was born in Leominster, MA. Most people know about this folk hero who moved across the heartland of America during the early western expansion on the frontier. Johnny became famous for scattering seeds as he walked, planting apple trees wherever he traveled. But what is less well known about him was that his Christian faith was central to who he was and what he did with his life. Besides planting apple trees, Johnny lived the life of a missionary. As he traveled, he shared the gospel with many adults and children, including Native Americans he met along the way. He saw the seeds he planted as symbolic of how God’s love is planted in us and bears fruit.

So, the question raised by today’s gospel is what kind of spiritual soil we have in our hearts. What kind of results is God getting from the seeds of faith planted in our hearts? It is possible that when we are with people among whom faith is not popular, or who have a different kind of faith, the seeds planted in our hearts can get trampled by contrary opinion, and we choose to go along with the crowd? Or we might have a Sunday morning kind of faith (or Saturday evening) where we focus on God and the message of the gospel for one hour or so, but don’t do much with it the rest of the week. Or it is possible that we have so many other concerns, obligations, responsibilities and interests that our faith seeds get choked, as if by so many weeds, that we allow little time for God or matters of faith?

The proof, as I’ve said, is more in a life well lived than in words well said. Let’s do a little mental experiment. Let’s ask ourselves, if I were to take the seeds of faith out of my heart and plant them in the world for everyone to see, what would the crop look like? If it’s an abundant harvest, that’s great! But if not, perhaps it’s time to pull the weeds, fertilize, water and turn to the sun.

One final thought. Over the years, when people ask me about the beauty of the rose garden, I have told them about my secret ingredient. When the holy water in the fonts is changed, quite often it has been put on the roses. So when it comes to the seeds of faith in our hearts, turning to the holy definitely works.

July 5, 2020 Homily

Sun, 05 Jul 2020 10:07:00 GMT

Homily for the Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

July 5, 2020

An imaginative story I recently read…

I was sitting at the breakfast table, thinking, “I’ve certainly had lots of problems lately. Troubles at work, troubles at home, I really ought to take time to pray about them. All of a sudden I sensed that someone had walked into the room behind me. I spun around and asked, “Lord Jesus! What are you doing here?”

The Lord was standing in the doorway. I rubbed my eyes—was it really he? Yes, everything checked out, from the tip of the white seamless robe to the faint glimmering around his head. This unexpected visit unsettled me. I wondered if I had done something wrong. He smiled and the light of his eyes brightened. “Would you like to take a walk with me?” Jesus inquired. “Uhmm…why…ah…sure!” I replied.

And so the two of us walked down a little country lane. Slowly the truth began to dawn on me and I thought, “What an incredible opportunity! He has all the answers to my problems…my relationships…my work…my worries about the future…All I need is to ask him.”

We walked quietly for several minutes, then I turned toward him and said, “Excuse me, Lord, I need some advice on a very difficult problem.” Before I could finish, he said, “Shh…do you not hear it?” At first I didn’t hear a thing. But then I heard the faint sound of water tumbling over the rocks from a nearby stream. The Lord sighed, “Isn’t it beautiful?” “Ah, yes, I suppose….”

I was thoroughly distracted in my surge of thoughts, and I finally said, “Lord, I’ve been worried about my prayer life. Things have been awfully empty…” He put his arm around my shoulder. “Hush, do you hear it?” he asked. Children were playing in the nearby meadow. And again, he smiled, “Isn’t it wonderful?” he exclaimed. “Sure…now that you mention it.”

We walked on. Again, I thought about this wonderful opportunity. Here was the answer to all my troubles right in front of me. I wanted to talk to him about religion. After all, this was his line of work. “Lord, I was wondering what you thought about the conflict in modern biblical scholarship…” He interrupted me once more, stopped silently and picked up some roadside pebbles. “I’ll bet you can’t hit the top of that telephone pole,” he challenged. I was bewildered. Why, of all things! And from the Lord himself! He casually tossed a pebble toward the pole…and he missed. Then, I half-heartedly took a pebble and aimed it toward the pole. Whack! I hit the pole. The Lord proudly looked at me and chuckled, “Hey, you’re good,” he said.

We strolled a bit further and at last our walk ended. Beneath his flowing beard, the Lord had a gentle smile. As he began to leave, he said, “Just stop trying so hard.”

You know, our world can feel pretty overwhelming. There are a lot of serious, frightening problems that can make life feel very heavy. But we have access to Jesus by entering into conscious communion with God. Prayer opens the door through which we can enter into a sanctuary of strength and safety, protection and renewal. It will differ for each of us. The story I shared with you may sound a bit silly, but in it we can find a message that we deeply need to hear. I needed Jesus to tell me to stop worrying about everything going on in our country, and to quit trying so hard to solve all the world’s problems! Rather, I should do what I can by helping people who are lonely, frightened, or in need right here in our own community.

Why don’t you try it? Try bringing today’s gospel to prayer with you this week. Imagine Jesus speaking these words—not in some general way—but to you, to your heart: “Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Homily for June 20, 2020

Sun, 28 Jun 2020 11:06:00 GMT

Homily for the Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

June 28, 2020

There was a school crossing guard that everyone called “Old Bill”. Every morning and every evening Old Bill would man his corner, leading the children safely across the street. Mrs. Franklin, whose house was on the corner where Old Bill worked, got into the habit on hot afternoons of bringing Bill a tall, cold glass of fresh lemonade and a few cookies. Bill would thank her shyly as he waited for the children. Then one day there was a knock at Mrs. Franklin’s side door. There stood Old Bill with a sack of peaches in one hand and a dozen fresh-picked ears of corn in the other. He seemed embarrassed and said, “I brought you these, Ma’am, for your kindness.” “Oh you shouldn’t have,” exclaimed Mrs. Franklin, “It was nothing really, but some lemonade and cookies.” Then the crossing guard said, “Maybe it wasn’t much to you, but, Ma’am, it was more than anyone else did for me. So thank you.” Mrs. Franklin, of course, was reaching out to Old Bill from the kindness of her heart.

In today’s gospel Jesus says, “Whoever gives only a cup of cold water to one of these little ones, he will surely not lose his reward.” One of the things that strikes me is the word “cold”—a cup of cold water. I was in Israel once in the month of April, and in the southern part of the country it was already ninety-eight degrees! In ancient times, and in many places even today, the only water available in that climate was from wells. People would go to the well, sometimes a significant distance away, draw water, and then carry it, balanced on their heads, back to their family. But, of course, as the day progressed and the sun grew hotter, that water would lose its coldness.

There is also another factor involved in many parts of the world. Pope Francis had pointed out in his encyclical on the environment that when resources are wasted, or water is polluted, it is the poor in third world countries who often pay the price. At about the time that document of the Pope was released, I was listening to a report on British radio. A correspondent was in Africa, near a river that was gradually turning more and more orange in color, and gradually developing a horrid stench. It was discovered that an old mine, long abandoned by its first-world owner, was leaching acid into the river. The water, upon which the local population depended, was being poisoned. So finding a cup of even safe, decent water, in many parts of the world, is becoming difficult to find.

So, why does Jesus make it a cup of cold water? I think the “coldness” of the water means that he wants us to put a little effort into our hospitality, kindness and compassion. It’s not enough to just give second-hand, run-off water. It’s not enough to be begrudging or impersonal in the giving. It’s certainly not to be done in an arrogant, prideful or condescending way. It’s more like what Mrs. Franklin did. Her heart went out to Old Bill on the hot, sweaty days of summer, and she made some lemonade and brought some cookies. She did something lovely, and it revealed her loving, caring heart. She decided to show hospitality and to reach out because she recognized Bill as a fellow human being. Her humanity touched his.

I believe that this explains the significant reaction of people around the country, and also around the world, to the video of George Floyd with a knee on his neck, complaining that he couldn’t breathe, for eight minutes and forty-six seconds, until he was dead, with the perpetrator arrogantly looking toward the phone that was recording the incident. This was a total disregard for the humanity of another human being. This was racism at its worst, as an entitlement that made a man think that he could do whatever he wanted and get away with it. Far from receiving a cup of cold water, a cup of kindness and compassion, George Floyd was deprived even of the air we human beings need in order to breathe.

Jesus calls us, he always calls us, to be the soothing, healing, life-giving, cold water of love and compassion that each and every human being deserves. We are at a moment in our nation and in our world when we need to examine our hearts and to decide where we stand, what we will support, and what we will reject. We are at a crossroads, both individually and collectively. Which will it be: a cup of cold water or a knee on the neck?

Homily June 21,2020

Sun, 21 Jun 2020 10:39:00 GMT

Homily for the Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time

June 21, 2020

You may have heard of the famous Wallenda family. The story is told of Karl Wallenda, who lived on top of the world as high-wire aerialist, thrilling thousands of people with his daring stunts on the tight rope. Then, one fateful day in 1978, Karl Wallenda tragically fell to his death before a large audience in Puerto Rico. What happened?

According to his widow, Karl had never been one to know fear. Self-confidence marked his style, until he started worrying. Little details of safety preoccupied his mind. He checked and double checked the tightrope to make sure it was secure. He even examined the guide bolts, which he had never done before. This was a different Wallenda. For the first time, instead of focusing on walking the wire, he concentrated on not falling. From then on Wallenda was an accident waiting to happen. His widow felt that it was inevitable that Karl would fall. This type of fear is now known as the Wallenda factor: being so afraid of failure that you dwell on the negatives.

In the gospel reading for this Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Matthew 10:26-33) Jesus speaks about God’s loving goodness, not only to us, but to all of creation. “Are not two sparrows sold for a small coin? Yet not one of them falls to the ground without your father’s knowledge. Even all the hairs on your head are counted. So do not be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.” We know that Jesus abandoned himself to God’s providential care, not even having a place of his own, or anywhere to lay his head. In the end, he even abandoned himself to the cross, praying, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

Life itself is a risk that we must take. It makes sense to be prudent in a careful way, but that does not mean that we should be paralyzed by fear. For example, the current pandemic should lead us to wear a mask when in public, wash our hands often, and practice social distancing. These are simple precautionary steps we can take out of love for ourselves and for others. However, where do you draw the line? Of course, the answer will be different for each of us, depending on our age, underlying medical conditions, state of immunity, etc. But are we to become so afraid that we become prisoners of fear?

St. Paul went on three long and demanding missionary journeys, all to make Christ known. He endured terrible hardships, but did not let adversity beat him down. Here is how he describes his life: “But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed” (2 Corinthians 4:7-9). Paul had learned that not a sparrow falls to the ground without God knowing it, that every hair on his head was counted, that both life and God could be trusted.

An anonymous author notes that, 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, he argues, to the depth of the things we worry about in life. If we could see problems in their true light, they would not blind us to living itself, but viewed in their true size and perspective, could probably be reduced to a single drinking glass.

In the now famous icon of the Divine Mercy of Jesus, as revealed to St. Faustina, our Lord asked that the signature read, “Jesus, I trust in you.” In the story of the raising of the synagogue official’s daughter, when it is reported that the child has died, Jesus says, “Fear is useless; what is needed is trust” or “Do not be afraid; just have faith and she will be saved” (see Luke 8:50).

Today’s scripture thus invites us to entrust ourselves to life, knowing that even though there are risks, our lives are ultimately in the hands of a loving God. Meditating on Jesus’ words can help us to break out of the prison of overblown fear, as we pray, “Jesus, I trust in you.”

Homily for June 14, 2020

Sat, 13 Jun 2020 18:04:00 GMT

Communion: a Work in Progress

Homily for the Solemnity of the Body and Blood of Christ

June 14, 2020

In a homily for this Solemnity of the Body and Blood of Christ, Pope Francis said, “We are gathered round the table of the Lord, the table of the Eucharistic sacrifice, in which he once again gives us his Body and makes present the one sacrifice of the Cross. It is in listening to his word, in nourishing ourselves with his Body and Blood that he moves us from being a multitude to being a community, from anonymity to communion. The Eucharist is the sacrament of communion that brings us out of our individualism so that we may follow him together, living out our faith in him.”

I like the image of moving from a multitude to a community, from a mob to a family, as it were. I have a favorite story that comes from a village on a South Pacific Island, where a missionary made his monthly visit to celebrate the Mass, baptize children and new initiates, witness marriages, anoint the sick and pray for the recently deceased.

By tradition, the village chief is the first to greet the padre when he steps on land. The two of them embrace, then the chieftain gives the priest a clump of dune grass. The priest returns the clump of grass to the chief, who then turns and gives it to the person next to him. According to island custom, the clump of grass is a sacred reminder of God’s presence to the people who live within the vast ocean about them. The islanders consider it a kind of symbol of harmony and peace. This sacred clump of grass passes from one villager to another, throughout the entire village, until it returns to the chief, who then presents it to the priest, completing the ritual. The custom symbolizes that the villagers are in harmony with one another and are at peace. It is at this point that the Mass can begin, and not before.

This lovely story illustrates that the islanders understand the Eucharist. They are not a multitude or a mob, they are not a gathering of individuals who happen to be in proximity. They are very conscious of the fact that to have communion (think of that word) you have to be at harmony and peace. I see that as the goal that is always before us as a Eucharistic community.

On the other hand, the Eucharist is also a food, a spiritual nourishment that helps us to move in the direction of the ideal. Again, Pope Francis expresses this very well. Here is what the Holy Father teaches: “Everyone can share in some way in the life of the Church; everyone can be part of the community….The Eucharist, although it is the fullness of sacramental life, is not a prize for the perfect but a powerful medicine and nourishment for the weak. These convictions have pastoral consequences that we are called to consider with prudence and boldness. Frequently, we act as arbiters of grace rather than its facilitators. But the Church is not a tollhouse; it is the house of the Father, where there is a place for everyone, with all their problems.”

So, I guess if you put these insights together, you could say that we are a mob on the way toward becoming a community. We desire to live in harmony and peace, but we know that we often fail and fall short. We’re a work in progress. There’s a wonderful saying that I’ve seen on t-shirts and the like: “Be patient; God isn’t finished with me yet.”

We live between the ideal and the reality. We reach for and long for a community that has learned to live in harmony and peace. And yet we are human, sometimes disappointingly so. We fall short. But we don’t quit. We’re on the way to becoming God’s community. We trust that, little by little, it can happen because, if we are truly open, if we let God do his thing, we know that God isn’t finished with us yet. Our partaking of the Eucharist is a powerful medicine for the hopeful, and nourishment for the weak. We are a community, a communion, in progress.

Homily for June 7, 2020

Sun, 07 Jun 2020 10:23:00 GMT

Homily for the Solemnity of the Most Holy Trinity

June 7, 2020

Back in the 19 ^th century, Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Homes had the reputation of being absent minded. One day on a train he was studying a pending case when the conductor asked for his ticket. Holmes searched each pocket nervously, but to no avail. The conductor said, “Don’t be concerned, Mr. Justice Holmes. We know who you are. When you return to Washington, you can send us the ticket at your convenience. Holmes lowered his eyes and shook his head sadly. “Thank you, my good man, but you don’t seem to understand the problem. It’s not a question of whether I’ll pay the fare. The problem is: Where am I going?”

During the past two months, as our world has been turned upside down, we may have wondered where we are going. A lot of the things we felt we could rely on suddenly weren’t there. We are still experiencing a global pandemic, which seems more suited to the Middle Ages or a third-world country. In a strained economy, many have lost their jobs or are forced to work at home while, at the same time, taking care of family, and trying to overcome boredom. Many, especially the elderly and those who live alone, have experienced an incredible sense of loneliness. And the horrible killing of George Floyd has raised our consciousness about the racism that infects our country and its institutions. People are rightly outraged, but some demonstrations have become violent, while some use the occasion as an opportunity for looting and destruction. And we in the church have been deprived of the ability to come together, to pray as a community, and to receive the strength and the consolation of the Sacraments.

And yet, a lot of good is being done. We have new heroes in health care workers, food store employees, first responders, delivery people, and many others who are, day in and day out, on the front lines of our urgent situation, serving others while jeopardizing their safety.

In Saturday (today/yesterday) newspaper there are two items that make us proud. Three members of our confirmation class, Ella McDaniel, Gracelyn Tatta, and Reyna Ortiz, who collected more than two thousand books for the Franklin County Jail, have been honored with Peacemaker Awards—community recognition of ways in which the youth of our county are making a difference and using their talents in creative ways. Likewise, there was an article about the Community Meals Program here at Our Lady of Peace. We have a dedicated group of volunteers who pick up food from the Food Bank of Western Massachusetts, put together meals, and hand them out to those who most need them each Monday evening. For weeks, it was bagged cold meals, but now they have begun to distribute hot meals—lovingly and safely, here in front of Our Lady of Peace Church.

Of course, the larger question in all of this is: Where is God? Our readings for this Trinity Sunday remind us that, in the most difficult times, our God is a God who has chosen to be with us. The beautiful Exodus event shows a God who takes compassion on the Hebrew people, frees them from slavery in Egypt, and then accompanies them on the harrowing journey through the desert, on the way to the promised land.

And for us Christians, we but need to look at the image of Jesus on the cross as a reminder of a God who wants to be with us so much that he became one of us, gave his life for his friends, and promised to be with us to the end of time. A God who is with us especially during the most perilous moments of our life’s journey—this is the God who strengthens our faith and gives us reason to hope.

And so, in the midst of the threat of the coronavirus, in the midst of our anxieties and fears, in the midst of our imperfection and sinfulness, we take our first halting steps back to the Eucharist—the source and summit of our life, our food for the journey. Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes forgot where he was going. Today we gather to remember: we are heading toward the light, toward healing, toward comfort, toward the nourishment we need to take on the darkness of sin and violence, and to model for the world what it means to be a child of God.

Where are we going? Here is the simple answer found in the Old Testament prophet Micah: “You have been told, O man, what is good, and what the Lord requires of you: Only to do the right and to love goodness, and to walk humbly with your God.”

May 31, 2020 Homily

Wed, 03 Jun 2020 12:29:00 GMT

No Cowardly Spirit

Homily for the Solemnity of Pentecost May 31, 2020

This week we celebrate the Solemnity of Pentecost, the day that commemorates the dramatic gift of the Holy Spirit to the first believers—a day that is also considered the birthday of the church. To begin our reflection I have a favorite story that teaches about the power of the Spirit. A do-it-yourselfer went into a hardwa...re store and asked about a new saw for cutting firewood. The salesman took a chain saw from the shelf and told him it was the newest model, with the latest in technology, guaranteed to cut ten cords of wood a day. The customer thought that sounded great, so he bought it on the spot. The next day the customer returned, looking somewhat exhausted. “Something must be wrong with this saw,” he moaned. “I worked as hard as I could and only managed to cut five cords of firewood. I used to cut seven with my old saw. Confused, the salesman said, “Here, let me try it out back on some wood we keep there. They went to the wood pile, the salesman pulled the starter cord, and as the motor went vroom, the customer jumped back shouting, “What’s that noise?” The customer trying to saw wood without the power of the saw to help him is very much like the believer who attempts to live the Christian life without the daily empowerment of the Holy Spirit. When I was in the seminary studying for the priesthood, there was a homily that I remember to this day. It focused on the wise advice contained in Psalm 127: Unless the Lord build the house, they labor in vain who build it. Unless the Lord guard the city, in vain does the guard keep vigil. It is vain for you to rise early or put off your rest, You that eat hard-earned bread, for he gives to his beloved in sleep. Now, let me share another story that provides a bit of balance to the psalm, lest we misunderstand its message. A student, rather lazily inclined, noticed that a classmate always did well in her Spanish lessons. One day he asked her, “How is it that you always recite your lessons so perfectly?” “Before I study,” she told him, “I always pray that I may remember my lessons and repeat them well.” “Do you?” said the boy, somewhat surprised. “So that’s her secret method,” he thought. “Well, then, I’ll pray too.” That night he prayed up a storm, recalling as many prayers as he could remember. However, the next day he could not even repeat one phrase of the lesson. Quite perplexed, he looked for his friend and, finding her, confronted her for being deceitful. “I prayed,” he told her, “but I could not repeat a single phrase from yesterday’s homework.” “Perhaps,” she told him, “you took no pains to learn the lesson!” “Of course not,” said the boy. “I didn’t study at all. I had no reason to study. You told me to pray that I might remember the lesson.” “There’s your problem,” she said, “I told you I prayed before, not instead of, studying.” Now, let’s take a look at the pertinent scripture passages. In the Acts of the Apostles the author states that for forty days after his resurrection, Jesus appeared to the apostles and in convincing ways showed that he was alive. “On one occasion when he met with them, he told them not to leave Jerusalem: ‘Wait, rather, for the fulfillment of my Father’s promise of which you have heard me speak. John baptized with water, but within a few days you will be baptized with the Holy Spirit’” (Acts 1:4-5). After the Ascension of Jesus, we read that the apostles did indeed return to Jerusalem and “went to the upstairs room where they were staying….Together they devoted themselves to constant prayer” (see Acts 1:12-14). Many are familiar with various novenas (nine days of prayer) for various special intentions, often directed to the Lord or one of the saints. These days of prayer between the Ascension of Jesus and the coming of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost are the original novena of intense prayer for the gift of the Holy Spirit. The Pentecost event is then described in Acts 2. “When the day of Pentecost came it found them gathered in one place. Suddenly from up in the sky there came a noise like a strong, driving wind which was heard all through the house where they were seated. Tongues as of fire appeared, which parted and came to rest on each of them. All were filled with the Holy Spirit. They began to express themselves in foreign tongues and make bold proclamation as the Sprit prompted them” (Acts 2:1-4). Just as the engine enables a chain saw to do its work, so the Holy Spirit is the driving force behind the proclamation of the Good News and the formation of the community of the church. However, for the chain saw to work properly, it needs the human person to work with it. In a similar way, God respects our human freedom and asks that we open ourselves to the Spirit and work with the promptings and the spiritual energy that God provides. One example of this can be found in the writings of St. Paul. In writing to one of his disciples, named Timothy, Paul encourages him in this way: “I find myself thinking of your sincere faith—faith which first belonged to your grandmother Lois and to your mother Eunice, and which (I am confident) you also have. For this reason, I remind you to stir into flame the gift of God bestowed when my hands were laid on you. The Spirit God has given us is no cowardly spirit, but rather one that makes us strong, loving and wise. Therefore, never be ashamed of your testimony to our Lord, nor of me, a prisoner for his sake; but with the strength which comes from God bear your share of the hardship which the gospel entails” (2 Timothy 1:6-8). The biblical account of Pentecost makes clear that the lives of the first believers were radically changed when they received the power of the Holy Spirit. Whereas before they had been afraid, they now had the courage to proclaim their faith before the entire world. Before, they had doubts, but now they stepped out in confidence. And as Paul notes, they may have been cowards before, but now they were “strong, loving and wise”, sharing in “no cowardly spirit”. So, why is it that so many Christians seem lukewarm in their faith? Why is the commitment of many only half-hearted? Many years ago, Martin Luther King, Jr. provided a good way of thinking about how we approach our commitments. Speaking in 1967, Dr. King said, “Cowardice asks the question, ‘Is it safe?’ Expediency asks the question, ‘Is it politic?’ Vanity asks the question, ‘Is it popular?’ But conscience asks the question, ‘Is it right?’ A middle-aged woman went to a distant monastery for her first weekend retreat. When she arrived at the guest house, one of the monks approached her and surprised her with a brusque question, “Why not?” “That was the first thing he said,” she relates. “He had never seen me before. I hadn’t even said a word. “Why not?” he questioned. I knew he had me. After all, he was the retreat master.” I brought up excuses: “It was a long trip…I’m tired…the kids…the people I have to work with…not enough time…I guess it’s not my temperament.” The retreat master took a long sword off the wall and gave it to the woman. “Here, with this sword, you can cut through any barriers you have.” She took it and slipped away without saying another word. Back in her room, alone, she sat down and kept looking at that sword. She knew what he said was true. But the next day she returned the sword. She muttered, “How can I live without my excuses?” This woman found many ways of blocking the spiritual insight and energy that was offered to her. Martin Luther King, by contrast, had the courage to cut through the excuses, the political correctness, the cultural taboos, and the need to be popular—and ask questions that led him to God’s truth. An ancient story from the Jewish rabbis teaches that, during the exodus of the Hebrew children from Egypt, Moses followed God’s instructions and held his staff out over the sea. But the sea never parted until the first of the Hebrews had the courage to step into the water. God offers incredible, even miraculous gifts, but we have to accept them. And that means change. And courage. The spirit God gives us is “no cowardly spirit!” And now let us bring our reflection to prayer. You may wish to use the focusing exercise I taught in previous reflections. After you are fully present to God, prayerfully and reverently read the following passage of scripture, a number of times. What hits you? How does the word speak to your heart? Jesus got into the boat and his disciples followed him. Without warning a violent storm came up on the lake, and the boat began to be swamped by the waves. Jesus was sleeping soundly, so they made their way toward him and woke him: “Lord, save us! We are lost!” He said to them: “Where is your courage? How little faith you have!” Then he stood up and took the winds and the sea to task. Complete calm ensued; the men were dumbfounded. “What sort of man is this,” they said, “that even the winds and the sea obey him?” (see Matthew 8:23-27) Lord Jesus, what makes me afraid? Have I truly opened myself to the gifts of the Holy Spirit, that I might not be half-hearted and lukewarm in the way I live my faith? Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen

Homily for May 24, 2020

Thu, 21 May 2020 11:33:00 GMT

On Being “In the World”

May 24, 2020

In our gospel reading for this Seventh Sunday of Easter we have a part of Jesus’ great priestly prayer, offered prior to his death and resurrection (John 17:1-11). Praying specifically for his followers, our Lord indicates that, after his return to the Father, there will be a difference in that he will no longer be present in a bodily way. The passage concludes with the words, “And now I will no longer be in the world, but they are in the world, while I am coming to you.”

I want to reflect on Jesus’s statement, “they are in the world.” Obviously, this indicates more than geography or global positioning. Our presence as disciples of the Lord is related to Jesus’ absence. So, I think the important question is, how are we to be in the world?

First, let me point to a distinction that biblical scholars and theologians make, namely, that while we are in the world, we are not of the world. St. Paul, for instance, wrote in his letter to the Philippians, “As you well know, we have our citizenship in heaven; it is from there that we eagerly await the coming of our Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ” (Phil 3:20). This means that, as disciples of Jesus, we believe that he is the way the truth and the life. We are to conform our lives to the values of Christ, we are to follow his example, we are to continue his mission, rather than being conformed to the ways of the world, especially when they clearly contradict the way of Jesus.

We have a marvelous testimonial from the second century, the letter to Diogentus, which gives an outsider’s analysis of the life of Christians at that time. Consider:

Christians are not differentiated from other people by country, language or customs. You see, they do not live in cities of their own, or speak some strange dialect, or have some peculiar lifestyle. Their teachings have not been contrived by the invention and speculation of inquisitive individuals; nor are Christians promulgating mere human teaching as some people do. They live in both Greek and foreign cities, wherever chance has put them. They follow local customs in clothing, food and the other necessities of life. But at the same time, they demonstrate to us the wonderful and certainly unusual form of their own citizenship.

They live in their own native lands, but as aliens. As citizens, they share all things with others, but like aliens they suffer all things. Every foreign country is to them like their native country, and every native land like a foreign country. They marry and have children just like everyone else; but they do no not kill unwanted babies. They offer a shared table, but not a shared bed. They are present “in the flesh,” but they do not live “according to the flesh.” They are passing their days on earth, but are citizens of heaven. They obey the appointed laws, and go beyond the laws in their own lives.

They love everyone, but are persecuted by all. They are unknown and condemned; they are put to death and gain life. They are poor and yet make many rich. They are short of everything and yet have plenty of all things. They are dishonored and yet gain glory through dishonor. Their names are blackened and yet they are cleared. They are mocked and they bless in return. When they do good, they are punished as evildoers. When punished, they rejoice as if being given new life. They are attacked as aliens and are persecuted; yet those who hate them cannot give any reason for their hostility.

To put it simply, the soul is to the body as Christians are to the world. The soul is spread through all parts of the body, and Christians through all the cities of the world. The soul is in the body but is not of the body. Christians are in the world but not of the world.

Now, the circumstances at that time were certainly different than today. For one thing, being a Christian, serving a god other than Caesar, was illegal, and many followers of Christ paid the price. We may disagree on one or another particular of the above description, for times have changed, and our understanding of what it means to be a Christian has developed. But the point is that to the outsider who wrote this letter, to be a follower of Christ meant that there was a unique way of being in the world. And it made a difference, as in providing a soul, being leaven in the bread, salt of the earth, and light for the world.

Many observers of society in our day lament the fact that life seems to have been coarsened and expectations seem to be lower than they once were.

Many years ago, President Dwight Eisenhower, speaking at the National Press Club, admitted that he was not much of an orator. “It reminds me of my boyhood days on a Kansas farm,” he related. “An old farmer had a dairy cow we wanted to buy. My dad and I went over to ask him about the cow’s pedigree. The old farmer didn’t know what pedigree meant. So my dad asked him about the cow’s butterfat production. He told us that he hadn’t any idea what that was either. Finally, dad asked him if he knew how many pounds of milk the cow produced each year. By now the old farmer was puzzled. He shook his head and said, ‘I don’t know. But one thing I do know for sure is that she’s an honest old cow, and she’ll give you all the milk she has!’” Eisenhower concluded, “I’m like that old cow. I’ll give you everything I have (as president).” Ike, and many others of his generation, had a way of being in the world.

A successful businessman once was asked for the secret of success by a student who interviewed him as part of a senior thesis. Thoughtfully, the businessman pondered the question. His reply summed up success in three words: “and then some.” “You see,” he said, “I learned early in life that the difference between average people and the truly successful could be simply stated in those three words. Top people did what was expected, and then some! The truly successful were thoughtful of others, and then some. They met their obligations fairly and squarely—and then some. They were good friends and helpful neighbors—and then some. They could be counted on in an emergency—and then some.” This businessman, and many others like him, have a great way of being in the world—and then some.

On the other hand, there’s the case of a young carpenter who married a building contractor’s daughter. Soon thereafter, the father-in-law decided to boost the career of his new son-in-law. “Son,” he said, “I don’t want you to start at the bottom of this construction business as I did. I want you to go out to my job-site and build the most tremendous house this town has ever seen. Put the best of everything in it, make it a showplace, and turn it over to me when you are finished.”

The young man thought, “Well, this is an opportunity to make a killing.” He hurried out to slap together a building with sub-standard lumber, shingles, cinderblocks, cement, etc., but billed for the “best” materials. He and a shady wholesaler split the profits from that deception. In short order the young man presented his father-in-law with the keys to the newly finished house. “Is it a tremendous showplace of the newest and best materials as I asked?” inquired the father-in-law. “It sure is, dad,” answered the son-in-law. “Is it the finest house ever built, son?” “You betcha, dad.” “All right, where’s the final bill? And did you include a good profit in it for yourself?” “Uh, well…Here it is,” replied the young man, “and yes, I did.” The father-in-law then said, “I didn’t tell you why I wanted that house to be the best ever built. I wanted it to be something special that I could give to you and my daughter to show you how much I love you. Here, take the deed and the keys. Go live in that showplace; it’s yours now.” The young man slinked away, shattered and frustrated. He thought he was making a fortune, but in the end he only cheated himself. By his decisions and his actions this young man had picked a way of “being in the world”—and came to regret it.

In a recent interview, Pope Francis shared some of his reflections “from the pandemic” about how we are to be in the world. The Holy Father stated, “Today I believe we have to slow down our rate of production and consumption and to learn to understand and contemplate the natural world. We need to reconnect with our real surroundings. This is the opportunity for conversion….And speaking of contemplation, I’d like to dwell on one point. This is the moment to see the poor. Jesus says we will have the poor with us always, and it’s true. They are a reality we cannot deny. But the poor are hidden, because poverty is bashful. In Rome recently, in the midst of the quarantine, a policeman said to a man, ‘You can’t be on the street, go home.’ The response was, ‘I have no home. I live on the street.’ To discover such a large number of people who are on the margins…And we don’t see them, because poverty is bashful. They are there, but we don’t see them: They have become part of the landscape; they are things. St. Teresa of Calcutta saw them and had the courage to embark on a journey of conversion. To see the poor means to restore their humanity. They are not things, nor garbage; they are people. We can’t settle for a welfare policy such as we have for rescued animals. We often treat the poor like rescued animals. We can’t settle for a partial welfare policy” (Austen Ivereigh, Origins, April 23, 2020, pp. 755-756. The Pope challenges us to examine how the poor are in the world—and how we are in the world.

In a beautiful psalm-like poem, Praise Song for the Pandemic (on vimeo.com ), writer Christine Valters Paintner calls beautiful attention to many of our new heroes (excerpts):

Praise be the nurses and doctors

every medical staff bent over flesh to offer care,

for lives saved and lives lost

for showing up either way,

Praise for the farmers tilling soil

planting seeds so food can grow

an act of hope if ever there was.

Praise be the janitors and garbage collectors,

the grocery store clerks, and the truck drivers barreling through long, quiet nights,

Give thanks for bus drivers, delivery persons, postal workers…

Celebrate the scientists, working away to understand the thing that plagues us, to find an antidote, all the medicine makers,

Praise be the journalists, keeping us informed,

Praise be the teachers, finding new ways to educate children,

and blessings on parents holding it together for them,

Blessed are the elderly and those with weakened immune systems,

all those who worry for their health…

Blessed are the ones whose jobs are lost, who have no savings, who feel fear of the unknown gnawing,

Blessed are those in grief, especially who mourn alone,

Blessed are those who have passed into the Great Night,

Praise for police and firefighters, paramedics, and all who work to keep us safe,

Praise for all the workers and caregivers of every kind,

Praise for the sound of notifications, messages from friends, reaching across the distance…

In the final section of the Praise Song , Paintner challenges us to learn from our days of being apart—to learn a new, more human, more thoughtful, more fulfilling way to be in the world:

Praise every moment of stillness and silence, so new voices can be heard,

Praise the chance at slowness,

Praise be the birds who continue to sing the sky awake each day,

Praise for the primrose poking yellow petals from dark earth,

Blessed is the air clearing overhead so one day we can breathe deeply again,

And when this has passed may we say that love spread more quickly than any virus ever could,

May we say this was not just an ending but also a place to begin.

And now let us bring all of this to prayer. You may wish to refer to last week’s reflection for the focusing exercise that prepares us for prayer. Then, slowly and reverently read Jesus’ words of prayer as he prepares to return to the Father: “They do not belong to the world any more than I belong to the world. I do not ask you to take them out of the world, but to guard them from the evil one….As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world….I do not pray for them alone. I pray also for those who will believe in me through their word, that all may be one as you, Father, are in me, and I in you; I pray that they may be one in us, that the world may believe that you sent me” (see John 17:14-21).

Lord Jesus, how do you want me to be in the world? Why can’t I be of the world?

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

Homily for May 17, 2020

Sat, 16 May 2020 11:50:00 GMT

I Will Not Leave You Orphans

In the gospel reading for this Sixth Sunday of Easter, John 14:15-21, Jesus is preparing his disciples for his return to heaven, commemorated in the celebration of the Ascension, which falls on May 21 ^st this year. Jesus makes a very touching and powerful promise: “I will not leave you orphans.” It is this promise that is the focus of today’s reflection.

Isn’t it amazing that some of the most engaging works of literature and the arts deal with orphans? For example, the comic strip Little Orphan Annie was made into the 1977 Broadway musical Annie , which included the hauntingly beautiful song “Maybe” in which Annie desperately longs for her parents to return to the orphanage and take her home. And who can ever forget the orphan Oliver Twist, stepping forward with a bowl in trembling hands, asking for more gruel, “Please, sir, I want some more.” One of my favorite orphans in modern literature is Harry Potter, who has a miserable existence, is hated by his aunt and uncle, and is forced to sleep in a closet under the stairs. One critic comments, “He has nothing, hopes for nothing, aspires to nothing. He simply ekes out a meager existence. But, I believe, what captures people’s attention is that our orphan friend has a very special gift, is famous but doesn’t know it, and has a powerful destiny to fulfill.” Anne Shirley, Cinderella, Tom Sawyer, Jane Eyre, Frodo Baggins and Batman—all these are orphans. We have a natural sense of empathy for such orphans who begin life in unfortunate, deplorable and cruel conditions. We marvel at their ability to survive, and we root for these underdogs as they triumph over their fate.

In some of the most ancient traditions of the Bible orphans are singled out as those who should receive special care because of their vulnerability. For example, we read in Exodus, “You shall not molest or oppress an alien, for you were once aliens yourselves in the land of Egypt. You shall not wrong any widow or orphan. If ever you wrong them and they cry out to me, I will surely hear their cry” (see Exodus 22:20-21). Psalm 146 counsels placing trust in God. “Happy he whose help is the God of Jacob, whose hope is in the Lord, his God, who made heaven and earth, the sea and all that is in them; who keeps faith forever, secures justice for the oppressed, gives food to the hungry. The Lord sets captives free; the Lord gives sight to the blind. The Lord raises up those that were bowed down; the Lord loves the just. The Lord protects strangers; the fatherless and the widow he sustains, but the way of the wicked he thwarts” (see verses 5-9). And finally, the prophet Jeremiah issues this plea: “Only if you thoroughly reform your ways and your deeds; if each of you deals justly with his neighbor; if you no longer oppress the resident alien, the orphan, and the widow; if you no longer shed innocent blood in this place, or follow strange gods to your own harm, will I remain with you in this place, in this land which I gave your fathers long ago and forever” (Jeremiah 7:5-7).

In the New Testament letter of James we read, “If a man who does not control his tongue imagines that he is devout, he is self-deceived; his worship is pointless. Looking after orphans and widows in their distress and keeping oneself unspotted by the world make for pure worship without stain before our God and Father” (James 1:26-27).

Biblical scholars and spiritual writers remind us that there was a point at which Jesus himself felt orphaned, cut off even from the consoling presence of his Father. The gospel text even preserves the original Aramaic words that Jesus would have spoken: “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani,” which is translated, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mark 15:34) It was at this point, when Jesus was shedding the last drop of blood, that the pain must have been excruciating. It was then that he showed the immensity and completeness of his love, and he so identified with the human condition, that he knew what it felt like to be orphaned. Of course, there is another aspect to this verse, namely that Jesus is quoting Scripture, specifically Psalm 22. The Psalm is rather long, and it does indeed begin with the sound of desperation: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me, far from my prayer, from the words of my cry? O my God, I cry out by day, and you answer not; by night and there is no relief for me.” Then, almost immediately, there is a note of hopeful trust. “Yet you are enthroned in the holy place, O glory of Israel! In you our fathers trusted; they trusted, and you delivered them. To you they cried, and they escaped; in you they trusted; they trusted, and you delivered them.” Then the anguish returns: “But I am a worm, not a man; the scorn of men, despised by the people. All who see me scoff at me; they mock me with parted lips, they wag their heads, ‘He relied on the Lord; let him deliver him, let him rescue him, if he loves him.’” And, once again, this is followed by a positive remembrance of God’s faithfulness. “You have been my guide since I was formed, my security at my mother’s breast. To you I was committed at birth, from my mother’s womb you are my God.” The rest of the Psalm continues back and forth, capturing the suffering of one who is trapped between anguish and hope. Finally, the Psalm ends with a crescendo of ultimate victory. “All the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to the Lord; all the families of the nations shall bow down before him. For dominion is the Lord’s, and he rules the nations. To him alone shall bow down all who sleep in the earth; before him shall bend all who go down into the dust. And to him my soul shall live; my descendants shall serve him. Let the coming generation be told of the Lord that they may proclaim to a people yet to be born the justice he has shown.”

This Psalm captures well the roller coaster ride of emotions that human beings go through when they have an experience of feeling orphaned. For example, those who lose a spouse often experience raw emotions of loss, bewilderment, anger, frustration, disbelief, questioning of faith, and wondering where God is to be found in all the pain.

Some seventeen months ago, when I was in the hospital with a severe, life-threatening and highly contagious disease, I personally experienced what it was like to be at death’s door, feeling cut off from family, friends, parishioners—all those I loved—at Christmas time. I knew what it was like to lose strength, to be dependent on others for things that, days ago, I had taken for granted. I was grateful for the compassionate ministrations of nurses, the expertise of various doctors and scientists, visits by family and friends. And yet, I learned what it was like to feel “alone” in confronting a serious illness, and in that sense to be “orphaned”. Oddly enough, I felt an incredible solidarity with the human race—a solidarity of humility—and I thought often about others who were facing similar situations—many in poor areas of the world where there were few doctors or medical facilities. Most importantly, I had a stronger sense of the depth of God’s love—the God who knew what it was like to feel orphaned, and to experience horrific pain, fear, and anguish, while continuing to hope and trust. In the midst of fear and anguish, ultimately, I realized that I was not orphaned after all.

I share my experience as an offering to those who may feel orphaned during the pandemic. Certainly, with the need for social distancing and staying at home, our world has become much smaller. A feeling of isolation can easily set in. I have received word from several friends that they are experiencing increased anxiety because of the threat posed, not only for themselves but also for those they most love. For those who have had a family member or loved one hospitalized, or in a nursing home, or a veteran’s facility, there is the added trauma of not being able to accompany, provide comfort and encouragement, or offer support during serious illness and possible death. And a steady diet of information, especially on cable news channels can lead to a sense of dread and psychological overload. One can begin to feel orphaned, with all the usual moorings and supports having changed.

One of my favorite spiritual writers, Henri Nouwen, offers tremendous insight that helps me to find perspective. Nouwen writes, “Emptiness and fullness at first seem complete opposites. But in the spiritual life they are not. In the spiritual life we find the fulfillment of our deepest desires by becoming empty for God. We must empty the cups of our lives completely to be able to receive the fullness of life from God. Jesus lived this on the cross. The moment of complete emptiness and complete fullness became the same. When he had given all away to his Abba, his dear Father, he cried out, ‘It is fulfilled’ (John 19:30). He who was lifted up on the cross was also lifted into the resurrection. He who emptied and humbled himself was raised up and ‘given the name above all other names’ (see Philippians 2:7-9)….Nobody escapes being wounded. We are all wounded people, whether physically, emotionally, mentally, or spiritually. The main question is not ‘How can we hide our wounds?’ so we don’t have to be embarrassed but ‘How can we put our woundedness in the service of others?’ When our wounds cease to be a source of shame and become a source of healing, we have become wounded healers. Jesus is God’s wounded healer. Through his wounds we are healed. Jesus’ suffering and death brought joy and life. His humiliation brought glory; his rejection brought a community of love. As followers of Jesus we can also allow our wounds to bring healing to others.”

In the midst of all this, Jesus proclaims, “I will not leave you orphaned.” He promises the gift of “another Advocate”—the Holy Spirit. “I have much more to tell you,” Jesus tells his disciples, “but you cannot bear it now. When he comes, however, being the Spirit of truth, he will guide you to all truth” (John 16:12-13). Turning to Henri Nouwen for insight once more, he writes, “Our emotional lives move up and down constantly. Sometimes we experience great mood swings: from excitement to depression, from joy to sorrow, from inner harmony to inner chaos. A little event, a word from someone, a disappointment at work, many things can trigger such mood swings. Mostly we have little control over these changes. It seems that they happen to us rather than being created by us. Thus, it is important to know that our emotional life is not the same as our spiritual life. Our spiritual life is the life of the Spirit of God within us. As we feel our emotions shift we must connect our spirits with the Spirit of God and remind ourselves that what we feel is not who we are. We are and remain, whatever our moods, God’s beloved children” (all quotes from Nouwen, Bread for the Journey , meditations for May 13, July 8 and July 23).

Let us bring our meditation to prayer. Once more, I remind you of the focusing technique I introduced in previous reflections. To begin our prayer, we need to “show up” totally —give our entire attention, mind, heart and soul to this time with God. Here’s a simple way to start. Sit comfortably with your back straight, feet on the floor and hands in your lap. Close your eyes. Take some slow, deep breaths. This should begin to calm your body down. Begin to be totally present to this special time with God. When thoughts, concerns and distractions arise, simply name them (“car passing by” or “tonight’s dinner” or “tomorrow’s meeting” or “my friend’s problem”) and then set them aside. You can imagine putting them on a shelf or into a paper bag at your side. That doesn’t mean you will ignore them or forget them; you are simply setting them aside for another time. This time is to be spent with God in prayer. Hopefully, you will find that, with time, the distracting thoughts and concerns will stop, and you can be totally present to God. Some people find it helpful to use a word or phrase to help them focus, to gently call them back if they begin to wander (“Jesus” or “Jesus, I love you” or “Abba, Father”—whatever helps). Be very still, as you are in the presence of God.

As our Scripture text, let us return to Psalm 22:

I will proclaim your name to my brethren; in the midst of the assembly I will praise you: You who fear the Lord, praise him; all you descendants of Jacob, give glory to him; revere him, all you descendants of Israel! For he has not spurned nor disdained the wretched man in his misery, nor did he turn his face away from him, but when he cried out to him, he heard him. So by your gift will I utter praise in the vast assembly; I will fulfill my vows before those who fear him. The lowly shall eat their fill; they who seek the Lord shall praise him: May your hearts be ever merry!

As you slowly read this scripture, reverently, more than once, what strikes you? When Jesus felt like an orphan, he cried out, and was heard. Beneath the roller coaster ride of our feelings, can we still cry out and trust God? Even in times of pandemic, can we sense that we are not orphaned?

Homily for May 10, 2020

Fri, 08 May 2020 12:12:00 GMT

May 10, 2020

Finding a New Normal in Jesus

In the gospel reading for this Fifth Sunday of Easter, John 14:1-12, Jesus says that he is “the way and the truth and the life.” Today I want to explore what this means for us, practically speaking.

I begin with a self-deprecating story that Billy Graham used to tell about himself. Early in his ministry, he had arrived in a small town to preach a sermon. Wanting to mail a letter, he asked a young boy where the post office was. When the boy had told him, Dr. Graham thanked him and said, “If you’ll come to the Baptist church this evening, you can hear me telling everyone how to get to heaven.” “I don’t think I’ll be there,” the boy said. “You don’t even know the way to the post office.”

Most people who want to succeed will agree that it is important to have goals in life and, when times get tough, keeping your attention fixed on the goal can help you to deal with hardships. On July 4, 1952 the California coast was blanketed in fog. Twenty-one miles to the west, on Catalina Island, Florence Chadwick, a thirty-four year old long-distance swimmer was attempting to swim to the California coast. She had already conquered the English Channel, swimming in both directions. Now she was determined to be the first woman to swim the Catalina Chanel. As the hours ticked off, Chadwick fought bone-chilling cold, dense fog and sharks. Several times, sharks had to be driven off by rifles, which were on hand in the boat that was accompanying her. The icy water numbed her to the point of exhaustion. Straining to make out the shore through her swimmer’s goggles, all she could see was dense fog. She knew she could not swim any farther. Although not a quitter, Chadwick shouted to her trainer in the boat and was taken out of the water. So after fifteen hours and fifty-five minutes, she was hauled from the channel into the boat. Frozen to the bone and her spirit defeated, Chadwick was devastated to discover that she was only a half mile from the coast. She had been defeated not by fatigue or by cold. The fog had defeated her because it had obscured her goal. Two months later, again in the fog, Chadwick swam anew—this time, with her faith intact. She knew that beyond the fog there was land. Not only was she the first woman to swim the Catalina Channel, but she beat the men’s record by two hours.

In his letter to the Philippians, St. Paul writes about the goal that he keeps ever before him. “Those things I used to consider gain I have now reappraised as loss in the light of Christ. I have come to rate all as loss in light of the surpassing knowledge of my Lord Jesus Christ. For his sake I have forfeited everything; I have accounted all else rubbish so that Christ may be my wealth and I may be in him….Thus do I hope that I may arrive at resurrection from the dead. It is not that I have reached it yet, or have already finished my course; but I am racing to grasp the prize if possible, since I have been grasped by Christ Jesus. Brothers, I do not think of myself as having reached the finish line. I give no thought to what lies behind but push on to what is ahead. My entire attention is on the finish line as I run toward the prize to which God calls me—life on high with Christ Jesus” (see Phil 3:7-9, 11-14).

It is clear from this passage that, for Paul, Jesus was indeed the way, the truth and the life. It had not always been so. We read in the Acts of the Apostles about the zeal of Saul (Paul’s former name) as a Pharisee who considered the Jesus movement heretical. “Saul, still breathing murderous threats against the Lord’s disciples, went to the high priest and asked him for letters to the synagogues in Damascus which would empower him to arrest and bring to Jerusalem anyone he might find, man or woman, living according to the new way” (Acts 9:1-2). In Paul’s own words, we find a description of his heritage. “I was circumcised on the eighth day, being of the stock of Israel and the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of Hebrew origins; in legal observance I was a Pharisee, and so zealous that I persecuted the church. I was above reproach when it came to justice based on the law” (Phil 3: 5-6). But all of that changed for Saul/Paul on that road to Damascus. “As he traveled along and was approaching Damascus, a light from the sky suddenly flashed about him. He fell to the ground and at the same time heard a voice saying, ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?’ ‘Who are you, sir?’ he asked. The voice answered, ‘I am Jesus, the one you are persecuting. Get up and go into the city, where you will be told what to do.’” (Acts 9:3-6). After this dramatic encounter, Paul’s life was literally turned around. For him, without question or hesitation, Jesus was now “the way and the truth and the life.”

I have heard it said that life is what happens when you are on the way to something or somewhere else. That was clearly the case for Paul. On that road to Damascus, his life was upended. He now had new perspectives, new values, new goals, new dreams, and a new sense of what mattered—and what did not.

It can be argued that the pandemic we are now experiencing is a kind of upending experience. Perhaps we thought of plagues as something that happened at another time, like the middle ages, and in another place, like the unsanitary streets and villages of over-crowded China and India. But here it is, in the twenty-first century, attacking us in the first world! Now, as I said in a previous reflection, I do not see this as a judgment by God (why would God want to punish those who are most frail and vulnerable). But I do see it as a moment, an invitation, for us to make a judgment about our perspectives, values, goals and dreams—just as Paul did in the first century.

Sometimes, if we want a deeper understanding of our reality, it is good to look at it from a different angle. Arundhati Roy, in an article entitled “The Pandemic is a Portal,” offers her insights from the perspective of life in India. First, she captures our upended reality rather well. “Who can use the term ‘gone viral’ without shuddering a little? Who can look at anything any more—a door handle, a cardboard carton, a bag of vegetables—without imagining it swarming with those unseeable, undead, unliving blobs dotted with suction pads waiting to fasten themselves to our lungs? Who can think of kissing a stranger, jumping on a bus or sending their child to school without feeling real fear? Who can think of ordinary pleasure and not assess its risk?”

Roy then goes on to describe the effects of a nation-wide lockdown, put in place in India with all of four hours’ notice. “The lockdown worked like a chemical experiment that suddenly illuminated hidden things. As shops, restaurants, factories and the construction industry shut down, as the wealthy and the middle classes enclosed themselves in gated colonies, our towns and megacities began to extrude their working-class citizens—their migrant workers—like so much unwanted accrual. Many driven out by their employers and landlords, millions of impoverished, hungry, thirsty people, young and old, men, women, children, sick people, blind people, disabled people, with nowhere to go, with no public transport in sight, began a long march to their villages….They knew they were going home potentially to slow starvation. Perhaps they even knew they could be carrying the virus with them, and would infect their families, their parents and grandparents back home, but they desperately needed a shred of familiarity, shelter and dignity, as well as food, if not love.”

Roy reports that a few days later the scene was changed. The authorities, afraid of the spread of the virus, locked down state borders. The people were then forced to return to refugee camps in the cities they had so recently left! “The scene was biblical. Or perhaps not. The Bible could not have known numbers such as these. The lockdown to enforce physical distancing had resulted in the opposite—physical compression on an unthinkable scale. This is true even within India’s towns and cities. The main roads may be empty, but the poor are sealed into cramped quarters in slums and shanties.”

I’m sure that many of us are feeling that it would be wonderful to return to “normal”. But in light of what is happening in India and in many other parts of the world, Roy concludes that “nothing could be worse than a return to normality. Historically, pandemics have forced humans to break with the past and imagine their world anew. This one is no different. It is a portal, a gateway between one world and the next. We can choose to walk through it, dragging the carcasses of our prejudice and hatred, our avarice, our data banks and dead ideas, our dead rivers and smoky skies behind us. Or we can walk through it lightly, with little luggage, ready to imagine another world. And ready to fight for it.”

As “the way, the truth and the light”, Jesus offers a vision of what the world could be like if we learn from the pandemic of an upended world. Let us take all of this to prayer, beginning with clearing the mind of distractions, using a method I shared with you last week…

__________________________________________________________________________________________

To begin our prayer, we need to “show up” totally —give our entire attention, mind, heart and soul to this time with God. Here’s a simple way to start. Sit comfortably with your back straight, feet on the floor and hands in your lap. Close your eyes. Take some slow, deep breaths. This should begin to calm your body down. Begin to be totally present to this special time with God. When thoughts, concerns and distractions arise, simply name them (“car passing by” or “tonight’s dinner” or “tomorrow’s meeting” or “my friend’s problem”) and then set them aside. You can imagine putting them on a shelf or into a paper bag at your side. That doesn’t mean you will ignore them or forget them; you are simply setting them aside for another time. This time is to be spent with God in prayer. Hopefully, you will find that, with time, the distracting thoughts and concerns will stop, and you can be totally present to God. Some people find it helpful to use a word or phrase to help them focus, to gently call them back if they begin to wander (“Jesus” or “Jesus, I love you” or “Abba, Father”—whatever helps). Be very still, as you are in the presence of God.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Let us now meditate on the way and the truth and the life that Jesus taught, looking at the Sermon on the Mount, which begins with the Beatitudes. Scripture scholars believe that this is the most unique part of Jesus’ teaching.

“When Jesus saw the crowds, He went up on the mountain; and after He sat down, His disciples came to Him. He opened His mouth and began to teach them, saying,

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are the gentle, for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.

Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.

Blessed are those who have been persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are you when people insult you and persecute you, and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of Me. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward in heaven is great; for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you” (Matthew 5:1-12).

As we prayerfully read these words, slowly and reverently, perhaps two or three times, what strikes us? In the world as it “used to be” before the pandemic we may have felt that we had control. We could answer our own questions. We made plans, set goals and pursued them, settling into a rhythm and a routine. But now, our life as we knew it has been upended. We feel smaller, poorer, more humble… A lot of people are mourning, having to deal with the death of a loved one, and the fact that they couldn’t even be there in the final moments. Many people are hungering and thirsting—for scarce food items, for jobs, for a steady income, for schools and universities, for normal physical, social and emotional contact, for going out to eat and to shop, for church services, for friends, for adequate health care…How will their mourning be comforted? Some people are demonstrating, demanding their freedoms and their rights—sometimes with anger, with a desire to provoke change. How will they be satisfied? Many of the poor, the homeless, those at the margins feel left out, abandoned by others dealing with their own problems. Some believe they need to take care of themselves, sometimes at others’ expense—hoarding rather than sharing. Where is the gentleness? The justice? The peace? The comfort?

Jesus, while we may stumble and fall short, we believe that you are the way and the truth and the life. As we were “on the road” of our life, we were suddenly required to take a detour. Our world has, indeed, been upended. What do you want us to learn in this strange and frightening time? What new perspective do we need? Which values are we to live by? What should our goals be? Toward which finish line should we race? How should we, in light of what we are learning from this world-wide pandemic, define “normal”?

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

Homily

Sat, 02 May 2020 11:36:00 GMT

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Easter - May 3, 2020

This Fourth Sunday of Easter is also known as Good Shepherd Sunday because Jesus is presented to us in the imagery of a shepherd. Today I want to focus our attention on the relationship between shepherd and flock, Jesus and us. In our gospel reading, John 10:1-10, our Lord says that his sheep follow him “because they recognize his voice.” Furthermore, his sheep will not follow a stranger because “they do not recognize the voice of strangers.”

It is primarily through prayer that we are given the beautiful opportunity to hear our Shepherd’s voice. But for many of us there is a problem. How can we strengthen our relationship with Jesus by hearing his voice in prayer if our mind, our world, and our heart are often pulling us in many directions because they are full of noise and distractions?

It is a lot like one of my favorite cartoons from many years ago, Dennis the Menace . In the first panel, Dennis with his dog, Ruff, at his side, is walking along with Margaret. Dennis is merrily pulling a red wagon, while Margaret, clutching her doll, is jabbering to the wind. In the second panel, Dennis gives Ruff a sidelong glance while Margaret’s prattle continues. However, she is now speaking directly in Dennis’ ear. The third scene shows Margaret wildly pelting Dennis with her doll saying, “Dennis, you’re not listening to me when I’m speaking to you.” In the final section Dennis turns to Margaret and says, “Margaret, I’m listening to you, it’s just that I’m not paying any attention.”

I find that my prayer time can be like that. Instead of giving my full attention to communicating and communing with God, I allow other issues and concerns, along with everything that is swirling around me, to take center stage. At those times, there’s little chance of hearing the Shepherd’s voice because there’s just too much noise.

Let me offer a distinction. There is a difference between saying prayers and praying at a deeper level. We can certainly use our common prayers, such as the Lord’s Prayer, or the Rosary, but, here too, it’s all too easy to rattle the prayers off without really focusing on our relationship with God. I believe we can go deeper.

There is a beautiful story about St. John Vianney, a village priest in 19 ^th century France who became well known for his spiritual gifts. One day Vianney was heading out to make some parish visits, and as he left the church, he noticed an elderly man praying devoutly. When he returned many hours later, he noticed the same man, still praying in the church. He asked, “What have you been doing here all day?” The man replied, “Oh, I’ve been looking at God, and God has been looking at me, and we are both very happy.”

Now, I don’t want to scare you off, or make you think that you have to spend all day praying, but this story captures the deep relationship with God that quality time spent in prayer can bring. It also makes clear that a relationship with God is not reserved for a few Saints, or those in monasteries and convents.

If we look to the Master himself, we find that the gospel accounts speak of Jesus spending significant time in prayer, before or after a long day of teaching and healing, and especially when key decisions had to be made, such as the choice of the twelve Apostles. The night before he died, Jesus brought his agony and fear to the Father in fervent prayer.

So where do we begin? In a book entitled Stillness is the Key , author Ryan Holiday stresses the importance of being in the present moment. All too often, Holiday argues, “we do not live in this moment. We, in fact, try desperately to get out of it—by thinking, doing, talking, worrying, remembering, hoping, whatever. We pay thousands of dollars to have a device in our pocket to ensure that we are never bored. We sign up for endless activities and obligations, chase money and accomplishments, all with the naïve belief that at the end of it will be happiness….The real present moment is what we choose to exist in, instead of lingering on the past or fretting about the future. It’s however long we can push away the impressions of what’s happened before and what we worry or hope might occur at some other time….Who is so talented that they can afford to bring only part of themselves to bear on a problem or opportunity? Whose relationships are so strong that they can get away with not showing up?” (pp. 26-27)

So to begin our prayer, we need to “show up” totally —give our entire attention, mind, heart and soul to this time with God. Here’s a simple way to start. Sit comfortably with your back straight, feet on the floor and hands in your lap. Close your eyes. Take some slow, deep breaths. This should begin to calm your body down. Begin to be totally present to this special time with God. When thoughts, concerns and distractions arise, simply name them (“car passing by” or “tonight’s dinner” or “tomorrow’s meeting” or “my friend’s problem”) and then set them aside. You can imagine putting them on a shelf or into a paper bag at your side. That doesn’t mean you will ignore them or forget them; you are simply setting them aside for another time. This time is to be spent with God in prayer. Hopefully, you will find that, with time, the distracting thoughts and concerns will stop, and you can be totally present to God. Some people find it helpful to use a word or phrase to help them focus, to gently call them back if they begin to wander (“Jesus” or “Jesus, I love you” or “Abba, Father”—whatever helps). Be very still, as you are in the presence of God.

Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk who did so much to bring the richness of prayer to the larger community, reminded us that beyond the words of prayer is the Mystery to which the words lead. Here is one of the homey ways he used to describe it: “The purpose of a fish trap is to catch fish. When the fish are caught, the trap is forgotten. The purpose of a rabbit snare is to catch rabbits. When the rabbits are caught, the snares are forgotten. The purpose of a word is to convey ideas. When the ideas are grasped, the words are forgotten….The purpose of prayer is to enter the presence of God. When one enters God’s presence, the words of prayer are forgotten.”

There is a beautiful passage about the Old Testament prophet Elijah and his encounter with God. It is found in the first book of Kings, chapter 19, verses 11-13:

Then the Lord said, “Go out and stand on the mountain before the Lord. Behold, the Lord is about to pass by.” And a great and mighty wind tore into the mountains and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake there was a fire, but the L ord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a still, small voice. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his cloak and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave.

When our lives are full of noise and distractions, it is good to remember that we cannot hear the Shepherd’s voice in wind, or earthquake, or fire. We must make ourselves still enough, so that we can discern the “still, small voice”.

In Jesus’ approach to prayer, our Lord taught his disciples: “ But when you pray, go into your inner room, shut your door, and pray to your Father, who is unseen. And your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you. And when you pray, do not babble on like pagans, for they think that by their many words they will be heard.…” (Matthew 6:6-7). By going to the inner room of our hearts, it is there, in the stillness, that we can hear the small, still voice of the Shepherd. Let me be clear about one point. I am not suggesting that in prayer you will hear God’s voice in an audible fashion (unless you are one of the chosen few). Rather, it is in our heart, our mind, our conscience that we can discern the Lord speaking to us, heart to heart.

Let me also suggest that, since Scripture is a very privileged way in which our God is revealed to us, I find that meditating on Scripture passages is a great help in trying to discern God’s presence and God’s direction for my life. Let me share an example. The responsorial psalm for this Fourth Sunday of Easter is the beloved 23 ^rd Psalm. Here it is in the version I first heard it as a child, in the beautiful English of the King James Version (if “thee’s” and “thou’s” turn you off, there are many other translations):

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

Once I have quieted my mind and heart and placed myself in the presence of God, I will then prayerfully read a Scripture passage such as this psalm. I let it wash over me, as I read it more than once. What word, what thought, what image strikes me? During this coronavirus pandemic, the words my heart settles on are these:

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.”

The Lord, who left the ninety-nine sheep and went in search of the one who was lost and afraid, this is the Lord who is with me, with us, with all of you whom I love and long for. And I will fear no evil, for our Shepherd is with me, with us. In the stillness I have heard his voice, a small, still voice, that brings me calm and restores my peace, and enables me to walk on, even through the valley of the shadow of death. I am safely in the loving arms of the Good Shepherd. I stay there, noticing the beautiful green pastures of spring, the reassuring sounds of the running stream. How good it is to be watched over, to be protected from evil. The risen Lord, who brings life in abundance, even life from a tomb, embraces me with goodness and mercy in this life, and the promise of eternal life in the house of the Lord forever. I am at peace and unafraid for I have heard the still, small, reassuring voice of the Shepherd.

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

Homily for April 26, 2020

Fri, 24 Apr 2020 11:43:00 GMT

Homily for the Third Sunday of Easter – April 26, 2020

To begin my reflection for this Third Sunday of Easter, I want to share with you some beautiful words of encouragement and hope that were spoken during Holy Week in Rome. On Good Friday each year at the Vatican, the homily is delivered by the Preacher of the Papal Household, Fr. Raniero Cantalamessa.

Reflecting on the meaning of the crucifixion, Fr. Cantalamessa said:

The cross of Christ has changed the meaning of pain and human suffering….It is no longer punishment, a curse. It was redeemed at its root when the Son of God took it upon himself. What is the surest proof that the drink someone offers you is not poisoned? It is if that person drinks from the same cup before you do. That is what God has done: on the cross he drank, in front of the whole world, the cup of pain down to its dregs.

Then, reflecting on the world-wide experience of pandemic, Fr. Cantalamessa continued:

When, in the memory of humanity, have the people of all nations ever felt themselves so united, so equal, so less in conflict than at this moment of pain? ….We have forgotten about building walls. The virus knows no borders. In an instant it has broken down all the barriers and distinctions of race, nation, religion, wealth and power. …Let us not allow so much pain, so many deaths, and so much heroic engagement on the part of health workers to have been in vain. Returning to the way things were is the “recession” we should fear the most.

The following night, during the Easter Vigil service, Pope Francis offered a reflection on the hope and courage that can be ours, even in the midst of the pandemic. The Holy Father said:

Tonight we acquire a fundamental right that can never be taken away from us: the right to hope. It is a new and living hope that comes from God. It is not mere optimism; it is not a pat on the back or an empty word of encouragement, uttered with an empty smile. No! It is a gift from heaven, which we could not have earned on our own. Over these weeks, we have kept repeating, “All will be well”, clinging to the beauty of our humanity and allowing words of encouragement to rise up from our hearts. But as the days go by and fears grow, even the boldest hope can dissipate. Jesus’ hope is different. He plants in our hearts the conviction that God is able to make everything work unto good, because even from the grave he brings life….All you have to do is open your heart in prayer and roll away, however slightly, that stone placed at the entrance of your heart so that Jesus’ light can enter. You only need to ask him: “Jesus, come to me amid my fears and tell me: Courage!” With you, Lord, we will be tested but not shaken. And whenever sadness may dwell in us, we will be strengthened in hope, since with you the cross leads to resurrection, because you are with us in the darkness of our nights; you are certainty amid our uncertainties, the word that speaks in our silence, and nothing can rob us of the love you have for us

Our gospel reading for this Third Sunday of Easter, Luke 24:13-35, takes us back to a time shortly after the crucifixion of Jesus. Two disciples who are dispirited and have lost hope are sadly making their way back to their home village of Emmaus, going back to the life they knew before encountering the hope offered by Jesus Christ.

This gospel passage is about the restoration of hope. The two disciples are walking toward a kind of spiritual quarantine, away from the group of believers in Jerusalem who, like them, are quarantined by utter disappointment and enormous fear. Along the way, Jesus, the risen Lord, begins to walk along with the two, though they do not recognize him.

How do they come to recognition and belief? Jesus does two things. First, “beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them what referred to him in all the Scriptures.” Second, while they are at table, “he took bread, said the blessing, broke it and gave it to them.” Luke tells us that “with that their eyes were opened and they recognized him.” In other words, it was through the memorial that Jesus left his followers the night before he died, at the Last Supper. It was in the breaking of bread, in the Eucharist, in the Mass, that disappointment and fear were banished and hope restored. And what do the two instinctively do? “They set out at once and returned to Jerusalem where they found the eleven and those with them…” After dealing with their pain in isolation, they returned to the community to share and celebrate the good news. On that first Easter, hope was restored.

During this pandemic, this time of fear and isolation, we have rediscovered how much we need others, how much we need community. We have new heroes now, those who, like Jesus, are serving the needs of those who are stricken—the first responders, the nurses and doctors, the scientists and researchers, those who provide and sell the food and medications we need—the every-day saints who have accepted the challenge of serving rather than being served.

Through phone calls, emails and notes I have received, many of you have expressed your longing for the day when we can be released from our quarantined tombs and return to community, and to the Eucharist. One of the beautiful alternate Eucharistic prayers says it so well: “You are indeed Holy and to be glorified, O God, who love the human race and who walk with us on the journey of life. Blessed indeed is your Son, present in our midst when we are gathered by his love and when, as once for the disciples, so now for us, he opens the Scriptures and breaks the bread.” It is in the Eucharist that the miracle of Easter is made present for us, just as it was for the disciples at Emmaus.

A professor and motivational speaker, who specializes in resilient, hopeful living, shares an email he received from one of his former students.

She shared that in her life she had endured the murder of her son, followed by the death of her husband whose fragile health couldn’t survive the trauma of their son’s death, and then, following these horrors, the death of a nephew. She said that adjusting to life without the three of them had been and continues to be for her “a grief I never thought I could survive.” But then she added the single line that deeply touched me: “Only with God and our love village is it possible” (Robert J. Wicks, Heartstorming, p.83).

Some two thousand years ago, two disciples of Jesus recounted what had taken place on the way and how he was made known to them in the breaking of bread. Whenever we break bread in our “love village”, when we support one another with compassion, when we notice the pain others are experiencing, when we reach out to meet their needs, the resurrection miracle continues. The Emmaus gospel makes clear that, even in our darkest moments, we do not walk alone. Even from the grave our God brings life. And hope is reborn.

Fr. Stan's Homily for the Second Sunday of Easter – April 19, 2020

Fri, 17 Apr 2020 19:37:00 GMT

Our gospel for this Second Sunday of Easter is the famous “doubting Thomas” story. As you may recall, Jesus appeared to the disciples shortly after the resurrection. Thomas, however, was absent, and the others tell him that they had seen the Lord, risen from the dead. Thomas refuses to believe them, and famously says that unless he puts his finger into the nail marks and his hand into the side of Jesus, he will not believe. A week later Jesus comes back, shows Thomas his wounds, and invites Thomas to believe—which he does. Jesus then says, “Have you come to believe because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.”

Jesus is referring to faith, which along with belief, trust and loyalty, includes “firm belief in something for which there is no proof,” according to the Merriam-Webster dictionary. This week’s gospel story is unique in that, while proof exists , Thomas refuses to believe because he doesn’t have it (yet). Thomas could have come to faith on the basis of the testimony of his friends, but for Thomas this is not enough. In the end, Thomas gets his proof, and he reverences Jesus as his Lord and God.

The gospel puts us in the same position as Thomas at the beginning of the story. It claims that proof for Jesus’ resurrection exists, but it is based on testimony, not in direct evidence available to us. John ends the narrative by noting, “Now, Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples that are not written in this book. But these are written that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that through this belief you may have life in his name.” Do we have faith? And if so, what does it look like?

The story is told of a grandfather, who is babysitting, passing by the room of his granddaughter. He overhears her reciting the alphabet in an oddly reverent fashion. “What on earth are you up to?” he asks. “I’m saying my prayers,” explains the little girl. “But I can’t think of exactly the right words tonight, so I’m just saying all the letters. God will put them together for me, because he knows what I’m thinking.” Now, that’s faith—the faith of a child. But is it enough for us when we become adults?

Sometimes, we get pushed into faith….There is a story about Charlie, who sat by the hospital bed of his young son, just out from emergency surgery. Dreadful thoughts kept creeping into his mind. Why hadn’t he called the doctor sooner? Why had he not suspected that his son’s troubles were more than just a stomach ache? Why? Why?

Suddenly, the youngster stirred, opened his eyes, and saw his father sitting there. The lad stretched out his small hand to his father and said, “Hold my hand, Daddy; I hurt so bad.” Charlie took his son’s hand; the small boy smiled weakly and drifted off into unconsciousness again. Then Charlie, taking a cue from his son, bowed his head, closed his eyes, and whispered, “Hold my hand, Father; I hurt.”

On Friday, March 27 ^th , Pope Francis offered a special blessing, Urbi et Orbi (to the city of Rome and the world) during this time of coronavirus pandemic. For his reflection, he chose as his text Mark 4:35-41. The disciples are in a boat with Jesus, who is comfortably sleeping, when a violent storm arises on the lake. The disciples wake Jesus and say, “Teacher, does it not matter to you that we are going to drown?” Jesus calms the storm and then asks, “Why are you so terrified? Why are you lacking in faith?”

Here is a part of Pope Francis’ reflection: “Lord your word this evening strikes us, all of us. In this world that you love more than we do, we have gone ahead at breakneck speed, feeling powerful and able to do anything. Greedy for profit, we let ourselves get caught up in things and lured away by haste. We did not stop at your reproach to us, we were not shaken awake by wars or injustice across the world nor did we listen to the cry of the poor or of our ailing planet. We carried on regardless, thinking we would stay healthy in a world that was sick . Now that we are in a stormy sea, we implore you, ‘Wake up, Lord!’

“Why are you afraid? Have you no faith?’ Lord, you are calling to us, calling us to faith. Which is not so much believing that you exist but coming to you and trusting in you. This Lent your call reverberates urgently: ‘Be converted!’ ‘Return to me with all your heart’ (Joel 2:12). You are calling on us to seize this time of trial as a time of choosing . It is not the time of your judgment but of our judgment: a time to choose what matters and what passes away, a time to separate what is necessary from what is not. It is a time to get our lives back on track with regard to you, Lord, and to others” (emphases added).

Notice that the Holy Father defines faith, not so much as an intellectual belief, but rather as a life stance of turning to the Lord and trusting in him. Also, note that he rejects the idea that this pandemic is God’s punishment. If it were a punishment by a vengeful God, then it would be unjust because it would harm those who are most weak and vulnerable, those who, the bible teaches, are the ones to whom God is closest! A pandemic that does not discriminate would be highly inappropriate for a God who loves justice and right. Rather, the Holy Father insists, this is a time for us to wake up from our sleepy attitudes and, and for us to judge what we must now do—getting our lives “back on track” in our most important relationships, with God and with each other, especially those who are most dear to us, and those in our world who are unjustly treated or most vulnerable.

In the story of the sick boy, faith gets kicked into action when his father realizes that he is not self-sufficient. Even with the best of intentions, and the best planning, he does not control everything. He realizes that he, and his suffering son, are in need of God, in need of salvation.

I invite you to take up Pope Francis’ challenge of reordering our lives away from fear and panic, and toward faith and trust. When we experience storms, the gospel asks us to remember that Jesus is in the boat with us. And, as the Pope so beautifully reminds us, the Lord “brings serenity into our storms because with God life never dies.”

At the heart of our faith, then, is the Easter message. The cross may come, as it did to Jesus. And while suffering and death come into our world, they do not have the final word because with God “life never dies”. As surely as the day follows night, Easter follows Good Friday. Blessed are those who have not seen, yet believe.

Fr. Stan's Easter Sunday 2020 Homily

Fri, 10 Apr 2020 13:01:00 GMT

As we approach Easter, I have a strange question: Is it OK to Alleluia this year? Usually, we come together to Alleluia. What are we supposed to do now? With the corona virus raging all around, is it somehow counterintuitive to sing of joy? With so many crying because a loved one has died, is it sacrilegious to even think Alleluia? Does it make sense to cook ham and kielbasa and all the rest, when everyone you love is socially distant?

This Easter is unquestionably different. At the very least, the pandemic challenges our reasons for celebrating and forces us to dig deeper. As we think of cross and resurrection, death and life, perhaps we might think: what kind of life?

The story is told of a man who risked his life by swimming through a treacherous rip-tide to save a youngster swept out to sea. After the child recovered from the harrowing experience, he said to the man, “Thank you for saving my life.” The man looked into the boy’s eyes and said, “That’s okay, kid. Just make sure your life was worth saving.”

In the first letter of Peter we read, “In his own body he brought your sins to the cross, so that

all of us, dead to sin, could live in accord with God’s will. By his wounds you were healed”

(1 Peter 2:24).

In an article in St. Anthony Messenger entitled “Everyday Resurrections”, Kathy Coffey writes, “Easter comes to us as fitfully as it did to the first disciples. We carry to the tombs of our lives the same mixture of doubt, fear, certainty, anxiety, and joy that the disciples brought to Jesus’ tomb. He always seems to choose for witnesses the most unlikely prospects, ourselves included. Take Thomas, for instance. If Thomas—stubbornly insistent on tangible proof—can believe, maybe there’s hope for everyone. Doubt isn’t evil; it’s the entryway to hope….Only by coming dangerously close to this wounded Lord will we, too, know transformation of our wounds—and resurrection” (April 2020, p. 35).

Those who work in hospice come dangerously close to the dying and touch wounded humanity on a daily basis. A hospice nurse has the opportunity to see and appreciate life as precious, fragile and fleeting. One hospice nurse has compiled various regrets she has heard from those close to the end of life. Here are the top five:

Fr. Stan's homily for Palm Sunday 2020

Sat, 04 Apr 2020 12:17:00 GMT

A look at the Cross: Love, Humility & Patience

One of our greatest theologians, St. Thomas Aquinas, taught that meditating on our Lord’s passion gives powerful example of how we are called to act. I choose three items from Thomas’ list for my meditation on Jesus’ suffering and death: love, humility and patience.

I recently came across a quote from Allan Boesak, who was a South African clergyman and one of the leading spokesmen against the country’s policy of racial separation or apartheid. Boesak said, “We will all go before God to be judged, and God will ask us, “Where are your wounds?” And we will say, “We have no wounds, Lord.” And God will then ask, “Was nothing worth fighting for?”

I was intrigued by this depiction of our final judgment in light of an interesting fact about Easter according to the Gospel of John. “On the evening of that first day of the week, even though the disciples had locked the doors of the place where they were for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood before them. “Peace be with you,” he said. When he had said this, he showed them his hands and his side ” (John 20:19-20). In other words the risen Jesus, who now was beyond the normal ravages of suffering and death, in what we have come to call a “glorified body,” still had his wounds. As a matter of fact, a week later when he comes back, he says to the absent “doubting” Thomas, “Take your finger and examine my hands. Put your hand into my side. Do not persist in your unbelief, but believe!” Thomas said in response, “My Lord and my God!” He had told the others unless he saw the wounds, there was no way he would believe that it was Jesus. The wounds were a kind of “passport” for Thomas to enter a state of belief and to accept that the crucified one had indeed risen.

“Was nothing worth fighting for?” Boesak’s God asks at the judgment. It was a question Jesus had struggled with himself, in the now famous scene of the agony in the garden. “My father, if it is possible, let this cup pass me by.” In the end, however, his answer was yes: “Still, let it be as you would have it, not as I” (see Matthew 26:36-46).

In one of my favorite scenes from the Disney film, Frozen , Anna, who is gradually experiencing the ravages of a frozen heart, is brought in front of a blazing fire by Olaf, the magically created snowman. Anna cries out, “Olaf, get away from there; you’re melting.” Olaf’s memorable answer is, “Some people are worth melting for”—which, if you think about it, is the equivalent of “worth dying for”, for that’s basically what melting means in this case. Later, when Anna admits that she really doesn’t know what love means, Olaf says, “That’s OK, because I know: love means putting another’s interests ahead of your own.” Whenever, I discuss this beautiful film I always say that Olaf was the brains of the outfit. And he had heart, believing that people, because of love, were worth melting/dying for.

Jon Meacham, the American historian, who has also authored several books related to faith, in a recent book about Jesus’ seven last words on the cross, has a beautiful reflection on the meaning of the cross, which he sees as “a reminder that at the center of the Christian story lies love, not hate; grace, not rage; mercy, not vengeance.”

Some years ago the wealthy industrialist Charles Schwab shared some wisdom that came from long experience. “Nine-tenths of my troubles are traceable to my being kind to others. Look, you young people, if you want to steer away from trouble, be hard-boiled. Be quick with a good loud ‘no’ to anyone and everyone. If you follow this rule, you will seldom be bothered as you tread life’s pathways. Except you’ll have no friends, you’ll be lonely and you won’t have any fun!” Schwab had learned from both his career and his personal life that, if we open our hearts in tenderness and love, there will be a lifetime of little, daily hurts, as well as some monumental pain. In other words, love will give you wounds.

Jesus, prior to his crucifixion, had pointed out that there is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. I am reminded of the supreme sacrifice in times of war, when a soldier would lie down on a live grenade, using his body to shield his buddies from suffering and possible death. There is no “greater love”. In small and large ways, in mundane and heroic ways, the risk of love can cause wounds. Both Charles Schwab and Jesus Christ experienced wounds because, as Olaf reminds us, some people are worth melting for, and as John Meacham reminds us, at the center of the Christian story lies love, and not hate.

The second reading for Palm Sunday is taken from Paul’s letter to the Philippians: “Christ Jesus, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God something to be grasped. Rather, he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, coming in human likeness; and found human in appearance, he humbled himself, becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross” (see Phil. 2:6-11).

I am reminded of the story of an internationally known organist who was performing a concert on a huge, antique organ. The bellows that provided the air for the pipes were hand-pumped by a boy who was behind a screen, unseen by the audience. The first part of the performance was well received. The boy came over to the organist and said, “We played well, didn’t we?” The organist haughtily replied, “And what do you mean, ‘we’?” After the intermission, the organist began to play again, but no sound came forth from the pipes. Then the organist heard a youthful voice whisper from behind the screen, “Say mister, now do you know what ‘we’ means?”

The organist’s ego had become inflated like the bellows providing air for the organ’s massive pipes. He evidently had considered equality with the gods something to be grasped at. Can you imagine his panic when he started to play and no sound was produced? Perhaps, when he looked at the cross in that beautiful old church, he appreciated Jesus’ humility in a new way.

In the famous passage about love, St. Paul writes, “Love is patient; love is kind. Love is not jealous, it does not put on airs, it is not snobbish…Love does not rejoice in what is wrong but rejoices with the truth. There is no limit to love’s forbearance, to its trust, its hope, its power to endure” (see 1 Corinthians 12:4-7).

“Love is patient.” An anonymous letter I came across represents the need for patience from the perspective of a small child.

My hands are small. Please don’t expect perfection whenever I make a bed, draw a picture, or throw a ball. My eyes have not seen the world as yours have. Please let me explore it at my own level without unnecessary restrictions. Housework will always be there, but I will be little only for a short time. Please take time to explain about this wonderful world. My feelings are tender. Please be sensitive to my needs. Treat me as you would like to be treated. I am a special gift from God. Treasure me as God intended, holding me accountable for my actions, giving me guidelines to live by and disciplining me in a loving manner. I need your encouragement to grow, so go easy on the criticism. Try to correct my behavior without criticizing me as a person. Give me the freedom to make decisions. Permit me to fail so I can learn from my mistakes. Don’t do jobs over that I have done. This makes me feel that my efforts don’t quite measure up to your expectations. I know it’s hard, but please don’t compare me with my brother or sister. Please set a good example by taking me to church and religious education regularly. I enjoy learning more about God.

I would suspect that this passage was not written by a five-year old, and that the last part might have come from someone responsible for the faith formation of children. But I offer this passage especially to those who are exasperated by the effects of social distancing and quarantine. Being stuck together can strain the patience of just about anyone, and, oddly enough, especially by those we care about the most. At times, love is not easy. At times, it doesn’t come spontaneously. True love takes work and comes at a price. True love, and all that is worth fighting for, can leave wounds—just as it did on the One who died on the cross.

St. Paul reminds us that when our lives are stripped down to the basics, “there are in the end three things that last: faith, hope, and love, and the greatest of these is love.” Wounds and all.

Fr. Stan's March 29, 2020 homily

Wed, 01 Apr 2020 13:46:00 GMT

After the pageant was over and Jimmy and his family were on their way home, his mother asked him why he didn’t ask for a larger role in the pageant. Jimmy replied, “Are you kidding? Just think, mom! I’m the one who got to let Jesus out. What could be better than that?”

Our gospel reading for the Fifth Sunday of Lent is the story of the raising of Lazarus from the dead. The author reports that Lazarus had already been in the tomb for four days, and when Jesus asked that the stone be rolled away, there was concern about decomposition and the resulting stench. Nonetheless, they do as Jesus asks, and with a dramatic command, “Lazarus, come out,” the dead man comes out of the tomb, still wrapped in traditional burial cloths. In this powerful and miraculous way, Jesus shows that he has power even over death.

This gospel passage is powerful enough in itself, but it also leads me to reflect on the many ways in which each of us can get trapped in our own little tombs, focusing on our own problems, fears and concerns in such a way that they paralyze us from seeing anything else.

A story is told of a man in a hospital waiting room. His wife was giving birth to their first child, and he was very anxious. He paced back and forth in the waiting room for what seemed like hours while his wife was in labor. Finally, the nurse came out and announced that his wife had just given birth to a healthy child. In response, he quickly asked, “Is it a boy or a girl?” “The baby is a girl,” she answered. “Thank heavens!” the man replied with an obvious show of great relief on his face. “I am so glad it is a girl instead of a boy because when she grows up and has her first child, she won’t have to go through what I just experienced.”

The challenge for this man, and indeed for all of us, is to make our world bigger by not being locked up in ourselves and our own emotions. One way to do this is to grow in empathy. Empathy involves the ability to emotionally understand what another person is experiencing. While compassion and sympathy are similar to empathy, they tend to give us a more passive connection, as if we are on the outside looking in. Empathy, by contrast, strives to put us in the other person’s shoes in a more active attempt to understand the other from the inside.

Experts point out that there are different kinds of empathy, for example:

Fr. Stan's March 22, 2020 homily

Wed, 01 Apr 2020 13:41:00 GMT

One day the changeling saw a magnificent bird soaring far above in the cloudless sky. “What a beautiful bird!” said the changeling to a neighbor. “What is it?” “That’s an eagle—the chief of the birds,” the neighbor clucked. “But don’t give it a second thought. You could never be like him.”

How often we hear, or speak, words of discouragement rather than encouragement. Sometimes, the words we hear or speak can make a world of difference.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, the famous nineteenth century poet and artist, was approached one day by an elderly man. The old fellow had sketches and drawings that he wanted Rossetti to look at to find out if they were any good. Rossetti looked at the drawings closely and found in the first moments that they were worthless, showing hardly any talent. The visitor was disappointed, but expected the evaluation. Then, he asked if Rossetti would look at another set of drawings—these done by a young art student. This time, Rossetti looked at the drawings with excitement, enthusiastic about the budding talent they revealed. “These are good,” he said. “The young man has obvious talent and should be given every opportunity to study. Who is he?” The visitor responded, "It's me, forty years ago. If only I had heard your praise then. For, you see, I was discouraged and gave up—too soon.”

Let’s now turn to the gospel reading for this Fourth Sunday of Lent, the story of the cure of the man blind from birth. Consider some of the things that are said, either about or to the blind man. Jesus’ disciples ask, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Responding to this idea that has been around for a very long time, Jesus says, “Neither he nor his parents sinned; it is so that the works of God might be made visible through him.”

Later, the Pharisees, who are convinced that Jesus is not the Messiah because he has done work that was forbidden on the Sabbath (making a mud paste and smearing it on the man’s eyes), approach. They confront the man, hoping to get further evidence against Jesus. The man, however defends Jesus and says, “This is what is so amazing, that you do not know where he is from, yet he opened my eyes. We know that God does not listen to sinners, but if one is devout and does his will, he listens to him. It is unheard of that anyone ever opened the eyes of a person born blind. If this man were not from God, he would not be able to do anything.” Then the Pharisees respond, “You were born totally in sin, and are you trying to teach us?” The text then tells us that “they threw him out.”

Thus, both the disciples and the Pharisees are blinded by the “wisdom” of the day, as well as their own limited way of seeing. And instead of showing any kind of compassion, they write the blind man off and cast him aside, leaving him at the margins, where he can eke out an existence by begging from the devout in the Temple precincts.

One of the enduring Christian hymns, “Amazing Grace,” has this memorable first verse: “Amazing grace! How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but now I see.” The words were written by John Newton, who for many years had been involved in the slave trade. Since the age of eleven, he had lived a life at sea. Sailors were not noted for the refinement of their manners, but Newton had a reputation for profanity, coarseness, and debauchery which even shocked many a sailor. At a certain point, he and his crew were battling a fierce storm, so mighty that Newton had to be tied down so he could still steer the ship and keep it afloat. This experience started him on a new journey. He gave up the slave trade, eventually became a clergyman, and wrote the words of Amazing Grace. He had been blinded by his abhorrent life, unable to see the misery he was causing others—until he was shaken up enough to see that he had become the wretch who needed saving. He had been blind, but now was able to see.

One wonders why John Newton’s life took the turns it did. What were the voices that had led him in such a negative and destructive direction? We all need voices that will guide us, encourage us when we are down, sympathize with us when we are overwhelmed, soothe us when we are frightened, teach us to laugh a bit when we take ourselves too seriously, and inspire us to seek what is good and beautiful and true.

One area of our life that currently seems to have a profound impact on us is the media. The cable news networks feed us, hour after hour, with news that is repeated over and over again. When the binge watching about all the divisions in our society, and now all the ramifications of the corona virus, becomes excessive, it can create a sense of sadness, pessimism and dread. Certainly, we do not want to stick our head in the sand and be ignorant of what is happening. The media remind us that many parts of the world lack the blessings we have, and some of our fellow human beings suffer far more than we do. However, when we have a steady diet of scary information, we have to find a way to distance ourselves from time to time, clear our minds, and make sure that we are not robbed of our inner peace. When we panic and find ourselves tossed about, as if on a stormy sea as John Newton was, or in the grip of a world-wide pandemic, it is then that we need to remember that (as we learned in our previous Lenten readings) we are God’s beloved sons and daughters, that our names are written in the palm of God’s hand, that Jesus came that we might see the goodness of God, and hear once again of his amazing grace…

The Lord has promised good to me,

His word my hope secures;

He will my shield and portion be

As long as life endures.

Through many dangers toils, and snares,

I have already come;

‘Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,

And grace will lead me home.

Finally, let me share a story about an experiment that a young man tried (I recently came across this on YouTube). The young man, pretending to be blind, approached random passersby and asked if they had change for a five dollar bill. But instead of holding a $5 bill, he offered them $50. Sadly, some took the fifty and silently walked away. Others, however, apparently believed that it was wrong to take advantage of a blind person, and they pointed out his error. I would hope that in the midst of our fears about the corona virus we not lose our moral bearings. Instead of thinking only of ourselves, let us remember that we are in this together on a world-wide scale, and the commandments to love are not suspended by trying circumstances. By thinking of, praying for, and assisting others, we can place our own fears in a broader perspective.

Fr. Stan's March 15, 2020 homily

Wed, 01 Apr 2020 13:39:00 GMT

What causes loneliness? An expert in the field identifies six types of loneliness: