So Much for Milk and Honey!

Homily for the 5th Sunday of Ordinary Time, Year A, 2014

In our Gospel today, we do not hear about the resurrection of Lazarus: we hear of the raising of Lazarus – his resuscitation.  In other words: Lazarus was only revived by Jesus – revived in order to finish out his earthly life and finally meet death like all of us.  He was given new life: but not the new life of heaven, the new and eternal life we await – no, Lazarus was given new life in this world; he was brought back to life as a mortal man, as the same old Lazarus who still would have to deal with all the trials and challenges of life in this world.

It probably did not take him long, as he stumbled out of that tomb and took in a big breath of the stench around him, to figure out that he was not in heaven.  Maybe that’s why we don’t hear anything about what he says after Jesus raises him.  I can just imagine him being kind of upset: “What the…?”  "So much for milk and honey!"  He must have been relieved to find out that he was just resuscitated!  And maybe after they got those wrappings off him and gave him a bath he was even grateful to have a few more years to be in this world before the Lord would finally take him home and give him the eternal life for which he truly longed.

Now we have no idea what resurrection will be like: maybe a few glimpses here and there.  But in Lazarus, we can gain insight into how Jesus resuscitates his people in this life: about what it is like to be resuscitated.  And this insight is critical for us, because unlike the resurrection, which happens once at the end of life and is shrouded in mystery: Jesus wishes to resuscitate us continually in this life in a myriad of different ways: to give us new life, to remove the chains of sin and death from us in this world as we continue our earthly journey.  And the season of Lent is especially a time when we ask for and think about this process, this experience of resuscitation, of renewal, of conversion.

So what can we learn from Lazarus’ experience of resuscitation that will help us to be open to the new life Jesus wants to give us?

To be patient.  Jesus waited – he did not go right away when he heard of Lazarus’ illness, but waited two days.  And notice that no one could really understand why Jesus did not intervene earlier.  “If you had been here,” Martha tells him, “my brother would not have died.”

How many of us are tormented in the same way that Martha was – and we ask the Lord “Why haven’t you intervened?”  With my children who are struggling, with the illness that my spouse is battling, with the sins that I cannot break free of?

We all, at one point or another ask why God hasn’t resuscitated us or those we love yet.  And so listen to Jesus today: When giving new life in this world only God can understand how and why and when.  The new life Jesus breathes into this world when he resuscitates us comes from beyond this world and doesn’t conform to the logic of this world, it is beyond our control: mysterious.

And so most of the time we must simply trust, as Martha did: that if we seek what is good and true and beautiful, God will accomplish what is good for us.  But as for how and when: that is up to him.

A second lesson to be learned, is that Jesus empathizes with our suffering.  He did not stand by like some passive observer as his dear friends mourned for Lazarus.  He joined in their tears, he felt their pain.  As much as we may feel alone in our sin or in suffering because of the evil in this world, Jesus is never far.  He does not withdraw from sharing in our guilt, our shame, our suffering.  He embraces us where we are, and he suffers with us, he sheds tears with us.

How important it is for us to remember that when we confess our sins, Jesus not only stands before us as our Lord, but he also stands beside us as our advocate and friend and brother.

A third insight we learn from Lazarus is that Jesus’ compassion for us causes him to act, to resuscitate us, even now.  This is the sign of Lazarus, that even now, before the resurrection, we can share partially in the redemption that is to come.

Jesus Christ does not wait until death to give us life: we live in a world permeated by his Holy Spirit, who works within the limitations of time and space to bring heaven to earth in a thousand different ways.

So we should not be content with mediocrity, with settling, trusting that things will get worked out at the end of life – sitting back and waiting for the final judgment with dread or foolish confidence.  No, Jesus wants to intervene now in our lives, just as he intervened with Lazarus.  He does not want us to wait for his life until the Resurrection, but even now he gives us a taste of that new life and freedom of heaven.   What are the sacraments, if not one of the principle ways that Jesus gives us the life of heaven even while we still live in this world?  We Christians have been given the bread from heaven, and we should settle for nothing less, not even in this world.

A final lesson of our gospel?  To recognize, as Lazarus surely did, that there is a great difference between resuscitation and resurrection.  We must remember that we live in a world where the stench of death still remains, the wrappings of sin still remain.

As much as we should settle for nothing less than a share of heaven, we must also recognize the limitations on earth.  Even after he was resuscitated, Lazarus came out of that tomb wrapped in smelly rags, blind, and unable to do much.

Lazarus shows us that resuscitation - that conversion - does not mean the end of suffering and pain, like resurrection.  In fact, sometimes it can mean that we suffer more for a time, as we begin the hard work of removing the bonds of sin that have been killing us. And so, like Lazarus, we need the help of the Church, of the sacraments and of one another to heal from the effects of our sin after Jesus has resuscitated us.  And sometimes that can be a long process.

Today let us ask for the intercession of Lazarus and pray with him:
Lord, please save us from the death of sin, not only for ourselves, but for the good of our families, our community, our parish.  During this season of Lent come to us as you came to Lazarus.  Reach out to us where sin and evil have kept us bound and in the darkness.  May the beauty of your eternal life shine through thousands of little resuscitations in our parish this lent, bringing glory to our Heavenly Father.

"Give Me A Drink"

Homily from the 3rd Sunday of Lent, Year A  2014

Normally in the sales world, you begin by telling someone what they will get, then you tell them the price.  When I was in Europe, there were merchants who would do this sometimes – they would come up, especially to kids, and give them a toy or something, and then they would ask them to pay for it after they had it. Sometimes you had to leave the item on the ground.
They would not take it back.  That’s what you call a hard sell.

But Jesus is not a salesman.  And he is not selling a product, that is clear in the Gospel today.  What is the first thing he says to this woman who he does not know at the well?  “Give me a drink.”  No please, no explanation like “I normally would not talk with you but my disciples are away and I am really thirsty.”  Just “Give me a drink.”

I was tempted to preach about all kinds of things this weekend – the dynamics that are at play, the way this beautiful drama unfolds in the Gospel this weekend.  But I decided to stop right here – with the first sentence.  “Give me a drink.”

It is a short request that we will hear from Christ again in just a few weeks, isn’t it?  “I thirst.”
When I offered Mass for the Missionaries of Charity at their little soup kitchen tucked into the Vatican wall, on the wall of their little chapel they had those words “I thirst.”  Later, I went to Kolkata and realized that Mother Teresa insisted that those words be on the wall of every one of her sister’s chapels.

As we know, the word of God is not ineffective.  It is through God’s word that all creation exists.  God spoke his word and all things came into being.  He commanded and all things were made.

But we are not like the rest of creation.  God does not command our obedience, he does not require our service.  He makes a request, he asks – and he is willing to enter into the difficult and messy circumstances of our lives to make his request.  He risks the scandal of being seen alone with a woman at a well.  He risks the greater scandal of being seen crucifies between two criminals. He goes where he must go in order for us to hear him, to hear his request “Give me a drink.”

Now, it may not be a command, but it is not a suggestion either.  The request is clear.  It is jarring.  Christ asks us to cast aside the social conventions of our time.  To go out on a limb.  To be inconvenienced.  To act in a way that will draw the disapproval of others.  To be seen with a stranger, with a foreigner. To be associated with a religious radical, a “churchy” person.

“Give me a drink.”

She resisted.  It was against the conventions.  She would be judged.  “How can you, a Jew, ask me, a Samaritan woman, for a drink?”  How could he ask this of her?  She had so many things on her plate, so many challenges.

But he responds “If you knew the gift of God and who is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink, ‘you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.”

Christ teaches the Samaritan woman, and wants to teach each of us – that his request is actually a gift.  When we listen to him, when we serve him, when we give him what he thirsts for, then he quenches our thirst – a deep thirst that many times we did not even realize we had, that we had tried to ignore or to wish away.  A thirst for fullness of life with him, for living water.

But we must lower the bucket first.  We must listen to his words and respond, willing to risk the conventions of our time and to be inconvenienced.

How many times a day do you hear it?  Those simple words.  “Give me a drink.”  Do you stop?  Do you pray?  Do you give?  Do you forgive?  Do you listen?

“Jesus is God,” Mother Teresa said.  “Therefore His love, His Thirst, is infinite. He the creator of the universe, asked for the love of His creatures.  He thirsts for our love… These words:
‘I Thirst’ – Do they echo in our souls?”

Climbing Mount Tabor

Homily for the 2nd Sunday of Lent, Year A  2014

Jesus and his disciples journeyed for many days on their way to Jerusalem.  It was a religious pilgrimage that they were making, with thousands of other Jews who gathered in the temple area for the celebration of the Passover.

It is not easy to be a pilgrim.  Traveling far from home, trying to find the things you need, relying on the generosity of others.  We know of some instances when Jesus and his disciples were not welcomed in certain towns.  And because word traveled fast about him, Christ had the added challenge of navigating the mobs of people who followed him hoping for a sign or a healing.

Then, as we hear in the Gospel today, Jesus decides to go up to the top of a high mountain to pray.  Not just any old mountain, but a high mountain.  I know from experience that when you have been travelling on foot for miles, the last thing in the world that you want to do is go up a steep mountain like mount Tabor.  I can just imagine the comments:  “Why do we have to go up that mountain to pray?  What - is God not down here?  All this preoccupation with externals and symbolism.  We are wasting precious daylight!  There are people waiting for us, people following us.  We need to get to our evening destination and figure out what we are going to have for dinner and where to stay.”

So I don’t imagine that the other nine were particularly upset to not have been chosen by our Lord to go on that hike up the mountain. Peter, James, and John might have wondered why he wanted them to come, since he had gone off alone to pray on so many other occasions.  What was different about this time.  But the followed as he led them away from the dust and the chaos of the road and up the steep pathway that led to the summit of the mountain.

As they reach the top, Christ was transfigured.  Quickly, Peter realizes that something incredible is happening.

“Lord, it is good that we are here.” He says.  Suddenly the hike was worth it.

Life is a pilgrimage.  Christ walks with us and teaches us and heals us along the road.  We encounter him many times in the dust and chaos of the road – busy work and prayer schedules, the constant interactions and errands and appointments.  And it may seem like this is enough – it may seem that this is what we are called to – that this life of the road demands our attention and that we do not have room for anything else.

And to an extent that is true.  To know and serve Christ in this ordinary, daily way along the road is the bulk of our Christian life.  But there is a hazard if we never leave the road.  We can begin to obsess on the daily grind, the experience of the pilgrimage, of traveling, of our needs and of the social dynamics around us, and we can lose sight of what we are doing, where we are going, who we are traveling with.  Our lives can begin to become superficial – looking for our next meal, the next thing at work.  Soon, like the disciples, we find ourselves arguing about who is the greatest.  Or, like Peter, we begin to question why Jesus should allow suffering and death to be a part of life.  Our vision becomes worldly – we become secularized.  And we start to lose our way, to forget where we are going and why we are traveling along this road in the first place.

I think this happens to us more easily than we would like to admit.  We are fickle.  We get caught up with the road.  Something bad happens, and then the whole world is against us.  Something good happens and God loves us.  Our moods change and we can easily find ourselves muddling along just putting one foot in front of the next.

Christ knows that we have this tendency – to be distracted, to be superficial, to be moody.  That is why, especially at decisive moments in life, he asks us to follow him up mount Tabor, to leave behind the preoccupations of daily life and to climb the mountain, to be with him in prayer.

Some of the ancient churches used to have long, steep stairs that climbed up to the front door, making it clear that when we came here, into this holy place we were leaving the superficiality of daily life behind and ascending to a place of encounter with God.  The Church architecture wanted to teach us that when we come here we follow the command of our Heavenly Father, who says to us “This is my beloved Son, listen to him.”

As Peter came to the crest of that mountain he realized why Christ had invited him: so that he could be grounded in the truth, in the transcendent.  And we need that too: to be reminded of why we are on this pilgrimage in the first place.  We need the perspective of prayer.

I will close with a quote from C.S. Lewis:

“Faith is the art of holding on to things your reason has once accepted, in spite of your changing moods. For moods will change, whatever view your reason takes. I know that by experience. Now that I am a Christian I do have moods in which the whole thing looks very improbable: but when I was an atheist I had moods in which Christianity looked terribly probable. This rebellion of your moods against your real self is going to come anyway. That is why Faith is such a necessary virtue: unless you teach your moods “where they get off,” you can never be either a sound Christian or even a sound atheist, but just a creature dithering to and fro, with its beliefs really dependent on the weather and the state of its digestion. Consequently one must train the habit of Faith.

The first step is to recognize the fact that your moods change. The next is to make sure that, if you have once accepted Christianity, then some of its main doctrines shall be deliberately held before your mind for some time every day. That is why daily prayers and religious reading and church-going are necessary parts of the Christian life. We have to be continually reminded of what we believe. Neither this belief nor any other will automatically remain alive in the mind. It must be fed. And as a matter of fact, if you examined a hundred people who had lost their faith in Christianity, I wonder how many of them would turn out to have been reasoned out of it by honest argument? Do not most people simply drift away?”

If we never climb the mountain, if we stay on the roadway of life, we risk getting lost or distracted or confused… It is easy to drift away.  Lent is meant to be a time of intensified prayer, a time when we allow ourselves to be led up the mountain – to remember who Christ is, to remember who we are, and why we are here.  Christ wants to reveal himself to us, to teach us about who he is and about the incredible plans he has in store for us.  We are challenged in this time of Lent not to settle for a superficial faith, not to settle for the dusty road.  To follow Christ up the steep path to Mount Tabor, trusting that when we reach the top, we too will say with St. Peter, “Lord, it is good that we are here.”

Sin Has Nothing To Do With The Fruit

Homily from the 1st Sunday of Lent, Year A, 2011
(Rather than post my homily from this weekend, which I did not particularly like, I am posting this one that I gave three years ago.)

I don’t think that it is an exaggeration to say that the Catholic understanding of sin is becoming more and more difficult to understand in our time – not only in our culture as a whole, but even among Catholics.  It just doesn’t seem to make sense to many of us.  This idea that through this guy Adam’s sin we are somehow all fallen and in need of redemption – the idea that there is the possibility of us suffering for our sins, especially after we die.  How does that all fit with the belief in a good and loving God?  How can sin really have consequences that are so severe?

Today we don’t think of sin as disobedience, we think of it as personal imperfection.  We envision sin as a failure to do what we know is right, or maybe as the violation of a command that God has given us to follow.  But it all has to do with ourselves – not living up to what we know we should be doing, not being the best that we can be.

But this is such an impoverished and distorted understanding of sin.  And this is because it doesn’t recognize how intimately God’s will is involved in our decision-making.  God hasn’t just given us a rule book and then said “Alright, let’s see how well you do and I’ll judge you when it’s over.”  The reality is that God dwells with us and that his voice speaks to us continuously: through the teachings of our faith and in our consciences when they are well formed.  The Holy Spirit dwells in this world and lets us know of God’s will if we are open to listening to him.

And so when we choose to sin, when we choose not to inform our consciences by listening to him, or to go against our well informed consciences or choose to ignore them or not consider them,
we are not merely letting ourselves down or breaking rules, we are turning a deaf ear to the Holy Spirit and telling God to pound sand.  We are, in essence, persisting in choosing our will over his will as it is made known to us through his Holy Spirit.  There is no way of getting around the reality that sin is always disobedience.  It is always a turning away from God, it is always destructive to our relationship with him.

Look at the reading from Genesis today.  The trick that the devil plays on Eve is precisely in trying to find a way for her to be disobedient.  “Did God really tell you not to eat from any of the trees in the garden?” He asks.  Of all the trees in the garden, he finds the one from which she’s not supposed to eat.  And he convinces Adam and Eve that God’s rules are either arbitrary or designed to keep them from something good that they could have.  And in any case, the consequences of breaking those rules would certainly not be death!  They would gain knowledge!  Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? I mean, would a good and loving Father really allow you to die from doing such a piddly thing like eating the wrong fruit?

What a lie.  The perniciousness of the temptation is that it obscured the fact that the sin of eating from the tree had nothing to do with the fruit and everything to do with the disobedience.  It was the disobedience that was destructive: the choice to disobey God, to turn away from him and his will in their lives.

God’s will is life because there is no life unless he will it – all life persists only because of his will.  And so disobedience of his will always leads to death.  It really is that stark.  It may not be total death, but every time we sin, every time we choose something other than God’s will, a part of us dies.  The fruit, the sin, is just the occasion of the disobedience.  It is the disobedience, the rejection of God’s will that is deadly.

Intuitively I think we know this – it is clear to us at a very deep level that if our will is not aligned with God’s will, we are dying, not living.  Yet how often we fall victim to the little lies and deceptions of the interior life:

“It’s just a small thing.  Certainly God isn’t going to punish me for this.  He must understand.”
“God made me this way, with these desires and weaknesses, so how can he punish me for them?”
“How can it be God’s will that I do something that is so difficult?”
“Look at the good that seems to be coming from this, can it really be all that bad?”
“No one is really getting hurt – so what is it going to matter?”

Excuses and deceptions, every one of them.  And why?  Because they are all questions about the fruit – speculative, hypothetical, abstract, prejudiced questions about the fruit, just like the ones posed to Adam and Eve by the serpent.

Sin has nothing to do with the fruit, and everything to do with God’s will.  Either we’re trying to follow his will or we’re not, we’re either choosing life or we’re not.  Because the fruit of doing God's will is always life.  The fruit of not doing God's will is always poison.

Adam and Eve were fooled.  The Lord Jesus, who after 40 days in the desert, was not such a fool.
May he help us to see past the lies, past the fruit, to God’s will, and may he give us the strength to follow his example of obedience to the will of our Heavenly Father.

Deep Winter Amnesia

Homily for the 8th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A, 2014

This time of year is one of the most difficult for most of us, probably…  Winter seems to grow more menacing in February.  It is no longer merely a short passing season – no, it becomes a vast and oppressive foe, stretching across every horizon blotting out all recollection of happiness and goodness in life.

Maybe not that bad, but the long cold days do cloud the mind – we experience a kind of collective amnesia – as much as we miss summer, we forget what it is.  We forget what it feels like to live in a climate that is not hostile.  And I think that is what makes this time of year particularly difficult: it is not just that it is cold, but it is that we have forgotten that there is anything but cold.

And this same late winter dementia can afflict not only the mind, but the soul as well.
It can happen to us – perhaps we have not even realized it, we have slowly become acclimated – but the memory of God’s favor and his providential care, of the warmth of his love, it can grow cold.  It is not only that we do not feel his presence, his warmth in our lives at this moment – but we may even forget what that is like, what it is like to live in the warmth of God’s love.

To be a bird of the sky – launching into the wind, soaring, cutting through the air, gliding through life effortlessly, the days passing beneath us, out of the reach of danger, the sun at our back.

To be a lily of the field – kissed by dew in the morning, transparent and open to the world, unafraid to be splendid, to be beautiful, to be loved and admired and doted on by bees.

How far away these memories of birds and lilies can seem in the first days of March – as mere fairy tales.    As Christ speaks of his providential care to us this morning, perhaps we realize that we have made plans as if the Son cannot bring true warmth and joy to our hearts - that a kind spiritual winter will last forever.  Maybe even subconsciously we started to believe that life in the Church, that the life of faith, is a cold life of penance and restraint, of austerity and privation, of sacrifice and discipline.  Of stockpiling wood, insulating wall after wall, roof after roof, with adding oil tank after oil tank after oil tank.   Making do.  Our souls slowly and methodically buried beneath the soft walls of insulation, protected from the cold, locked behind closed doors, huddled around familiar sources of warmth.  Restless, listless, wanting more.

And then we hear from our friends who have moved down to Florida, who have left the seasons of the spiritual life behind.  “Why not bail out on the whole project?” they ask.  Maybe we have taken trips down that road – when we felt we just couldn’t handle the cold any longer.  But Florida is boring and flat.  Yes, it is warm – but in a humid, sticky, cockroachy way.  Fake.  There is no ebb and flow, no depth to life.  Nothing dies, but nothing is reborn either.  It is easier – you don’t have to give up your Sunday mornings.  You don’t have to remember, you don’t have to trust.  Until the hurricane.

No – the soul is not made for Florida, for a flat, season-less, resort existence.  Our life in Christ has seasons, seasons that can are meant to teach us to remember and trust, to sacrifice and love, even in the depths of winter.  Seasons that show us that new life is born from sacrifice, that great beauty and goodness arise from ground that once seemed frozen and dead.  That the cross brings the resurrection.

Christ reminds us of these things today – he heals our deep winter amnesia, reminding us of our hope, of summer, of his care and compassion.  

“Remember,” he tells us, “what it is like to go outside in a t-shirt, to drive with the windows open?  Remember the smell of soil that is warm and fertile, of flowers, of hot pavement after a thunderstorm, of a grill on a warm summer’s eve?”

“Remember, o soul, how I breathed life into you and set you on this earth, the gifts that I have given you, how you have received so much good from my hands?  Remember how I upheld you and consoled you with my words, how I rescued you from the chains of your sins and nourished you with heavenly food?”

May we never forget the goodness of God, his providential care for us – even as we trudge through deep winter.  May our prayer today echo the words of the psalmist: “Only in God be at rest, my soul, for from him comes my hope.  He only is my rock and my salvation, my stronghold: I shall not be disturbed.”

The cold will ebb away, this Wednesday we enter mud season, beginning with the cross smudged on our foreheads.  The seasons are constantly in flux, God’s grace is at work in varied ways – there are seasons of consolation and of desolation, of challenge and of reward.  But in all seasons may we remember and treasure and be upheld by the memory and the promise of the warmth, the beauty, the goodness of God’s providential care.

Christ Enjoins Not Impossibilities But Perfection

Homily for the Seventh Sunday of Ordinary Time, Year A, 2014

There is a certain….  well we might call it satisfaction, that many of us might find ourselves feeling when someone gets their just deserts.  The internet is full of these little anecdotes today, isn’t it?
Someone cuts off a driver, and then runs into the back of a tractor trailer.
Someone says something mean and then smacks into a cupboard door.
Someone is rude to a waitress and then gets a pitcher of cold water in the lap…

And there is something that seems right about many of these things - it is as if God intervened to make sure that evil did not go unpunished.  When I was a kid, it seemed like many times when I did something bad, something bad would immediately happen to me.  Tease my sister - slip on the ice and fall on my face.  Say something mean - get my zipper stuck…  My mom used to call it instant karma.

In the ancient world, retaliation for wrongs was often swift and extreme.  A kind of instant karma.  If someone stole, their hand was severed.  If someone lied, their tongue cut off.  If they committed adultery they were stoned.  And many times retaliation was carried out against whole households, even down to three generations.

This kind of extreme retaliation was understood to be important and necessary in order to discourage sin and evil.  It makes sense: if you want to keep people from doing evil, make sure that the penalties are so staggering that no one will even attempt it.  If good will does not control them, at least fear will, right?

Now, some may think that we are far from that kind of a cruel world.  But I don’t think we really are.  Recently I saw the movie “Ender’s Game,” and in the movie there is a scene in which the main character gets into a fight with the bully and not only defends himself but goes a step further to seriously injure him.  Why?  Because, he explains, he wanted to make it clear to the bully and to everyone else that he was not weak, so that he would not have to deal with bullying again.  Weakness invites aggression, right?  Or in the first Harry Potter movie, you might recall that Harry’s horrible and abusive adoptive family is turned into pigs, and Harry and all the good people laugh and are satisfied that they received their just deserts.  How many times in movies today are we encouraged to sympathize with those who retaliate with extreme violence?  As if by committing a crime a criminal somehow is no longer human – as if they have forfeited their rights and dignity and can be treated like an animal.

Just look at what is going on in the Central African Republic as we speak.  Mobs of men who claim to be Christian are going out slaughtering Muslim men, women, and children in retaliation for the violence and torture that they endured in recent years.  And I don’t think that we are so much better.  It is the fallen human condition: it starts with us when we are even very young.  “He hit me first!”  We are so quick to think that violence is justified against the wicked, and that God himself must approve.

That was what we first thought of God: that he himself must hate the wicked and wish to destroy them.  But over time God began to show us the truth about himself and about his will for all of us.  In the first step in this revelation, Moses taught what most great civilizations and rulers have thought reasonable: that a just retaliation must match the severity of the initial crime.  Only an eye for an eye – not a life for an eye.  Only a tooth for a tooth, not a hand for a tooth.  When retaliation for a wrong exceeded this proportionate response, Moses taught that the people were falling into revenge and hatred and were doing evil in God’s sight.

And I think that this is where most of the world is today – what they think.  If someone kills, then you can kill them.  If they punch you, you can punch them.  If they are irresponsible, sue them, but the amount has to be reasonable.  Seems fair.  Seems the way that God would want things.

But Jesus shows us that God is not like this at all.  He is not the God of instant karma, of retaliation, even of proportionate retaliation.  Instead, Jesus says, our heavenly Father makes his sun rise on the bad and the good, and causes rain to fall on the just and the unjust.  If we wish to be his children, Jesus says, we must follow his will, his way.  When someone strikes us on our right cheek, we should turn the other one as well.  And we should love our enemies as God loves them and pray for those who persecute us.

In a commentary on today’s Gospel, St. John Chrysostom writes beautifully about the path that Jesus leads us on through this gospel passage:

“Note through what steps we have now climbed, and how God has set us on the very pinnacle of virtue.
The first step is, not to do wrong to another;
the second, that in avenging a wrong done to us we be content with retaliating equally;
the third, to return nothing for what we have suffered;
the fourth, to offer one’s self to the endurance of evil;
the fifth, to be ready to suffer even more evil than the oppressor desires to inflict;
the sixth, not to hate him of whom we suffer such things;
the seventh, to love him;
the eighth, to do him good;
the ninth, to pray for him.”

By the progressive steps of this teaching, Christ leads us along the way of the cross, the way of perfect charity, that leads to eternal life.  He shows us how to be freed of the slavery that comes from hatred and retaliation and how to find the peace that comes from perfect charity.

And as we are about to say that this is too much, that ordinary men and women cannot possibly follow where Christ has trod, St. Jerome tells us: “Many, measuring the commandments of God by their own weakness, not by the strength of the saints, hold these commands for impossible, and say that it is virtue enough not to hate our enemies; but to love them is a command beyond human nature to obey. But it must be understood that Christ enjoins not impossibilities but perfection. Such was the attitude of David towards Saul and Absalom; the Martyr Stephen also prayed for his enemies while they stoned him, and Paul wished himself anathema for the sake of his persecutors.  Jesus both taught and did the same, saying, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

“Be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect,” Christ instructs us.  We are not made for imperfect love, we cannot be satisfied with it.  In a world that all too often claims that violence and revenge are necessary, justified, or at least understandable, you and I must teach our children the truth: that our God is not a God of karma, that revenge is never his way, and it can never be the way of the Christian.  Our Heavenly Father is perfect love, he always wills the good for all people.  And so, with his grace, may it be for us.

Love Does Not Recognize a Right to Privacy

Homily for the Sixth Sunday of Ordinary Time, 2014

This weekend we hear probably one of the most challenging teachings that Christ has given us.  He speaks to us very concretely about the law of love, and he gets very specific, doesn’t he?

Our Lord is specific, I think, because he knows that it is tempting for us to let the words “Love your neighbor as yourself” and “Be good to those who persecute you” run over the surface of our hearts but not really sink in, not let them convict us.  When our consciences start to sting a bit, how easily we can find ourselves saying things like “Well, I’m basically a good person.” or “I’m not as bad as so and so.”  Whether it is our pride or fear of condemnation or reluctance to change – how quickly the defenses can go up, and soon we start thinking about all the other people who Jesus must be talking about in this teaching.

So before we go any further, I think we need to let our guard down.  And we can because we remember that Jesus Christ comes not to condemn us but to save us.  He comes that we might have life and have it abundantly.  He comes as our redeemer and our creator – he knows what we need, he knows how we are made, he knows what will bring us peace and happiness and blessing.

With confidence let us open ourselves to this teaching today praying, asking:  “Lord, we want to stand in the light of your truth, in the light of your teaching, even when that means that our failures and our sins will be revealed.  Show us how to examine our consciences well, so that we can leave behind anything opposed to your will.  We want to follow your commandments.  We do not want to settle for the ways of this world, we want to learn your ways, we want to follow your law of love. ”

Now, with prayerful trust, we are ready to hear what Jesus teaches us about the stunningly high moral standards that are required by the law of love.  What does he tell us?

It is unacceptable, Christ says, to write anyone off.  No one can be dead to us.  Is there anyone with whom we are not on speaking terms?  Maybe they injured us, or maybe we injured them.  There was a break: maybe it was sharp and immediate, maybe there was just a slow parting of ways.
So many families and friends are divided.  People just decide that they are done with one another.  They move on, pretending that another person does not exist.

Now this does not mean that we should submit to behavior that does harm to our spiritual, psychological, or physical health.  But only the behavior can be rejected.  Never the person.  As followers of Christ, as Christians, the law of love requires we can never disown or repudiate another person.  We always must seek reconciliation.  That is the bar, that is the standard that we are all, as followers of Christ, called to uphold.

Further, Christ teaches us that it is a serious sin to be spiteful, scornful, or malicious toward one another.  To say “you fool,” he says, is a grave sin!  To think of ourselves as superior to others, to look down upon them.  To think ill of others – or to wish any ill upon them.  To be happy or content when they suffer.  To be harsh and cruel in our thoughts when they do not do as we would like or as we think they should.  To not give people the benefit of the doubt, to make harsh assumptions about their motives or intentions.  The law of love, Christ says, forbids any uncharitable thoughts and actions.  As St. Paul says so beautifully in another place “Love is patient, love is kind, it is not jealous, it is not pompous, it is not inflated, it is not rude, it does not seek its own interests, it is not quick-tempered, it does not brood over injury, it does not rejoice over wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth.  It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

Further, Christ is clear in his teaching that the law of love requires that we not use or manipulate others in our fantasies for our own pleasure.  Jesus teaches us that we injure others when we imagine actions or words or circumstances that would be harmful to them, or turn them into mental slaves of our desires.

So yes, it is wrong to fantasize about bad things happening to our bosses or people who cut us off on the road, or anyone for that matter.  It is wrong to fantasize about romantic encounters that don’t respect the dignity of the other person or the commitments of our lives such as marriage or holy orders.  And yes, it is wrong to spend time consumed with angry and resentful imaginings about another person, beating up on them and yelling at them and punishing them, thinking of all the things we would say to them and how we would tell them off.

The law of love, the command to love your neighbor, does not cease to be a command inside the privacy of the mind or heart.  No. Jesus teaches us that the law of love applies with greatest rigor within the mind and heart, since it is in the mind and heart that all actions find their origin.  The law of love requires of us a purity of mind and heart, a consistent and persistent willing of the good for all those we meet throughout the day.

The bar is so high.  So high!  Does that mean that we freak out and go to confession every other day?  No, of course not.  But maybe once a month.  We know that God is merciful and loving and patient, but we also know love is the law for us!

Fr. Robert Barron recently described Catholic moral teaching so well.  In an article titled Extreme demand, extreme mercy, he wrote:

“The Catholic Church’s job is to call people to sanctity and to equip them for living saintly lives.  Its mission is not to produce nice people, or people with hearts of gold or people with good intentions; its mission is to produce saints, people of heroic virtue.  Are the moral demands… extravagant, over the top, or unrealistic?  Well, of course they are!  They are the moral norms that ought to guide those striving for real holiness."

"The Church calls people to be not spiritual mediocrities, but great saints, and this is why its moral ideals are so stringent.  Yet the Church also mediates the infinite mercy of God to those who fail to live up to that ideal (which means practically everyone).  This is why its forgiveness is so generous and so absolute.  To grasp both of these extremes is to understand the Catholic approach to morality.”

Which, I think we could add, is the approach that is patterned on the teaching of Christ himself.

Salt and Light: the Beauty, the Goodness, the Sting.

 Homily for the 5th Sunday of Ordinary Time, Year A, 2014

Salt and Light.  These are two images that Our Lord uses to describe his disciples in the Gospel today.
At first blush these two realities might seem to be universally appealing.  Who doesn’t like salt and light?  Salt makes things tasty, and light – well do we really even need to say why light is good?

But wait…it’s not that simple, is it?  How do you like salt in a wound? Hmmm?  Not so much.  You ever mix up the salt with the sugar and put it in your coffee?  Not so great.

And light – beautiful light – that is, until you are driving down the road on a rainy night and trying to see where you are going.  Then it seems downright dangerous.  Or what about a neighbor’s really bright security light shining through the bedroom window when you are trying to sleep?  Fun.

A little salt brings out the taste, too much obscures it.  A little light helps us to see, too much light blinds.

Fr. Seamus, why are you trying to ruin this parable?  We like our nice warm and fuzzy light and our yummy salty popcorn.  Me too.

You may know, or may have heard, that today has been designated by the Church “World Marriage Day,” and this coming week “National Marriage Week.”

And today I don’t think any term illustrates what I am saying about salt and light better than this word: Marriage.  Is there any issue in recent years that has seemed more like salt in a wound?  That has seemed more like a security light beaming through the bedroom window?

“Why go there, Father?” you might ask.  Why not just stick with warm candles and popcorn?  Because I think we need to talk about this.  I don’t think we have really as a Church processed what happened around the whole marriage debate here in Maine.  Our Church has taken a very public stance and really caused a firestorm.  There are many Catholics who left the practice of the faith over the issue, and my sense is that there are many more who are still sitting in the pews but who feel more distant - whose identification with the Church has been weakened.

If you are not one of these men or women, certainly you know them, right?  And how many of you have been a part of the very difficult and tense conversations in recent months and years… around dinner tables, after Mass, at the workplace, and in so many other places?

Do we just pretend that none of this happened?  That the Church lost the marriage battle and so now its on to other things…  Let bygones be bygones?  I don’t think we can.  If we have any love for our brothers and sisters in Christ, if we have any love for the Church we can’t just move on.  We have to find a way to move forward.  We cannot let the impression stand – especially with younger generations – that salt and light are too harsh and intolerant for polite society.  That taking faith too seriously, living faith too publically, is a kind of social bullying.

Some might suggest that we just put the light under the basket for a time, let the salt mellow for a bit.  I think that is a natural response after such a contentious period.  Not to take such a public profile.  Let some of the memories fade with time.  Don’t say “Catholic” quite so loud.

But Christ clearly teaches against this move in the gospel today.  And I think we can see why on multiple levels.  First, to withdraw from society would not really address the issue.  Instead, it could seem like a ploy, like a kind of tactical retreat.  Instead of mending bridges or healing injuries, to withdraw from the discussion would only perpetuate an atmosphere of suspicion and distrust.

Furthermore, there is a great need for salt and light today.  People are hungering for it, craving to hear the good news of the Gospel.  They need to encounter Christ in us, tangibly and visibly.  We need to be Christ to them, for them.  And despite what some might like to pretend, you and I can’t do that if we don’t publically associate ourselves with Christ and his Church.

And finally, you can’t keep light healthy under a bushel basket – it needs oxygen.  And salt gets all clumped up and hard and useless if it is not used regularly.  Faith that is not alive, that is not active, atrophies and dies.  You cannot be salt, you cannot be light unless you are shared with the world.  Faith must be love in action.  By definition faith is relational, it is shared.

So we cannot retreat from society and become our own little walled city on the hill.  We cannot just do our own thing and let everyone else do their own thing.  Jesus did not do that, the apostles did not do that – and they had a lot more to lose.  They lost their lives because of it.  Christianity has never been a private religion, an individualized or customized faith.  We must live out our faith in the world, we must be salt and light for the world.

Yet let us be clear: Jesus did not ask his followers to go dump truckloads of salt on people or shine spotlights on them.  We cannot be blundering, haphazard or callous Catholics.  We will cause more harm than good.  That is why our faith, our Catholic tradition, has always underlined the necessary wedding of faith and reason.  Faith seeks understanding.  It is not irrational.  And so you and I cannot be true witnesses to our Catholic faith if we are not sure of the reasons for what we believe.  On this World Day of Marriage, I want to underline how important it is that all Catholics really strive to understand and know what the Church teaches about marriage, and to not be afraid to have conversations or read more if they have difficulties understanding the teaching.

But a correct understanding of Catholic teaching is not enough.  To be salt and light for our world, faith must be rooted in a life of virtue.  Genuine faith requires prudence, fortitude, justice, and temperance.  It requires fasting and abstinence, it requires long hours of prayer, it requires a community of believers, it requires sacramental grace.  To be salt, to be light for the world is not a thing that any of us can afford to be flippant about.  These are poignant realities - salt and light.  You don’t just trot them out on a whim.  Catholic faith requires deliberate, informed, and prayerful action.  Only then will we know how to be salt and light for the kingdom.

Pope Francis has communicated this well, hasn’t he?   Unlike what some media outlets have opined and some fearful Catholics have criticized, the Pope has not changed the teachings of the Church.  He has not put the light under a bushel basket, he has not lessened the flavor of the salt.  But he has shown a deliberateness and thoughtfulness in his words and actions that I think can guide us as we try to be salt and light to the world in which we find ourselves today.

Pope Francis has taken the path that is spelled out so beautifully in our first reading: “Thus says the Lord: Share your bread with the hungry, shelter the oppressed and the homeless; clothe the naked when you see them, and do not turn your back on your own.  Then your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your wound shall be quickly healed.”

Salt will always sting those who are wounded.  Light will always blind those who dwell in darkness. Some will turn away.  Some will refuse to be seasoned and will reject the light.  But please Lord may we not needlessly cause any to be lost through our superficial or lukewarm or haphazard witness to the Catholic faith.  Instead, by the grace of the sacraments and through our diligent efforts to grow in wisdom and virtue, may we be persistent in our witness - yes, to the sting - but also and especially to the beauty and goodness of salt and light.

Refining Grace

Homily for the Feast of the Presentation, Sunday Feb. 2nd, 2014

Spotless, immaculate, unblemished, impeccable, untarnished, unsullied, pure.
These words seem old fashioned today, don’t they?  Or at least in reference to a person.  They are words we might use to describe the state of a house, or of a thing.  An antique car might be untarnished or unsullied.  Water is pure.  A painting is unblemished or impeccable.  And a kitchen is spotless or immaculate.

But a person, a soul?   The only person who I think most Catholics would comfortably speak of in these terms is the Blessed Virgin Mary.  Immaculate Mary.  She’s not a person, she’s a saint, right?

But even attributed to her the language sounds archaic today – remote, almost like a fairy tale, some far off distant place.  Can you imagine saying to someone “Christ is at work purifying me so that he can present me as an offering to God, holy and blameless in his sight.”
“He’s doing what!?”  “Are you sure that you don’t have psychological problems?”

Instead, we so often speak and hear about God’s activity in the world in reference to evil and sin.  Either he is condemning and punishing, or he is forgiving and healing.  He’s the good cop or the bad cop.  But he’s the cop.

But today he is not the cop.  He is not the law.  He is not turning over tables and driving out sin and evil from the temple.  Instead he is presenting to God the reward of diligent and persistent effort, he is nourishing and building up, he is giving strength and vitality, he is bringing to fulfillment hopes and promises.  Today Christ enters the temple as a builder, as an artist.

In our first reading, the prophet Malachi speaks of Christ in these terms, in the terms of a craftsman: he is the goldsmith who through fire refines ore into a precious metal, he is the fuller who with lye cleanses wool to prepare it to be dyed and spun into cloth.  In other places in the scripture I’m sure you recall the descriptions of God’s activity in similar terms: the potter who shapes and molds clay into a vessel; the gardener who plants and tends his vines so that they produce good fruit.

But how often we think of God as a janitor, not an artist.  Instead of someone who takes what is good and refines it and purifies it and makes it beautiful, we think of him as someone who goes around mopping up spills and fixing broken windows and cleaning toilets.

We lose the sense of a long term and committed and covenantal relationship, of patient and dedicated effort on his part.  Instead, God is portrayed as one who comes in at the last moment and condemns or cleans.  As if all of his activity and involvement were concentrated at the moment of conception and the moment of death.

But that is not the way of an artist.  An artist is persistent – through trial and error, over years of different experiments and interactions, working in harmony with natural tools and materials, an artist creatively weaves them together, purifying and strengthening, sifting and intensifying: honing to a sharpened edge, burnishing to a bright luster, pruning to a bountiful harvest.  Over years, over decades, with sweat and tears and blood.  Through joys and struggles, setbacks and victories, working diligently to prepare, to build, to create beauty, to reveal truth, to nourish goodness.

Who were Simeon and Anna if not the fruits of these labors?  The Gospel tells us that the Spirit was upon them.  They were temples who had been purified within the temple.  Year after year the Lord had worked with and in them, diligently perfecting and strengthening them, helping them through trial and error, preparing them for the day when they would be present and Christ’s presentation, as members of his body, the Church.

What did Simeon say:  “Now, Master, you may let your servant go in peace, according to your word.”  Now your work in me is complete.  This is the final brush stroke, the pinnacle.

Simeon and Anna are the image and the sign of what we are all meant to be in Christ: offerings to God who have been purified and refined and built up in the Spirit.  The presence of Simeon and Anna in the temple today prefigures the final day when Christ will enter into the heavenly Jerusalem and present all of us, the work of his hands, to our heavenly Father.

As we come together let us ask Christ to help us cooperate with and be open to the work of his creative and purifying Spirit.  May we not shy from our divine sculptor’s chisel, or the Master gardener’s pruners.  May we be docile in the hands of the potter and submit to the honing file.  We are being purified.  We are being molded and shaped and transformed in Christ, an artist who is gentle yet firm.  As Hebrews tells us in our second reading, “Because he himself was tested through what he suffered, he is able to help those who are being tested.”

We are being prepared by the mysterious workings of God’s grace alive in us.  The grace we receive here at Mass and in the sacraments is fundamentally a constructive and refining grace, a grace that is at work to build us up, purify us, and make us fully human.  May we trust in the skillful hands of Christ, in the steadfast and never-failing efforts of the Divine Artist, who is at work to make of us, his Church, a pure and holy masterpiece revealed in all her splendor in the final presentation.

Leave Aside Your Nets For a While

Homily for the 3rd Sunday of Ordinary Time, Year A, 2014

A fishing net is a pretty nifty little tool, and it’s been around forever.  You just throw this thing over the side of the boat and wait – presto, when you haul it back in, you’re in for a treat… maybe.  Or maybe not.

Life is kind of like that, isn’t it?  Each of us is given this web of gifts and experiences.. .and we work diligently throughout life with the help of parents, mentors and friends to weave them together into a kind of net.   And each day we heave this mesh of gifts and experience into the mysterious waters of life, waiting to see what we will end up with – hoping that we will get what we need or want.  But we can never be sure, can we?

It’s a pretty anxious life, being a fisherman, especially when your life, and the lives of those you love depend on bringing in a catch.  And so it’s no surprise that so many spend hours worrying and working tirelessly to make sure that their nets are in good order.  From the earliest years we instruct our children on how to build a net that will get as many fish as possible – starting with good grades, we urge them to develop the traits that will make them successful.

Yet so much is outside of our control – the dark waters of life have a mind of their own and it is impossible to see into their depths with any accuracy.  We can only hope that we’re in the right place with a large enough net.

Then there is the constant reality of storms that seem to come out of nowhere with such fury – the death of a loved one, the loss of a job, a crisis in the family.  We scan the horizon, trying to be vigilant, hoping that we won’t be caught out at sea and suddenly lose everything.  The dark waters of life are fraught with unseen dangers and we have all seen what happens to those who do not navigate them with care.

In our time, don’t these waters of life seem have grown more dangerous, expanding into a massive sea?  Small ponds no longer seem to exist.  We have all been immersed into the massive ocean of a global economy where the fish are bigger, but the storms are bigger too.  And we do our best to navigate increasingly dark and mysterious depths of this great sea of modern life, but we can’t help but be more anxious, more nervous about the future than ever.

And then today in our gospel we hear a voice, strong and confident from the shore, from the seaward road that Isaiah speaks of in our first reading – in the region of Zebulun and Naphtali.  It is a voice that has not stopped ringing out for the last 2000 years, piercing the darkness like a light as from a lighthouse in the midst of a gloomy sea.  It is a strange voice, barely audible above the roar of the waves.  “What are you doing out there?  Come, follow me, and I will make you a fisher of men.”

What does that even mean, telling us all to come to shore?  Telling us to leave the concern for our nets behind.  Is he crazy?  Doesn’t he care for our survival?

But then he asks us:  “What assurance do you have that all of your efforts and labors will gain you anything?  Do you really think that you are immune to the storms of life?  You are not made to merely cling to survival, to be constantly on edge, worrying about life.  You don’t need to live like this.  Leave aside your nets for a while.  The net is not the proper tool for the kind of fishing that you need to be doing.  Stop trying to drag everything you can from life into your little boat.  You will find no happiness in these waters,
no peace.”

What Jesus tells us again and again is that true security, true happiness is found not by weaving our gifts and time and energy into a net in order to get what we can from life, but when we freely give what we have received to others.  This love of others is the art of fishing for men – the art of giving of our lives to one another.

One of the greatest tricks of the evil one is to convince us that this kind of fishing, the love of God and neighbor, makes us less secure, makes it harder to survive.  That we will only be secure if we weave our time and energy into some kind of safety net honed to get what we can from life for ourselves and those we care about.

But what is more secure: an expensive alarm system in the right neighborhood, or neighbors on all sides who know you and care about you?

What is more secure, all the right pedigree, degrees and promotions, or long-lasting and trustworthy friendships that are life-giving and meaningful?

What is more secure, a retirement account that is well funded, or relationships with children and grandchildren who are close to you and love you?

What is more secure: professional counselors and doctors who are sometimes able to treat your ailments, or a relationship with a loving God who you know and trust will guide you through anything?

And during a storm, a net is useless.  It means absolutely nothing.  You can have the largest, toughest, most sophisticated net in the world.  It will only drag you under during a storm.  And as far as fish – well who wants to spend the latter part of their lives with a stockpile of fish.  Fish don’t keep very well – just like the blessings that we receive in life.  They are better enjoyed fresh.

So follow the example of Peter and Andrew in our gospel today, and leave your nets aside more often.  That’s not to say that our fishing days are over, but we will not be able to adequately love those around us if all of our gifts and time and energy are wound up together in a fishing net.  And this means that each of us must consciously work to unravel the nets, work to place more of our time and energy and gifts directly at the service of those closest to us.

We must teach our children what real fishing looks like – teach them the joy of serving others, the joy of being an engaged husband or wife, of being a close family, of life-giving friendships, of being a good neighbor, an active parishioner, an involved member of the community.  If our children learn these fishing skills they will be able to weather whatever storms this dark sea of life throws at them.

We don’t need nearly as many fish as we might think we do, and remember that Jesus is the great multiplier of loves and fish.  Come to the shore more often, spend time in prayer, involved in the parish, with your wives and husbands, your children, grandchildren, parents and grandparents, parishioners, neighbors and friends.  Sacrifice for them, give your time and energy to them.  Become a fisher of men.  And then your days at sea won’t be as anxious, your net won’t feel so heavy, the catch won’t seem so light - because you will already have everything you need.

It Is Too Little To Be A Servant

Homily for the 2nd Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A, 2014

"It is too little, the LORD says, for you to be my servant,
I will make you a light to the nations,
that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth."

Too little.

The summer before I entered the seminary I had two paths before me: seminary and a life of public ministry, or a pottery wheel and a quiet life making bowls and plates.

I have always been more comfortable as the artist, the gardener, the designer, the architect, the stage manager, the one who can quietly go about his or her work for the glory of God and leave the politics and the power struggles to others.  Who can get to the end of the day and see the work that has been accomplished and then go home.

And yet I kept on feeling this tug toward the priesthood.  And it was not something that was comfortable to think about.  Working with inanimate objects was so much more appealing, so much less intimidating than getting involved in the spiritual realm and all the intricate inner workings of people.  Yet eventually I realized that it was too little to be a servant, as we hear in the second reading today – that I was being pulled into the light whether I wanted to be or not.

Now – you might think that this is a story that just belongs to those who have been called to the priesthood or religious life.  Or maybe some would say that this is a story that belongs to those who have been given authority over others in life: politicians, CEOs, commanders, teachers – that these positions of authority are those that are called to leave the task of being a servant behind and become a light for the nations.

I think that’s what people thought before Christ.  That there were the bright lights, the people who shined the way, and then there were those who followed, the servants.

But Christ revealed something new.  He brought Isaiah's prophecy to fulfillment.  It is too little, he said.  It is too little for you to be my servant.  I will make you a light to the nations for the salvation of the world.

He is speaking to all of you.  To all of you who have been baptized, who have been anointed priest, prophet, and king.  And that is what I finally realized when I was discerning the priesthood.  I realized that I could not escape the light – that I could not serve in the darkness.  That it was my baptism that was calling me out of the shadows, not my vocation to be a priest.  And that no matter what I did: whether I was a celibate priest, a married father, a single man, whether I was a potter, a teacher, a lawyer, the president, or a priest, I was called to be a light to the nations.

And the same goes for all of you.  It is not always easy news, that it is too little for us to be servants.  To be the light of Christ we must die to ourselves and rise to new life in him.  We must be converted, changed, altered, so that we can say with St. Paul “It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.”  That is the universal aspiration of the Christian.  To become like John the Baptist: a man whose existence was to point only to Christ.  And even more.  Because in Baptism we were called not just to point to him – but to become a part of him:  to become his body in the world.  St. Augustine said to those receiving the Eucharist: receive what you are, become what you receive.

It is too little to be a servant.  We must work as Christ in the world, allowing him to work through us, to shine his divine light through us, to carry out his salvation through us.

We are called to go grocery shopping as Christ, to visit our elderly parents as Christ, to change diapers as Christ, to pump gas as Christ, to sell merchandise or answer email or run meetings or arrest criminals or put out fires or build homes or collect the trash or wait on tables as Christ.  Not as servants, but as a light to the nations, as the body of Christ alive in the world.

What is it like to no longer be yourself but to be Christ?  I don’t know – I’m still working on it.  I hear it is full of peace.  I hear that it is full of joy.  I hear that there are great things that happen, that are beyond our imaginings – when we stop trying to serve, and allow ourselves to be transformed into vessels of the light of Christ.  I hear that we lose nothing of ourselves, and that we gain everything in return.

“He who loves his life will lose it, he who hates his life in this world will preserve it for eternal life.”

In our second reading St. Paul reminds us that we who are the Church of God have been sanctified in Christ Jesus and are called to be holy with all those everywhere who call upon the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.  It is too little to be a servant.  We are called to be saints.

Not A History Lesson, or a Magic Moment, or a Happy Thought...

Homily for the Solemnity of the Baptism of Our Lord, Year A, 2014

I have a priest friend who is currently in the Holy Land with a group of pilgrims and has been posting pictures of his trip.  One of the recent pictures was of him at the traditional place along the Jordan River where Christ was baptized by John.

My friend was not wearing swimming trunks. That is a dirty little river.  And it has been that way for thousands of years.  You might remember the story of Namaan the leper – how he came to Elisha to be cleansed and how when Elisha told him to go and wash in the Jordan seven times he was insulted? It’s the same today.  It is not a place to find clean water.

So what drew my friend and his fellow pilgrims to the Jordan River was clearly not that it is a majestic or beautiful river, a natural wonder.  Nor, however, were they visiting the Jordan with a mere historical interest, the way that they would visit a museum or an archeological site.  Did they visit because it is a magical place where they could receive miracles or special powers?  No.  That would be a kind of superstition, and not in keeping with our faith.  Some might say that in going they were keeping Jesus alive in their hearts by remembering him, or telling the story so that they could be inspired by God’s goodness and power.  But what a washed out understanding of what a Christian experiences when he or she encounters the place where Christ was baptized!

No, Christians go to the Jordan still today because it represents something precious for every one of us who has been baptized.

When we were baptized in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, St. Paul has taught us that we died to ourselves and we rose to new life in Christ.  We were made members of his body.  We became the adopted sons and daughters of God.  And so what happened in the Jordan to Jesus when he went to be Baptized by John is not something that we look upon from the outside – as mere onlookers.  When we were baptized, when Christ made us his brothers and sisters by adoption, everything that happened to him, all the words of the Father that were addressed to him also were addressed to us.

When the Holy Spirit descended upon Christ in the waters of the Jordan, he descended upon us to offer us his gifts.  And likewise, the voice of the Father speaks to us, addresses us with the same words that he addressed to Jesus when he came out of those waters: “This is my beloved son, this is my beloved daughter, with whom I am well pleased.”

In recalling the baptism of Christ, we recall that by his grace, through his sacrifice on the cross, we too are heirs with him to heaven, that we are also those who find favor with God.  This is one of the great themes of Christmas.  Remember the songs of the angels on Christmas night?  “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”

Because we have died with Christ and risen with him, we share in the same favor, the same peace, the same love that he has with the Father in the Holy Spirit.  When we are baptized and when we live in the grace of our baptism, the life of our baptism, we live nothing other than the life of Christ.  Christ lives in us, and we live in him.  And so God loves us and favors us the same way that he loves and favors his son, the same way that the loves and favors his very self.  In other words, we are drawn up into God, who is love.

So today is personal for each of us.  And even though we cannot go to the Jordan river today, each of us should think of ourselves united with Christ in the Jordan, in that place.  It may seem audacious, and it is.  In fact it is fool-hardy, as St. Paul said – to be alive in Christ, to have God as our Father.  To think of ourselves, raised up by God’s mercy out of the dirty water of our sinfulness and weakness united to Christ, members of his body.  To look up – to see the Spirit come to rest upon us with his gifts.  To hear the voice that comes out of the clouds and speaks to us: “You are my beloved son, my beloved daughter, with whom I am pleased.”

Not mere history lessons, or magic moment, or happy thoughts.  This is what we are made for: the peace and joy that comes from being pleasing to God, from giving glory to God, from being favored by him.  And this is the gift we are given in baptism - that we are given when we live in union with Christ.  Through him, with him, and in him, we receive the love and life and peace and joy that he receives and lives with the Father and the Holy Spirit.  Christ enters into the waters of our lives and the heavens break open above us, bathing us in the splendor of God’s never-failing love.

Remember Christ’s final instructions to his disciples in St. John’s Gospel: “As the Father loves me, so I also love you. Remain in my love.  If you keep my commandments, you will remain in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and remain in his love.  I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and your joy may be complete.”

May each of us today, then, recommit ourselves to living our baptism, to living in Christ, to keeping his commandments so that we too can share with him in the Father’s favor and give glory to his name.

Family Is a Gift, Not a Choice

I’m not sure how many of you have been out shopping for post-Christmas deals.
I really haven’t done too much of that.  I am already way over the shopping tolerance by the time I get to Christmas – I don’t want to even look at another store for a few months at this point.

But there are some of you who go back in to these torture chambers, from what I hear.
Because you can get good deals now, or at least I hear.And that make sense.  The retailers are trying to get rid of inventory that is now out of season.  Candy canes, which were flying off the shelves just days ago, are just going to sit there…  no one wants them.  They have probably eaten way too many.  So they have to bring the value way down – way, way down, to try to sell them.  That is when you smart shoppers can go in and buy up all the Christmas cards, and lights, and candy canes, and fruit cake and anything else with an extended shelf life – and you can pay about one tenth the cost and put all those things in the attic until next year.

Same stuff, same products, but because no one wants them this time of year, they are worth pennies on the dollar.  That’s the way that supply and demand works.  The value of a thing is dependent upon the demand for it – and so when there is no demand, there is no value.  Everyone understands that – and some of you are probably smart enough to save some money because you understand it.

On the feast of the Holy Family, though, we remember that we have to check this supply and demand principle at the door when we come home.  Because while it is true that the value of a thing fluctuates based on how desirable it is, on the demand for that product, the same is not true for people.

It seems that I should not have to say that.  Of course people are not products with a shelf life.  Of course people do not have a value that can be measured or that is contingent on whether others want them around or not.

But unfortunately I think I do have to say these things – the whole Church, all of us, have to say these things.  Because our culture has been showing signs of losing the understanding that human persons are made in the image and likeness of God and have infinite value.  Instead, in many subtle ways human life is often treated like a commodity whose value is based on its desirability, on whether it is wanted, like a product on the shelf.

Now immediately our minds might go to the tragedy of abortion.  And certainly this is the clearest case where many in our culture have decided that human life has no value because it is not desired.  Fortunately there has been progress made in this area recently, and the public opinion on abortion seems to have shifted slightly in the country.

But what is interesting about this shift is that it has happened, I think, because of an increase in our awareness of children in the womb and therefore an increase in our desire for them to be protected.  With the increased technology we can see them so much better and they are beautiful and so we want them.

And so even though the tide seems to be turning on abortion, the underlying problem, the underlying problematic perspective still endures: and that is the idea that to choose someone is to make him or her valuable.

To be chosen is to be valued.  Not to be chosen is to be nothing.  And this is the real problem that afflicts us.  Why?  First, because it is simply not true that human life is valued by being chosen by others.  It is valued because it is chosen by God.  Period.  He gives us life, he chooses us, and his choice and his alone is what secures the value of our lives.  The valuing of human life on any other terms is flawed and dangerous.

But there is a second reason why this commodification of human life is so problematic.  And this is because most human relationships are not chosen.  We do not choose our neighbors most of the time.  The same is the case with those we work with – we do not choose them, for the most part.  We don’t choose our priests or our bishop or pope or our fellow parishioners.  And on the most fundamental level, we do not choose our parents, we do not choose anyone in our families.  These are all relationships that are given to us, human lives that are entrusted to us without our choosing them.
And so if we have this idea that something is only valuable when it is chosen, when it is desired, then what happens to this whole matrix of human lives around us?  They become worthless.  The only people that have value are those we choose: and this is why I think we see in our time such a distorted emphasis on relationships of choice: friendships and to an extent, marriage, as long as it can be ended when we don’t want it any more.  Relationships with family, friend, neighbor, fellow parishioner?
If I don’t choose them, then they don’t mean anything for me.

Sometimes we hear lines like: “Every day when you wake up you have to choose to love your spouse again, choose to love your children, your neighbor, etc…”  And I understand that there is a positive message behind this saying: to recommit ourselves every day to those around us.  But might we also ask: “Or what?”  They won’t mean anything?  Your wife won’t be your wife anymore?  Your children won’t be your children?  You parents your parents?  Your neighbor your neighbor?

No – our families, our children, our parents and grandparents, our neighbors, our priests and fellow parishioners – whether we choose them or not, God has given them to us to help us become holy men and women, in joy and in suffering, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health.  A holy family is not a chosen family, a holy family is a gift received gratefully from the hand of God.  That is why we honor those around us – because they are beloved by God to such an extent that he tells us that whatever we do to the least of our brothers and sisters we do to him.  Your husband, your wife, your children, your parents, your neighbors and co-workers: these men and women are gifts of incomprehensible value.  God has set the price of their lives: it is the price of his blood shed upon the cross.

So as you shop for candy canes and fruit cakes and Christmas lights and cards, remember this: you can discount holiday knick knacks, you can put just about any earthly product on sale: but the price of a human life, the price of a holy family, of a loving community is never affected by the waxing and waning of fickle want, desire, and attraction: it is the same yesterday, today, and forever: it is the price of God’s never-failing love.

There Was No Room in the Inn

Homily for Christmas Masses 2013

Mary and Joseph couldn’t find room in the inn.  I have been reflecting on that.  This was their first baby.  I can’t even imagine what was going through their heads.  They had been on the road for days – Mary out to here…  Far from home, exhausted – and then Mary started having contractions.  And I just wonder…  they must have been so confused.

Nine months earlier Mary had been visited by an angel.  She was carrying a baby who had no earthly father.  Joseph had been visited in a dream by another angel.  And he had also been told that Mary was pregnant through the Holy Spirit and that her child would be the Messiah, the promised one, the savior of Israel.  He was to adopt him as his son and take Mary into his home as his wife, to protect and care for them as his own.

Their minds must have been so full of questions, so excited, so anxious.  What was God going to do next?  Would the angels come down again at the appointed hour for her to give birth?  Was there a midwife angel?  What would their son look like?  Would he have wings?  How would he act?  Would he cry like other children?  Would he sleep?  Would she need to nurse him?  Maybe he would only be able to eat angelic food…  Would they set up a throne for him right away?  And for a bed?  The wings of angels...  Certainly they would not be able to care for his needs, certainly a poor carpenter and a lowly girl from Nazareth could not give birth and care for the savior of the world, the Son of God, Emmanuel!

So I imagine that they were anticipating more angelic visits… more miracles, more wonders….  Riding and walking along together…  “Surely,” Mary must have thought, “surely the angels will come and bring us somewhere to have this baby now.”  No…  Just the clacking of hooves and the smell of donkey breath…  On they went…  They would stop at an inn – at least they could try to be prepared for the arrival of their celestial guests.  Joseph could wash up a bit, get the dust off his face.  Mary could put her feet up…  But no. It was full.  Really?  No divine intervention here?  God can’t figure out a way to give his son and his parents a place to stay for the night?

And then the contractions started…   well, the inn keeper said there was a stable out back…  For the Son of God…  wow.   Well who knew what the Lord had in mind, right?  Maybe this was a test?  So out to the stable.  Was that the flutter on an angel’s wing?  No, just a few pigeons.  Joseph looks disapprovingly at the rotten beams.  Mary tries to ignore the stench.  There are worse problems: Mary’s midwife is back in Nazareth.  They had found the best one in the whole region… but to no avail – it would have to be Joseph with his rough carpenter’s hands.

As if in a dream, they labor through the night, one moment blending into the next - and it seems to happen so fast - suddenly there before them lies their little son, Emmanuel.  No wings, but a fragile, little baby boy.  He had been born in a smelly manger with no midwife and now there were no angel’s wings to rest on – it would have to be some straw in the manger.

I wonder if their first impulse was to apologize…  “We are so sorry Jesus – this was the last thing we wanted, that you deserve – to be born in such a way, in such a place, by two people so inept as to not even find you a proper bed.”

And maybe they wondered about God’s plan – had they gotten it wrong?  Had all the things they had seen and heard about this boy been imaginations?  Were the angels real?  Was the prophecy true?  How could this be?  That the Lord would not intervene – that he would allow his Son, almost conspire to ensure that his Son, was born in such a way, in such a place?  What kind of Savior could this child be?

A knock on the door.  A rough looking fellow sticks his head around the corner.  A shepherd.  He had been looking for them.  Not one, either… More and more start to wander in.  Shepherds!  The rude and crass men who worked the fields.  They are talking about angels and songs and singing in the heavens, and about their son.  They had come to meet him, to honor him.  More and more started showing up at the door, talking about the same thing – angels and songs and lights in the heavens.

And then it must have hit them.  These were the first subjects of the king.  The first to share in his kingdom.  These rude and crass men.  These forsaken.  These lowly.  The poor.  The destitute.  The uneducated and disabled.  Those who lived in the margins and the dark corners of life.

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.”  Isaiah had prophesized.  “For a child is born to us, a son is given us; upon his shoulder dominion rests.  They name him Wonder-Counselor, God-Hero, Father-Forever, Prince of Peace.”  Who would give him these names?  Not the rich and powerful, not the famous and strong.  Not even angels from on high.  But shepherds.  The poor.  The uneducated.  They angels were out finding them and bringing them to a stable, a place where they would feel at home to meet their new king, their savior.

And when Mary and Joseph saw this, I can only imagine that it brought tears to their eyes… To see that this child was already bringing mercy to those who are cast out, comfort to those who are afflicted, justice to those who are oppressed, consolation to those in sorrow, sight to the blind, wisdom to the simple, healing to the sick, freedom to captives, and good news to the poor.

How could they not love him – and not only because he was their son, but because he was the Savior who they had longed for without even knowing it.  He showed them the face of God: a God who was good beyond their hopes, compassionate beyond their dreams, beautiful beyond their imaginings.

We just had an ice storm.  I imagine many of you are without power.  Maybe the oven won’t even work.  The circumstances are not great…  And you know, even if your power is on – we’re not in heaven yet.  Life is messy – life is often Bethlehem during a census.  There are disappointments, just as Mary and Joseph faced long ago.  We wonder: will this be enough?  We apologize: I wish I could offer better.  We question: why doesn’t God intervene?  Why does life have to be this difficult, this imperfect?

Yet as Mary and Joseph watched the procession of rugged and smelly shepherds coming in to meet their son, one can only imagine that their disappointment, their frustration, their questions and doubts began to fade away.  The difficult circumstances, the limitations, the humble setting before them was transformed by Christ’s presence into a holy temple.  God was with them.  Emmanuel.  He had entered the darkness and made it light.  His favor was upon them, his love poured out among them.  He had turned their straw to gold.

Ask for a Sign!

Homily for the 4th Sunday of Advent, 2013.  Year A.

I am sure that many of us are looking forward to Christmas finally getting here.   We are out running around – trying to get the last minute gifts, trying to make sure that we haven’t forgotten anyone important.  Worrying that someone might give us something when we haven’t gotten them anything, or that our whole house is going to be a wreck.

And then there are the overarching anxieties that start to come to mind this time of year: will Uncle Bill insist on talking politics during the Christmas meal, will our son get on his soap box again and rile everyone up?  How are we going to deal with the sugar-brained kids or grandkids who are melting down and throwing tantrums?  Is Julie really bringing that problematic boyfriend home from college and what kind of sleeping arrangements are going to work for that?  Will our health hold up to allow us to host or to travel?  And how in the world are we going to pay for all the gifts?

By the time we hit this 4th Sunday of Advent, I think many people are ready to run away to somewhere tropical.  So much Advent craziness.

St. Joseph had some Advent craziness to deal with too.  We hear about it in the Gospel today.  And it was pretty crazy.  This woman – a woman who I would imagine he must have had the utmost respect for, who he must have admired and cherished above most anything - this woman who shared with Joseph a fierce dedication to observing the Law and the teachings of the prophets, whose virtue and religious conviction were unparalleled - this woman who intuitively and freely loved God with her whole heart and followed his promptings with great joy and courage - this woman who God had brought into his life, who he had spoken with at length about starting a family, who would bring their children into this world and raise them with him, and hopefully grow old with him surrounded by their children’s children - this woman who promised Joseph a line of upright and God-fearing descendants and a future full of hope – this woman, Mary, was pregnant, and not by him.

The Gospel is understated.  It says that since Joseph was a righteous man, he decided to divorce her quietly.  But this is a man who must have been reeling!  Not only had his honor been tarnished, not only had he been betrayed – but by such a woman!  A saint!  It must have seemed incomprehensible to him.  Imagine the conversation – how crazy she must have seemed.  An angel?  Emmanuel?  What was she talking about?  He had been courting a lunatic!  How could he not question his every assumption, everything he had previously thought to be true?  To think of having such a woman as his wife?  To call her boy his son?  No.  It was too much.  He could not handle it.  He would not lash out in hatred, but quietly walk in the other direction, leaving the drama, the insanity behind and moving on.

Such was his intention, we hear.  Such was his intention.
It is like Ahaz, who we hear of in our first reading today: overwhelmed.  He can’t figure this out, it is too much. He wants to flee, to run.

Then, out on the highway to the fullers field, Lord sends Isaiah out to meet him with the message, the same message of the angel sent to Joseph: “Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son and they shall name him Emmanuel” which means “God is with us.”

When our hopes and dreams have fallen to the ground around our feet, when we are overwhelmed by anxieties, when the task before us seems insurmountable and we are ready to flee, to run: it is at this moment that our heavenly Father sends his prophets, his angels, to meet us: “Do not be afraid to take Mary into your home.”

“Do not abandon my Son when he comes to you hidden within the messy and chaotic circumstances in life.  Hidden within the difficulties of family dynamics, hidden within the financial stresses of generosity, hidden within the dysfunction and difficulty of friendship.”

The angel, the prophet send us home, they tell us not to give in to fear or anxiety, to become discouraged or to loose heart.  God dwells in mystery, his ways are not our ways.  Often he is not born in circumstances that we would expect – in pristine settings of warmth and comfort.  No – he is often born in the dwellings of animals, in dark caves cut into the ground, in the places of last resort.  He is often born in the wake of destroyed hopes and dreams, of circumstances rife with scandal and shame.  He is often born in relationships that have been damaged or grown cold, in families where intimacy seems lost.

“Ask for a sign!” Isaiah tells us, “Ask for a sign!”  “Let it be deep as the netherworld, or high as the sky!”  Do not weary the Lord with your running.  Do not let your anxieties drag you away.  Christ waits to be born among you, in your home, in your marriage, in your family, in your friendships.  “Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel, which means “God is with us.”

A Justice that is Human and Divine

Homily for the 2nd Sunday of Advent, 2013

Justice shall flourish in his time, and fullness of peace forever.  This is the refrain for the Responsorial Psalm on this 2nd Sunday of Advent.  And our readings this weekend encourage us to reflect on this aspect of the coming of the Messiah: the prophets promised that in him the injustice and violence, the corruption and greed that torment this world would finally be brought to an end.  Isaiah’s prophetic words paint such a vivid picture of the radical peace and justice that God promised: the lion and the lamb lying down together, the child lying in the adder’s lair.  This is not the image of a merely superficial tranquility, a kind of temporary truce.  The prophets were united in signaling that the coming of the Christ would bring usher in a new era of peace, equity, and justice.

John the Baptist echoes this refrain: the coming of the Lord means justice, a clearing of the threshing floor, the wheat being gathered and the chaff burnt.  The poor and lowly and downtrodden would find their reward in him, the greedy and authoritarian and violent their recompense.

Pope Francis made the news again recently with the new Apostolic Exhortation Evangelii Gaudium.  I have been reading it, and I have also been reading what everyone has been saying about it.  As you might have read, one of the things that got people going was the pope’s criticism of trickle-down economics and his general condemnation of the abuse of the free market.

What has been interesting is that people are responding to his words as if he has introduced something new – as if Christ did not have anything to say about the rich and the poor, about justice and equity, or at least as if the Church has never bothered to hand on these teachings until our current pope.

I do not have time, brothers and sisters – and nor would I want to bore you with endless citations – but let me be very clear on this point: you cannot speak about the role or mission of the Messiah without speaking of social justice.  Christ clearly came to bring justice, and clearly came to bring justice for those who are most in need of it: the poor and downtrodden.  That is why there has been a clear, uninterrupted, and virtually unanimous line of social justice teaching in the Church for 2000 years.

In the modern era, this teaching has become all the more clear.  Beginning with Pope Leo XIII’s encyclical Rerum Novarum which was promulgated in 1891 and continually affirmed by our bishops and popes to the present day, our faith has consistently and clearly voiced the teaching of Christ: that the work of increasing his kingdom on earth is a work of spreading his justice and peace for all people.  This teaching was confirmed again 40 years later by Pope Pius XI in the encyclical Quadragesimo Anno and reaffirmed in a particularly authoritative way in the second Vatican council document Gaudium et Spes.  Recent Popes have continued in the same line of thought: Pope Paul VI in his encyclical Populorum Progressio, John Paul II in the encyclical Centessimus Annus, and Pope Benedict in his encyclicals Deus Caritas Est and Caritas et Veritate.  Now we hear the same thing from Pope Francis in Evangelii Gaudium.  I cite all of these Latin titles to make the point that Pope Francis is not teaching anything that is new or outside of the magisterial tradition of the Church in his recent document.

Recent commentary by pundits and even professional journalists reveals that either so few have bothered to familiarize themselves with the teachings of Christ and his Church, or that their efforts are really directed toward advancing their own agendas, rather than accurate reporting. The recent media furor over the Pope’s comments about economic justice, and in particular just one or two lines of an incredibly long document, is overblown, superficial, and divisive.  Predictably so much of the commentary has fallen into two traps into which I fear many Catholics may inadvertently also be drawn.  The traps represent two extremes that Christ sought to avoid and that the Church has worked to navigate since the beginning.

The one extreme is the interpretation of Christ’s messianic work in an exclusively political sense, as if he were merely seeking to reform earthly structures and bring about earthly justice.  In responding to Pope Francis, some have really pushed toward this extreme – speaking of the liturgy, prayer, beauty, truth, as if the Pope’s words in support of social justice relegate the areas of life that point us to the transcendent to the category of the superfluous and distracting.  Some have also tried to use the Pope’s words as an endorsement of whatever social agenda that they might have, or whatever policy that they think needs to be put in place, or whatever governmental organization they think needs to be built up.  As if the Pope were primarily concerned about politics, policies, and social agendas, or as if he did not care about prayer, beauty, and the truth.  It is as if they have forgotten that the title of his Apostolic Exhortation is Evangelii Gaudium, “The Gospel of Joy.”  It is a document about the New Evangelization.  His goal, Pope Francis says again and again in its pages, is to bring our world to an authentic encounter with the person of Christ.  Christ is the Justice we seek – he and he alone can bring about the fullness of justice that we need.

Again and again Pope Francis reminds us, as Christ told us himself: the Kingdom of Christ is not a kingdom of this world, it is not another NGO.  To carry out our efforts to advance social justice in a purely horizontal way, along merely economic and socio-political lines, is to hijack the work of Christ in an attempt to make it our own.  History has shown that when we try to supplant the kingdom of heaven and its justice with earthly governments and policies and movements we create monstrous idols that inevitably oppress and enslave us.

The Christian answer to trickle-down economics is not a socialistic theocracy.  If that were the answer, Christ would have founded one himself and taken his seat on its throne.  What Christ seeks is the conversion of the private and public, corporate and civil orders so that all spheres of human life operate in harmony with one another according to God’s justice, a justice that transcends any institution or enterprise.

On the other hand we find the extreme of those who act as if the Gospel had nothing to do with social justice.  They have criticized the Pope’s discussion of economic injustice as if he were speaking outside of his area of competency or introducing some novelty.  What, do they want him to just talk about angels and holy oil all day, as if the Gospel did not have repercussions on day to day life?

Further, some have reacted to his statements as if he were some kind of leftist or socialist by saying that the rich have an obligation to help the poor, that the healthy have an obligation to help the sick, that the well fed have an obligation to help the starving.  Do they not recall the words of our Lord “When I was hungry you fed me, when I was thirsty you gave me to drink, when I was sick you visited me”?  It is not socialism to recognize that we have a social responsibility for one another – that is the Gospel.  And it is not socialism to insist that all orders of life: private, public, corporate, and civil – be carried out in justice and with a deep concern for the needs of the poor and marginalized.  That is the Gospel.  As much as it is true that Christ’s kingdom is not of this world, we cannot live in this world as if God’s kingdom and his justice have not come to earth.  Christ is the promised Messiah.   He is fully divine, but he is also fully human.  As members of his body we have the responsibility to seek and to serve his justice in the establishment of a kingdom that is at the same time both human and divine.

No one knew this better than Our Lady.  The solemnity of her Immaculate Conception has been moved this year – we do not celebrate it today on the 8th, but on the 9th.  But on this 2nd Sunday of Advent let us recall Mary’s prayer as she rejoiced that God's promise of justice would be fulfilled on earth as it is in heaven through her Son:

My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord,
my spirit rejoices in God my Savior
for he has looked with favor on his lowly servant.
From this day all generations will call me blessed:
the Almighty has done great things for me,
and holy is his Name.
He has mercy on those who fear him
in every generation.
He has shown the strength of his arm,
he has scattered the proud in their conceit.
He has cast down the mighty 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.
He has come to the help of his servant Israel
for he has remembered his promise of mercy,
the promise he made to our fathers,
to Abraham and his children for ever.
Amen.