Feast of St. John the Evangelist: God Made Visible (ACL Pilgrimage, Day 6, Rome)

(Feast of St. John the Evangelist; This homily was given on 27 December, 2008 in the Basilica of St. John Lateran in Rome; See 1 John 1:1-4)

I am sure that all of us have heard of John Paul II’s Theology of the Body. Given as a part of his Wednesday General Audiences right here in the City of Rome in the first five years of his pontificate, this profound teaching of our late Holy Father can hardly be reduced to a sound byte.

Yet John Paul II himself offers a sentence, back in October of 1982, that allows us to catch a glimpse of what—or, rather Who—this Theology of the Body is all about. On that autumn day some 26 years ago he said:

The body, in fact, and only it, is capable of making visible what is invisible: the spiritual and the divine.

Great. Now what does that mean?! We can start with our own experience. We know that we are not just physical beings, not merely bodies occupying space. We are also spiritual; we have a soul.

But what does a soul look like? You cannot tell what another person’s soul looks like because it is invisible. You do not know if it is dark, occupied with hatred, anger or jealousy. Perhaps it is a soul filled with light, surrendered completely to love and compassion. We could never know such a thing.

But when persons express themselves—using their speech, actions, mannerisms—then we begin to catch a glimpse of what is happening in the soul. We cannot know everything, and we should always be careful not to make hasty judgments, but we can begin to see that which had been hidden.

I will give you an example. Let us say that a father has a deep and abiding love for his daughter. Well, what does that mean? What does it look like? But imagine that this little girl is out playing in the back yard, and suddenly she falls and is hurt. The father rushes out to her, scoops her up in his arms and holds her close to himself. Now we can see, in a concrete way, what it means to say that this father has a deep and abiding love for his daughter.

The body, in fact, and only it, is capable of making visible what is invisible: the spiritual and the divine.

That is how the body can make visible that which is invisible, the spiritual nature we all possess. But what about that second part: the divine? How does the body reveal the invisible God?

Hopefully you have already guessed this one, since we have been celebrating it for the past three days! In the Incarnation—Christ born among us on that first Christmas morning—we come to see a love that has existed from all eternity.

The eternal communion of love that exists from all eternity in the Blessed Trinity—this love that is forever being poured out and received within God Himself—is suddenly revealed to us in the person of Jesus Christ.

That little Child born in Bethlehem grows up to be a man, and he reaches out in love to the lonely, to the sorrowful, and to those who no one else wants anything to do with. He forgives and reconciles in ways that defy all common “standards.” In loving obedience to the Father’s will, He suffers and dies on the cross without ever becoming bitter, and even pleads forgiveness for the very people crucifying Him.

We look at this Christ and say: Yes, that is what love looks like. Now I understand what it means to say that “God is love.”

And that is precisely what St. John the Evangelist is saying in our first reading this morning. We listen to those words here, in this basilica dedicated to St. John, on his feast day. We hear his own words, his eyewitness account of the Incarnation of Jesus Christ:

Beloved:

What was from the beginning,

what we have heard,

what we have seen with our eyes,

what we looked upon

and touched with our hands

concerns the Word of life

for the life was made visible;

we have seen it and testify to it

and proclaim to you the eternal life

that was with the Father and was made visible to us.

—1 John 1:1-2

We have seen Him, St. John declares. We listened to His voice, we touched His body. The invisible God has been made visible to us, and now we proclaim this Christ to you!

This is John’s message to all the world. He burns within to make it known, to announce to every person this Good News about the God who first loved him. This is why we call him—the author of the Fourth Gospel—St. John the Evangelist.

As we celebrate his feast today, here in this basilica, how is God calling us to be evangelists? How are we called to hear, and see, and touch Christ, so that we may burn with that same desire to share Him with the world around us?

It is not all that different for us here today. We also listen to the words of Christ in the Gospel. We hear His voice speaking to us when the Scriptures are read. We touch Him and are touched by Him, physically and spiritually, in the sacraments of the Church. In a moment we will eat His body and drink His blood in the Holy Eucharist.

May we also leave this place and make Him visible to the world we live in. We who have seen the invisible God and been changed by Him, cannot help but to make Him known to those who are seeking and searching and longing for God.

Feast of St. Stephen (ACL Pilgrimage, Day 5, Rome)

(Feast of St. Stephen, First Martyr; This homily was given on 26 December, 2008 in the Clementine Chapel of St. Peter's Basilica in Rome; See Acts chapter 6-7, and Matthew 10:17-22)

It is fitting that we are here, in this place, as we listen to these words of Christ in the gospel this morning. Christ addresses his disciples and tells them, soberly, of the days to come:

They will hand you over to courts and scourge you in their synagogues, and you will be led before governors and kings for my sake as a witness before them…
—Matthew 10: 17-22

And some of them, Christ says, will be put to death. Of course, St. Peter would have been one of those disciples listening to that warning; Peter, who experienced all these things for Christ.

It is fitting that we celebrate here in this chapel—at the tomb of St. Peter, Apostle and martyr—the Feast of St. Stephen, one of the first deacons of the Church and the very first martyr. That word martyr—as our seminarians will remember from Greek classes!—means witness. Saints Peter and Stephen gave their lives as witnesses to their faith in Jesus Christ.

St. Stephen, in the Acts of the Apostles this morning, bears witness to Christ quite literally. He looks up into the heavens and sees our Lord with his own eyes. He cries out to the members of the synagogue, “Behold, I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God” (Acts of the Apostles 7:56).

But it was not for a vision that St. Stephen was stoned to death. It was not merely because he saw Christ with his own eyes. St. Stephen, like St. Peter and all the martyrs, was killed because of his witness to Jesus Christ and the message of the gospel. He bore witness to the synagogue officials about the need to acknowledge Jesus Christ as the savior of our lives. Like St. Peter, he spoke courageously about the person of Jesus Christ and the need to live our lives for Him, and not for ourselves. The martyrs announced the message of the gospel and bore witness to Christ without shame, without embarrassment, and without fear.

Those of us here today who are priests and those studying for the priesthood can do no less. We, too, must announce a message which requires conversion and repentance, and at times we must speak out for the culture of life in a world that does not always listen to that message. We must daily live the gospel and, in turn, proclaim that message in its entirety. It is not easy to do that. In fact, without the grace of God it would be impossible.

And so, again, it is fitting that we are here. This is the place where, for hundreds of years after the death of Saints Peter and Stephen, popes and kings alike would come to acknowledge their faith in Christ and need for Him, here before the tomb of Peter. Here in this place is where solemn oaths were sworn and Christian hearts were strengthened.

This morning we take a moment to pray before the tomb of St. Peter, and to ask for his prayers, and the prayers of St. Stephen, that we might be as faithful as them in living our faith and professing it to others. May we also bear witness to our faith in Jesus Christ, without embarrassment, without shame, and without fear.

The Natural (ACL Pilgrimage, Day 2, Florence)

(Fourth Week of Advent; This homily was given on 23 December, 2008 at the Duomo in Florence, Italy; I am accompanying the Seminarians of the American College of the Immaculate Conception on our annual pilgrimage to Italy. See Luke 1:57-66)

One of the best baseball movies ever made is a film called The Natural, starring Robert Redford. It’s a beautiful story about a talented baseball player named Roy Hobbs. He has a gift, a “natural” ability, as the title suggests, and could possibly be the best to ever play the game.

Towards the beginning of the movie he strikes out “the Whammer,” considered to be the best hitter in the major leagues, on three pitches. He is well on his way to the top. But soon things take a tragic turn for the worse. Roy is shot by a deranged woman, his career suddenly cut short. He survives, but that natural gift and his desire to play the game seem all but finished.

But if you have seen the movie then you know that, after sixteen years, Roy Hobbs eventually makes a comeback. His natural talent and love for baseball draw him back once again, and the end of his career is nothing short of breathtaking.

I believe that, deep down inside, we all long for a natural talent or ability like that. And truth be told, every single one of us has such an ability, and one even greater than Roy Hobbs. It is something so natural and common that we often take it for granted. It is the ability to communicate. We are given a gift for expressing ourselves—our feelings, desires, fears, hopes—with others.

Especially for those who are called to the priesthood, it is a gift and ability that allows us to communicate the gospel message of Jesus Christ, to tell the story of His mercy and compassion to a world longing for that consolation and communion with the living God.

Our ability to communicate goes beyond the mere “natural.” As we have heard in these gospel passages in the days leading up to the birth of Christ, the saints (Joseph, the Blessed Virgin Mary) communicate with angels and ultimately we are all called to communicate even with God himself. We are able to respond to God in words freely chosen, creatively expressing our desire for the One who first desired us. Our “natural” gift extends into the supernatural realm.

And a great example for us when it comes to the use and misuse of this gift is Zechariah, whom we hear from in the gospel this afternoon. We heard last week about the visit he received from the angel announcing the birth of John the Baptist. To that extraordinary announcement Zechariah responds with doubt and fear. Unlike Mary, whose, “How can this be,” is followed immediately by her “Let it be,” (see Luke 1:26-38) Zechariah expresses his inability to trust in either the message or the messenger.

The angel’s reaction to that unbelief is automatic and somewhat startling. Without consulting anyone, and with complete authority, he reduces Zechariah to silence. Since he has expressed doubt and disbelief at so great a message, now he will no longer express himself at all!

But in the gospel this afternoon he receives that gift back once again. Immediately after expressing his faith and trust in God's plan through the naming of his child according to the instructions of the angel, everything changes. Like Roy Hobbs, his natural gift cannot be suppressed and he now uses it for the supernatural praise and worship of God. St. Luke tells us:

Immediately his mouth was opened, his tongue freed, and he spoke blessing God.
—Luke 1:64

St. Luke goes on to tell of the glorious canticle of Zechariah (Luke 1:67-79), a prayer that we recite each day at Morning Prayer. It is a joyful song of praise, expressing the hope of Israel and all the world, and exalting the God for whom all things are possible.

Zechariah gives us all an opportunity, in these final days before Christmas, to consider how we are using our natural gift of communication. Especially as men called to the priesthood and to be messengers of the gospel, how are we communicating with those around us?

Do we sometimes express doubts or unbelief in God’s plan for our lives or our future? Are the words and language we use uniting the Body of Christ and bringing God’s people closer together? Are we able to use that natural gift to communicate with God in that supernatural conversation called prayer?

May we use well this gift of communication and, Like Zechariah, might these days of anticipation and celebration of Christ’s coming among us free our tongues to bless God and to come before Him in praise and adoration.

Gaudete Sunday and "The Romances"

(Third Sunday of Advent; This homily was given on 14 December, 2008 at the Chapel of The American College of the Immaculate Conception in Louvain, Belgium; See 1 Thessalonians 5:16 and Philippians 4:4)

This morning I would like to tell you a story. In fact, it is a love story, a romance! Oh, don’t worry; it is nothing risqué. But it is a lovely story and one that I am sure you have heard many times before…but we’ll come back to that.

For now, I would like to begin with a few words about this feast we celebrate today. Our colors this morning are rose and the candle we light on our wreath is pink because today we celebrate Gaudete Sunday. Gaudete is the Latin word for Rejoice! We find that word in our second reading this morning, in St. Paul’s letter to the Church at Thessalonica. He says, “Rejoice always” (1 Thessalonians 5:16). The entrance antiphon is from another one of St. Paul’s letters, in which he says, “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice” (Philippians 4:4). He repeats himself, just in case we missed it the first time!

What we rejoice in is that Christmas is just around the corner. We are less than two weeks away, and so we already begin to celebrate—in anticipation—that glorious coming of the Lord. But there is one important question we must ask ourselves this morning:

What right do we have, as Christians, to celebrate and rejoice?

With all the suffering and sorrow in the world around us, the trials in our own personal lives, and the brokenness we experience so often, are we not deluding ourselves? What right does St. Paul have to say to us, “Rejoice,” and what obligation do we have to follow such counsel?

To answer that question I would like to turn to the person whose feast day is celebrated today, and every December 14: St. John of the Cross. We do not observe his feast today because Gaudete Sunday takes precedence, but he is a saint who can teach us a great deal about joy, and about suffering (how very often those two things are found together in the lives of the Saints).

St. John of the Cross is a 16th century Spanish mystic and Doctor of the Church. He had an intense and intimate relationship with God and he possessed a unique gift for communicating that relationship to others through poetry and prose. John was called by God, along with his dear friend St. Teresa of Avila, to reform the Carmelite Order at that time.

The Carmelites are a contemplative religious order founded on a commitment to God in silent-as well as communal-prayer. John’s attempt to bring the focus more completely back to this original foundation was met with much resistance. His own contemporaries rejected him, and even had him abducted and brought to the Carmelite monastery in Toledo, where he was placed in a tiny cell with little food, little water and almost no light at all. He was treated miserably.

Yet it was there, alone and in the darkness of that prison cell, that St. John of the Cross made a remarkable discovery. He found joy—even there, of all places—and understood well that our rejoicing in God is not dependent upon anyone or anything else around us. We do not depend upon the way others treat us, or on what is happening in the world around us, or on any other thing. Our joy, St. John of the Cross would attest, comes from God.

And there, in the darkness, John began to write the most beautiful poems about the depths of God’s love and the soul’s remarkable journey towards union with Him. We still have those poems today…

…which brings me back to that story I mentioned at the beginning of this homily! I said that it was a love story, a romance. It was written by St. John of the Cross and it is a poem which he himself entitled The Romances. It begins in heaven, as a dialogue of love between God the Father and God the Son. We are allowed to kind of eavesdrop on that conversation in heaven, and in that poem God the Father says:

“My Son, I wish to give you
a Bride who will love you.
Because of you she will deserve
to share our company,
and eat at our table,
the same bread I eat,
that she may know the good
I have in such a son;
and rejoice with me
in your grace and fullness.”

The Bride, of course, is us. We are the Father’s gift to His Son. But that gift is one that is incomplete because of the nature of God and because of our own human nature. God is pure spirit, existing from all eternity long before the material world is ever created. He is different from us.

We are made of body and soul, flesh and blood. We could never be fully united to the Son. The Father in The Romances recognizes this. He says:

“Now, you see Son, that your bride
was made in your image,
and so far as she is like you
she will suit you well;
yet she is different in her flesh,
which your simple being does not have.”

And so the Father proposes that the Son become like His bride. He will have a body, become flesh and blood like Her. The Son—of course—is delighted, as He is delighted in everything that the Father does. He cries out to the Father:

“My will is yours,
and my glory is
that your will be mine . . .
I will go and seek my bride
and take upon myself
her weariness and labors
in which she suffers so;
and that she may have life,
I will die for her,
and lifting her up out of that deep,
I will restore her to you.”

—St. John of the Cross
“The Romances”

That love story, that romance, of course, is the story of Christmas that we are even now anticipating and preparing to celebrate. It is the story of the God who sees our suffering and sorrow here on earth and chooses to become like us, to take upon Himself our suffering, our sorrows; He comes to die, and give us new life. He comes to lift us out of this deep and restore us again to God.

So that is why we rejoice on Gaudete Sunday! Our joy comes from that romance and that overwhelming story where we see revealed the great love God has for His bride, the Church. And to make sure we would never forget a story like that, to see that it would not simply remain a poem, something to be read aloud each year without ever touching us deeply and transforming us, the Bridegroom chose to make His love for us a sacrament. It is the Sacrament of the Eucharist which we are about to celebrate here this Gaudete Sunday.

Here we listen to the words of Christ spoken to His Bride, the Church. He says: “Take this, all of you, and eat it. This is my body, which will be given up for you.” He pours out His life for us and says: “Take this, all of you, and drink from it. This is the cup of my blood.” We become one with Christ here, we find the strength to get through any difficulty here. The Bride is united to Her Bridegroom here. That is why we rejoice even in the midst of afflictions on this Gaudete Sunday and we take St. Paul’s words to heart in his letter to the Philippians:

Gaudete, in Domino, semper!

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, Rejoice!

On This Mountain, the Centre Holds.

(Wednesday of the First Week of Advent; This homily was given on 3 December, 2008 at the Chapel of The American College of the Immaculate Conception in Louvain, Belgium; See Isaiah 25:6-10 and Matthew 15:29-37)

If you have ever been on the top of a very high mountain then you know how exhilarating that experience can be; thousands of feet above sea level, looking out as far as the eye can see.

And it is not difficult to see why the mountaintop plays such a key role in the Scriptures, in both the Old and New Testament. It is Moses who goes up on the top of Mount Sinai to receive the 10 Commandments from God. Elijah the prophet goes to Mount Horeb and listens to the still, small voice of God Himself.

In our gospel this morning, Christ goes up the mountain—like He does so many times in the gospels—and He heals those who are sick, He opens the eyes of the blind. And it is there, on that mountain, that He performs the miracle of love and feeds the hungry crowd. The mountain is the meeting place of God and humanity; it is the place where heaven and earth come together.

In the 1960’s modern psychology began to use that religious language and imagery to speak about the human experience. Abraham Maslow talks about peak experiences, moments in our lives where things seem to come together, when we are at a high point; we’re on the mountaintop.

But we do not need Maslow to tell us the reality of peak experiences: they don’t last! No sooner are we on the top of the mountain than we are forced back down again. We can stay there only so long before the reality of this fallen world brings us back down; or worse, we are thrown over the side of the mountain! Many people find themselves so far from the top that they despair of ever being able to get back up again. They walk in the “dark valley” spoken about in our responsorial psalm this morning (Psalm 23). That tragic story is told from the beginning of time, describing in excruciating detail how far we have fallen from the mountaintop.

In the wake of the First World War, right here in Flanders and the surrounding countries, they experienced the destruction of humanity on a scale never before imagined. Corpses and destruction were strewn across the beautiful places that you and I visit and enjoy in much brighter times today.

But the world up to that point had been climbing the mountain; humanity was going places, progressing and surpassing all expectations. How far the world fell from that peak experience! The great Irish poet, William Butler Yeats, in his famous work, The Second Coming, writes to the people of his generation immediately after those devastating events. He likens them to a falcon, swirling around in the wind, climbing higher and higher…but the falcon can no longer hear the falconer. Without foundations, without a reference point, we are on our own, and there are consequences:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold…

—William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

Things fall apart because we cannot hold the centre in place. We do not have to be Yeats or someone living in the aftermath of World War I to see things fall apart. That is the brokenness which is a part of our human condition. We see it all the time: broken hearts and broken homes; broken relationships, broken promises. Broken dreams. Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.

Yet the miracle that we celebrate right now, the unthinkable event that shines through like a beacon in the night, is that God Himself would choose to come—adventus—and enter into that world. He Himself would choose to become one of us, to be broken, so that we could be made whole.

God comes to be born as a child in Bethlehem. That child will grow up and as a man He will climb to the top of the mountain, and give us the teaching of the Beatitudes: a new way of living, a new way of looking at life. He will climb to the top of the mountain, and be transfigured before Peter, James and John. They will come to see that this is what God had in mind all along, this was His plan for us: that we should join Him for all eternity on the mountain, that we should be glorified forever with Him.

And to make sure that call and promise would be fulfilled, Jesus Christ climbs one more mountain: Calvary. He climbed to the top of that mountain and, in the word of St. John of the Cross:

… he climbed a tree,
and spread his shining arms,
and hung by them, and died,
his heart an open wound with love.

—St. John of the Cross

Christ pours out His very self, all that He has, to reach us in our brokenness; He heals us, forgives us, gives us the grace and strength to get back up again. That is what Isaiah the prophet is referring to in our first reading this morning:

On this mountain the Lord of hosts will provide for all peoples a feast of rich foods and choice wines, juicy, rich food and pure, choice wines. On this mountain he will destroy the veil that veils all peoples, the web that is woven over all nations; he will destroy death forever.
—Isaiah 25:6-8

Christ comes to feed us with His very self, to provide a rich and eternal banquet for us, to destroy death forever, and He does it on this mountain, in the gift of Himself on the cross. And it is in Christ, and in Christ alone, that humanity has hope, for in Him, things do not fall apart. In Jesus Christ things come together and the centre can hold!

“Jesus Christ is the center of the universe and of history” (John Paul the Great, Redemptor Hominis, #1), He is heaven and earth held together in Himself. Christ is God and humanity wed together as one, and He pours out new life for us from the cross.

Here at this Eucharistic table we share in that banquet, that outpouring of Christ for the building up of His Church. We come here to receive Him in whom the centre holds. It is in Christ that all things come together, and “in him all things hold together” (Colossians 1:17).

Might we live in the Eucharist today, and let Christ live in us; for it is in that gift of Christ Himself in the Blessed Sacrament that we come together and in Him do we have the strength to walk upon the mountain and share in that rich banquet for all eternity.

De Rekening

(33rd Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year A; This homily was given on 16 November, 2008 at the Chapel of The American College of the Immaculate Conception in Louvain, Belgium; See Matthew 25:14-30)

I know it is still morning, and most of you have not yet eaten breakfast, but I would like to begin this homily by talking about dinner (you can see where my mind is this morning). I have been in Belgium for about five months now, and there are many things I love about the culture here. But one of my favorite things is dinner! There are some great restaurants in Belgium, and many of them right here in Leuven.

One thing that accompanies every dinner out—here in Belgium or anywhere in the world—whether you want it or not, is the check. You receive a bill for what you have eaten and the time you spent there. I love the expression they use here in Flanders: De rekening!

It sounds rather ominous, almost apocalyptic:

I hope you have enjoyed your dinner. Your meal is over.
Now here comes… The Rekening!

We need only look at the world around us to be reminded that dinner is not the only thing that involves the “Rekening.” That word, in Dutch and in English (reckoning), means to call one to account, to come to terms with the transactions or events of the past.

The United States right now, and many European countries along with it, is experiencing an economic “Rekening.” There is a calling to account for the things that have taken place. As painful as it may be financially, in many ways it is a most natural and expected reality. We make our choices, exercise our freedom, and in the end there is always a “Rekening.”

The Church, especially in this month of November, reminds us that there is a “Rekening” in our spiritual lives, as well. In the end we are called to give an account of how we have responded to God’s gifts, His grace, and for the way we have lived in this world.

Each year, as we come to the close of the Liturgical Year and prepare to enter a whole new year at advent, we hear the Scripture passages that deal with the end of the world and the final judgment. We hear about the Second Coming of Christ and the Day of the Lord. The readings and the message they carry can be somewhat daunting.

St. Paul, in our second reading this weekend, talks about the great Day of the Lord, which will come:

Like a thief in the night. When people are saying, ‘peace and security,’ then sudden disaster comes upon them.
—1 Thessalonians 5:2, 3

It is a frightening description, to say the least. But then St. Paul switches gears. He changes the entire direction of his discourse as he addresses the believing community at Thessalonica…and us:

But you, brothers and sisters, are not in the darkness, for that day to overtake you like a thief. For all of you are children of light and of the day.
—1 Thessalonians 5:5

The “Rekening” is different for those who know Jesus Christ. It is not the same if we have responded to the grace and the gifts that God has entrusted to us. Our judgment and “Rekening” is unique. We are not waiting for a Divine Waiter, who will bring us a bill at the end of our lives. We will not stand before a stranger at the end and be forced to explain to him every errant word and action.

No, we will come before the God who knows us and loves us infinitely. We will stand before Jesus Christ, who suffered and died on the cross in love, so that we could be saved and find new life. Our “Rekening” will be intimately bound up with that personal relationship we share with the eternal Son of God. To that God we will render an account, a “Rekening,” and to Him we will answer for the words and actions and above all for how we responded to His call to holiness and faith.

St. Augustine says that God is intimior intimo meo—that He is closer, more intimate to me, than I am to myself (Book 3, Chapter 6 of The Confessions). God knows and loves me more than I know and love myself. How we understand that unfathomable mystery of His love for us is of the greatest importance, because the way we understand who God is in our lives and what the “Rekening” entails will effect the way that we live and love right here, right now. That is the point of our gospel this weekend.

Jesus tells the Parable of the Talents. The Master calls three servants before him and gives them each a certain amount of talents. Then he simply goes away. They are free to do what they wish with those talents. But, Christ continues:

After a long time the master of those servants came back and settled accounts with them.
—Matthew 25:19

He came to settled accounts. That verse, in Dutch, says “en hield rekening met hen.” There was a “Rekening.” He gave them the bill! And the third servant did not fare well at all in that “Rekening.” It was an awful encounter, and he was left out in the darkness where there was wailing and grinding of teeth (Matthew 25:30).

One of the more disturbing aspects of that third servant’s encounter is the description he gives—in his final words—of the master himself. He says:

Master, I knew you were a demanding person, harvesting where you did not plant and gathering where you did not scatter; so out of fear I went off and buried your talent in the ground.
—Matthew 25:24-25

Is that accurate? Is the master really a “demanding person”? When we listen to the entire parable we find something quite the contrary. At the outset, Jesus tells us, the master gave a different amount of talents to each:

To one he gave five talents; to another, two; to a third, one—to each according to his ability.
—Matthew 25:15

He knew these servants well! He knew just how much to give each one. By the end of the parable, moreover, we learn from the first two servants what the master’s desire had been all along. We learn the reason why he gave them the talents and what he wanted to achieve. Seeing their faithfulness and the investment they had made, he exclaims:

Well done, my good and faithful servant…Come, share your master's joy.
—Matthew 25:21&23

The master ultimately wanted them to share in his own joy. Far from being a “demanding person,” he is a master exuding benevolence and generosity, wanting them to share in the very joy of his life. To know that changes things. The two faithful servants in the gospel understood that, and that is why they were willing to take a chance and run the risk of investing the talents to make the most of what the master had given them.

Are we willing to do the same? Do we realize the tremendous love and mercy God has poured out into our lives? Are we ready to step out in faith, and run the risk of witnessing fully to our faith in the world we live in? It is risky to live our faith in a culture that does not accept the values and beliefs that we hold most dear. There is the real possibility of rejection, failure. But are we willing to risk it all anyway out of love for the one who has given us everything? The world we live in desperately needs to hear the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Are we willing to take the risk and proclaim that message in all we say and do?

There is a beautiful and true story about a young man named William Borden. It was the turn of the 20th century, and William, one of the heirs to the Borden Family Dairy estate, had just graduated from a high school in Chicago. For his graduation present his parents gave him a trip around the world.

It was then, as he traveled throughout Asia, Europe, and the Middle East, that he saw human suffering and misery on a scale that he had never before imagined. He came back a changed man, and told his family:

“I am going to give my life to God as a missionary.”

Many of his friends and loved ones tried to talk him out of it; they told him he was wasting his life. William wouldn’t listen. Instead, he took out a cherished Bible, and on the inside cover he wrote two words:

No Reserves

Years later, he graduated with honors from Yale University. Although many things in his life had changed, his determination to be a missionary for Christ had not. To the surprise of many, he entered the seminary just as focused as ever. This time he wrote two more words in the front cover of that Bible. Under the words “No Reserves,” he wrote:

No Retreat

After completing his studies at Princeton Seminary he was finally on his way to China to become a missionary. But he had to make one stop in Egypt first, for some last minute preparations. It was there, in Egypt, tragically, that William Borden contracted spiral meningitis. He died within a month.

At the young age of 25, a life filled with promise, filled with possibilities, and filled with hope, was over…But it was far from wasted.

In the final days before he died, he had written two final words on the inside front cover of his Bible. Under the words No Reserves and No Retreat, he had written:

No Regrets

How many of us can say, at this moment, that we are following God and living our Christian lives with “no regrets”? How is God challenging us to see what William Borden saw, and to recognize the love in our lives that is so great that we are willing to risk everything to live fully and completely for God?

If we are willing to do that, to step out in faith and live our vocation—whatever God is asking of us—completely and faithfully, if we are willing to embrace the life that God has freely given to us and live by the grace He pours out upon us each day, then, please God, may we also hear those words in the parable this weekend at the end of our lives. When the “Rekening” comes for us, may we also hear the words of Jesus Christ:

Well done, my good and faithful servant…Come, share your master's joy.
—Matthew 25:21&23

Workers and Friends in the Vineyard of the Lord

(25th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year A; This homily was given on 21 September, 2008 at the Chapel of The American College of the Immaculate Conception in Louvain, Belgium; See Matthew 20:1-16)

Death…Judgment…Heaven…Hell. We do not really talk much about these things at the breakfast table! They do not often come up in conversation when we are out having a cup of coffee with friends. You will not find these words in many email headings! And yet these are the Four Last Things that the Church, for centuries, has always encouraged Her faithful to consider and meditate on. Death, judgment, heaven and hell. In light of God’s mercy and compassion, those realities help us to put things in perspective and guide us on the way to eternal life with God.

Although not common, there would be nothing wrong with talking about them (in the proper context). And by all means there is nothing wrong with preaching about them. Jesus Christ, many times, preached about the Four Last Things.

I remember hearing once, in fact, that Christ preached more about hell than He did about heaven. I was not all that convinced then; I am still not. But I did “Google” it the other day, just to get the “definitive” word! I discovered that there are basically two camps: those who count up the number of times Christ uses the words “heaven” and “hell”, with the former taking precedence. Then there are those who say you have to look at the context; hell featured more prominently in Jesus’ preaching, they say.

Whichever camp we side with, however, the one obvious fact is that Christ preached about both heaven and hell, often. And He almost always spoke about them together. Why is that?

Throughout this past week at the seminary here we have been blessed with the guidance and teaching presence of Fr. James Wallace, C.Ss.R., a nationally known and respected Professor of Homiletics at Washington Theological Union. He has been here to give our seminarians a workshop on preaching, and the gospel text we have been focusing on is the one we listen to this weekend: the Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard.

One of the shining themes of that parable—evidenced in all the homilies our seminarians have delivered throughout these past few days—is the absolute and overwhelming generosity of God. It is a parable about heaven, the goal and destiny that God has in mind for each of us from the beginning.

Christ describes God as a landowner who is constantly on the move. It is as if every moment of every hour he is out inviting and welcoming workers into His vineyard. It is the offer of grace and the mercy of God, withheld from no one. Yet along with that tremendous offer of generosity and love comes a terrible risk: the possibility that such an offer could be rejected.

One of the workers in the parable turns on the landowner and begins to grumble about the workings of the vineyard:

These last ones worked only one hour, and you have made them equal to us, who bore the day’s burden and the heat.
—Matthew 20:12

The reply from the landowner is a sobering one, even somewhat haunting:

“My friend,” he says to him, “I am not cheating you. Did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage? Take what is yours and go…”
—Matthew 20:13-14

In other words, if you do not like the conditions of the vineyard, then you are under no obligation to remain. It is haunting because the Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard is not about workers, and it is not about a vineyard. It is about the invitation to eternal life with God, and this person is in danger of walking away from that! That is about as close to a definition of hell as you can find.

C.S. Lewis, in his fictional novel The Great Divorce, says that, in the end, there are only two kinds of people. There are those who say to God, “Thy will be done.”

It may be a sin that we would really like to hold onto, but we realize it has the power to keep us from God, and so we let it go. Thy will be done. Or perhaps there is someone who has hurt us so badly that we do not wish to ever forgive them…but God is relentlessly moving us in that direction. Reluctantly, perhaps, we force those words from our lips: Thy will be done. Or maybe we are carrying a cross that is so heavy, a trial that is nearly unbearable, but we trust in the mercy of God to see us through. Thy will be done. That is the first kind of person described by C.S. Lewis.

The second, however, is the one to whom God must say, in the end, and with great sorrow: Thy will be done. If you do not wish to be a part of this Kingdom, thy will be done. If you are not willing to accept my offer of generosity and merciful love on my terms, but instead insist on your own terms, thy will be done. “Take what is yours and go.” What an awful and tragic prospect.

Yet there are two words in the parable that militate against that possibility, two words spoken to each one of us, as well. Words that flood the world with hope: My friend!

“My friend,” the landowner says to that perplexed and grumbling worker. My friend. There is absolutely no evidence to support the notion that this acknowledgment of friendship is anything but authentic. There is no bitterness or sarcasm here; only the absolute and overwhelming generosity of God. And that may be the closest thing to heaven that we will ever experience here on earth.

St. Thomas Aquinas refers to heaven and the eternal relationship God offers to us as Amicitia Dei, friendship with God. How remarkable! We are not merely workers in the vineyard. We are friends, called to a life of intimacy with the living God! I would like to suggest there are at least three ways we are called to nurture that friendship and to remain closely united to Christ.

The first and foundational way is prayer: daily conversation with God. We take the time each day to be alone and still before God. We talk to Him, and try very hard to listen. A great example of this kind of conversation that keeps friendship alive and thriving is found in Christian marriage. A husband and wife are called to develop and nurture their friendship through daily conversation and continual communication. Yet never is that conversation more intimate and powerful than when they speak to each other in the silence and communicate with the language of their bodies in the union that is the God-given sign of their love. That conversation has the power to generate new life in the world we live in.

It is also the level of intimacy that God calls each of us to in our conversation with Him in prayer. Does that sound outrageous to you? We would never even imagine a relationship with God that intimate, if God Himself had not revealed it to us in the Scriptures. Through the prophets of the Old Testament, God reveals his love to the People of Israel as the love of a husband. He espouses Himself to Israel; she is His chosen bride.

In the New Testament Jesus Christ is the Bridegroom of His Bride, the Church. It is for Her that He is willing to suffer and die, giving His very life that She may be forever united to Him. At the Last Supper He speaks perhaps the most profound and life-giving words in all of Sacred Scripture: This is my body, which will be given up for you. Take and eat it. This is the cup of my blood…shed for you. Take, and drink from it.

That conversation of Christ with His Bride the Church, then and at every celebration of the Eucharist, has the power to bring about the one-flesh union between Bridegroom and Bride. That intimacy is continued through our prayer leading to and from the Eucharist each day. Amicitia Dei, friendship with God, is nurtured and sustained by prayer.

Secondly, we are able to remain close to God when we read about and from the people who were closest to Him: the Saints. Spiritual reading draws us up into the same love that they had for God, and it has the power to enkindle the flame of devotion in us.

The story of Edith Stein—who would later become St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross—provides a compelling testimony. Edith was a brilliant, young Jewish philosopher and ardent searcher of truth. Yet in all her learning she still sensed that there was something else, something more which she could not fully grasp.

By the grace of God she was led to the teachings of the Catholic faith through the example and witness of several faithful souls near where she lived. They gave her a book on The Life of St. Teresa of Avila and she read the whole thing in a single night (it is by no means light reading!). In the wee hours of the morning she read the final page, closed that book and said to herself, “This is the truth.” She converted to the Catholic faith, was baptized and eventually entered a Carmelite community in Cologne, Germany, a few hours away from where we gather for this Mass. She would later die in the gas chambers of Auschwitz, witnessing to her faith and love for Christ to the end.

Spiritual reading has the power to change our lives and draw us into the very heart of God. If we want to get wet, we have to stand where the water is. If we want to get warm, then we have to stand in the fire! Spiritual reading and the lives of the saints can set our lives on fire and help us to grow in our friendship with God.

Finally, not only prayer leading to and from the Eucharist, and spiritual reading, but also imitation of Christ is what we need to nurture that intimate friendship with Him. We look at the generosity of God in this parable and we desire to love like that. We see how willing God is, at every moment of every day, to reach out in love and we are moved to want to do the same. We look to Christ, who on the cross pours out His body and blood, His very life for our salvation, and we also seek to make that total gift of self.

May this coming week find us growing ever more deeply in our relationship of intimacy and friendship with God. Amicitia Dei, it is the closest thing to heaven that we will find here on this earth, and it is the sine qua non for every worker in the vineyard of the Lord.

Blessed Damien and Amazing Grace

American College of the Immaculate Conception, Orientation Week-2008

(This homily was given on 4 September, 2008 during Orientation Week for the new seminarians of the American College of the Immaculate Conception in Belgium. The seminary is located a mere half mile from the resting place of Blessed Damien of Molokai, soon to be canonized a saint. We had the privelege of celebrating the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass at Blessed Damien's crypt, directly beside the saint's remains, located in the Church of St. Anthony of the Sacred Heart Fathers in Leuven, Belgium. For reflection on the gospel reading for that day, see Luke 1:39-56)

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now I’m found
Was blind but now I see

Our gospel this morning is about conversion. We see, in the person of St. Peter, a man who was blind to the God standing right in front of him, but whose eyes were suddenly opened and whose life was changed forever.

“Duc in altum,” Christ commands St. Peter. Put out into the deep! “Put out into deep water and lower your nets for a catch” (Luke 5:4). It is an invitation to so much more than fishing, something far deeper than any ocean. But St. Peter cannot see that…not yet.

“Master we have worked hard all night and have caught nothing.” He was exhausted; all of his own efforts had failed. Nonetheless he obeys: “At your command I will lower the nets” (Luke 5:5). With that St. Peter’s nets are filled and his mind is flooded with the recognition of who this Man is: Jesus, the Christ, the Son of God.

“Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man”
—Luke 5:8

It is a request that Christ has no intention of granting, a prayer that will never be answered. From that moment on, St. Peter’s life would never be the same again. His eyes were opened to Christ, and would gradually be opened to all that God had called him to embrace.

We cannot encounter Christ the way St. Peter did and remain blind to God and to the needs of this world. Seeing Christ and hearing His call in our lives changes everything for us. Everything. But it also changes the lives of those around us.

How blessed we are to be here this morning, at the Crypt of Blessed Damien of Molokai. Ordained a Catholic priest in 1864, he came as a missionary to Hawaii to proclaim the gospel in word and deed. Less than 10 years later, in 1873, he was sent to assist at the Leper Colony on the Island of Molokai. It was a job that almost no one else wanted, and even those who had the courage to embrace this ministry took turns for several months at a time in order to diminish the chances of becoming infected.

But soon Blessed Damien volunteered to live there permanently. His eyes were opened to the needs of the people there and, as Pope John Paul II said in a homily here in Belgium for Fr. Damien’s Beatification, his love for the people on the Island of Molokai “expressed the tenderness and mercy of Christ towards all people,” and revealed to the world that no one—no leper nor anyone with any disease or illness—is entirely sick, deformed, weak or completely disfigured. We all possess tremendous interior beauty (Homily of Pope John Paul II, in Brussels for the Beatification of Servant of God, Damien de Veuster, 4 June, 1995).

Blessed Damien of Molokai changed the people of that small island, but in the process he also changed the world around him. He changed the way people looked at and treated the sick, and those who witnessed the effects of his ministry were often never the same again.

I am sure you have heard of the author, Robert Louis Stevenson. He wrote Treasure Island, and many other books and stories. Towards the end of his life he suffered from tuberculosis and, like many of those suffering from that devastating illness, sought refuge and the hope of recovery in tropical climates. One of the places he turned to was Hawaii and, completely against the wishes of his doctor, he travelled to the Island of Molokai just after Blessed Damien had passed away.

It was not that Stevenson was interested in Blessed Damien or seeking some religious experience by going there. Stevenson had grown up in Scotland and had always been somewhat cold and distant when it came to the Christian faith. After hearing firsthand the stories about the Apostle to the Lepers and witnessing its fruits in such a remarkable way, however, he began to see things in a whole new light. He would later say that eight days “on Fr. Damien’s Molokai” changed his life.

At about the same time there was a protestant minister in Hawaii named Rev. Dr. Hyde. Hyde had once publicly praised the work of Damien, yet suddenly he turned against the memory of that celebrated man and slandered his name in the press. People began to doubt the integrity of this great missionary priest and many readily received the lie instead of the truth.

But one of the people who read the article was Robert Louis Stevenson. Stevenson’s wife later recalled how, after reading Rev. Dr. Hyde’s comments on Damien, he locked himself in his room and began muttering to himself; he was furious. In response he simply turned to the one thing he did best: writing.

Stevenson wrote what he entitled: Father Damien: An Open Letter to the Rev. Dr. Hyde and offered it first to the Sydney Morning Herald. The letter was eventually circulated rapidly to several different countries and quickly overshadowed the minster’s own letter that had instigated it.

The Rev. Dr. Hyde was especially bitter, it was said, about the final lines of that letter. Stevenson had written:

“The man who did what Damien did is my father ... and the father of all who love goodness: and he was your father too, if God had given you the grace to see it.”


Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now I’m found
Was blind but now I see

Where are the places in our lives that we need to open our eyes most as we begin this new experience of seminary formation?

Who are the people in our lives—the suffering, the weak, the fearful, the lonely—that we need to see more clearly and love more completely, like Blessed Damien of Molokai?

Christ is calling us to “put out into the deep”—Duc in altum! We pray this morning that God will open our eyes and help us to be transformed—like St. Peter and like Blessed Damien of Molokai—and to be instruments of transformation, like they were, in the world we live in.

Olympian Virtue and the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary

(Solemnity of the Assumption-Year A; This homily was given on 15 August, 2008 at the Chapel of The American College of the Immaculate Conception in Louvain, Belgium; See Luke 1:39-56)

The Summer Olympics are well underway in Beijing, and for the next week and a half we will see and hear about men and women who are in the best physical shape of their lives. They have trained their bodies for speed, strength and endurance beyond what most of us will ever experience.

And yet every time the Olympics come around we also catch a glimpse of something more. We learn about the personal lives of many of the athletes, and often see heroic virtue and selflessness both on and off the playing field, both in and outside of the arena. We find that they are not just bodies, but persons like us—body and soul—and that many of them are remarkable in their own right, not simply as athletes.

In today's feast we honor a woman who brought glory to God in her body and magnified Him with her soul. We celebrate the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary—body and soul—into heaven. In St. Luke’s Gospel today, Mary visits her cousin Elizabeth, who:

Filled with the Holy Spirit, cried out in a loud voice and said, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.”
—Luke 1: 42

She announces that Mary is blessed because her body carries the Son of God, and she will physically bring Him forth into this world. And Mary’s response is a fitting one for that bodily blessing. She says:

My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord; my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.
—Luke 1: 46-47

In both body and soul, Mary is beautiful and she is blessed. She brings great glory to God because of what she did in giving birth to Christ, but also because of who she is, the Mother of Christ, the Mother of God. Preacher to the Papal Household, Fr. Rainero Cantalamessa, OFMCap, expressed it this way:

You, Mary, will cease to be “blessed among women”
when Jesus ceases to be “the fruit of your womb.”

—Fr. Cantalamessa in “Mary, Mirror of the Church”

For this reason—the great dignity given to Mary all throughout her life—we believe that she was not consigned to the earth when her time here was complete. On November 1, 1950, Pope Pius XII defined as dogma what the Church had already held and professed for centuries, that:

The Immaculate Virgin was taken up body and soul into heavenly glory upon completion of her earthly life.

—Pope Pius XII, Dogma of the Assumption

But why is this so important for us as Christians? Why do we celebrate this feast today with such solemnity and joy? There are two reasons why the Church celebrates this glorious event of Mary’s Assumption.

Firstly, because Mary is a member of the Church, indeed its most noble member, and she has finished the journey that the whole Church is striving toward. In short, Mary made it. The very thing that we struggle and strive for, our final end for which Christ gave everything on the cross, Mary has reached. She is forever in heaven with God. She becomes, for us—along with Christ her son—a pattern and example of the way of perfection.

Secondly, this feast is important because Mary is, for all of us, a sign of hope and comfort as we make our own way to that final end. Do you struggle with adversity in your daily life? So did Mary. Do you suffer, and at times ask God for help and consolation? So did Mary. Of all who have suffered, she is the one who can identify the most with St. Paul’s exhortation in the letter to the Romans:

Provided we suffer with [Christ], we will also be glorified with Him.
—Romans 8:17

Certainly no one else can help us more in our personal struggles, and in our desire to grow in union with Christ, than Mary. Therefore we turn to Mary—this day and everyday—as our model on the way to heaven, and as a sign of comfort and hope as we continue to follow Christ in this world.

And so, in these remaining days as we watch the athletes competing for glory and honor in Beijing, let us think of the woman who gained glory and honor in heaven. And as the Olympics reveal the achievements of both body and soul, let us remember this Woman who—body and soul—intercedes for us on our way to God.

Mary, Assumed into Heaven, pray for us.

Self-Sacrificing Love

(18th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year A; This homily was given on 3 August, 2008 at the Chapel of The American College of the Immaculate Conception in Louvain, Belgium; See Matthew 14:13-21)

One of the daily challenges all priests face is the balancing of personal life with a life of service and pastoral care for others. All of us have personal goals and commitments. We all strive to answer the call to holiness and rightly devout time and attention to our own spiritual renewal and even well needed recreation. Yet we also must be willing to put our own pursuits and endeavors aside when it comes to caring for the flock entrusted to us.

The family gathered around the bedside of their loved one in a hospital does not need to hear what a bad day we are having; it matters little to them if we spilled our cup of coffee that morning or had an abominable time searching for a parking place. It would not impress them at all to know where we spent our last vacation. They want to see their loved one anointed and to receive the assurance that their faith, even in this dreadful experience, really matters. They want to know that God is near.

Daily we are called to forget ourselves and make those around us a priority. This denial of self is central in the call to discipleship enunciated by Christ Himself in the Gospel:

Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.
—Mark 8:34

In our readings for this weekend, Christ provides the greatest example of what it means to place our own personal interests aside and open our hearts to those around us.

The scene begins by the lakeside, and Christ has just been told of the death of St. John the Baptist. He could not be anything but devastated. Remember, John was His cousin. More than just a familial bond, however, they also shared intimately in the same mission and message of salvation. The bond they shared—one ultimately forged in blood—goes back to the womb. At the Visitation, when the pregnant Blessed Virgin Mary enters the courtyard of her cousin Elizabeth, the unborn Baptist rejoices because Christ is near.

Now, as Jesus hears the news of John’s violent death, Matthew tells us “he withdrew in a boat to a deserted place by himself” (Matthew 14:13). He needed to be alone. But the crowd has something else in mind. They anticipate his next move and arrive there just as He disembarks. Jesus’ reaction is telling. He doesn’t become exasperated or frustrated. Instead, St. Matthew tells us, “his heart was moved with pity for them, and he cured their sick” (Matthew 14:14).

Christ is able to set aside His own personal grief and sorrow and to see the needs of those around Him. Perhaps it is even because of His own loss that His insight into their need is all the more keen.

They had come to Him hungry—physically and spiritually—and He fed them. In that deserted place Christ multiplies the loaves and the fish in a miraculous expression of love that is but a foretaste of what He will do in the Eucharist.

How fitting, that in a moment of sorrow and loss Christ forgets Himself and provides for the deepest needs of those around Him. This is exactly what He does in the total gift of self on the cross, a gift that we celebrate each time we gather together around the Eucharistic table.

It is on the cross that Christ completely denies Himself, choosing to make that total offering for our redemption. Whenever we celebrate that living sacrifice at the altar of God, we experience anew the great outpouring of grace and forgiveness from Christ. His body, broken on the cross, and His blood, poured out for us on Calvary, is re-presented to the Father and we ourselves receive the body and blood of Christ anew. At the heart of the Eucharist is the self-sacrificing love of Jesus Christ.

Several days ago I was able to visit the beautiful Cathedral of Saint Michael and Saint Gudula in Brussels. In the side chapel, which is dedicated to Our Lady of Deliverance, there is an impressive altar which is held up by two large, sculpted pelicans. One of them is piercing its side with its beak, while the other stretches its head up toward the altar.

There is an ancient legend that the pelican, in order to feed its young, would pierce its breast and then feed them with its own flesh. This became a profound symbol in the Church for the Eucharist, and is used by many of the saints, including St. Augustine and St. Thomas Aquinas. It is Christ who is willing to be pierced and wounded so that we can be forgiven and fed. It is from His own wounded and broken body that we receive the bread of life and the cup of eternal salvation. It is a mystery we celebrate at every Mass, and one we are called to imitate in our daily lives.

Where is Christ calling us to enter more deeply into His self-sacrificing love?

How are we called to forget ourselves or deny ourselves as we become more attuned to the needs of those around us?

Might we find, in Christ’s sacrifice, in our own daily sacrifices, and perhaps even in our own suffering, a wellspring of care and concern for the needs of others.

Departure

Jan Brueghel the Elder (Flemish, 1568-1625)

Harbor Scene with St. Paul's Departure from Caesarea, 1596

Dear Friends,

As many of you know, the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul was my last weekend at St. Mary’s as I now depart for Belgium. For those of you who are simply tuning in from the blogosphere, I have received a new assignment and, as of this July, will serve as the Vice Rector of the American College of the Immaculate Conception in Belgium while completing my Licentiate in Moral Theology at the Catholic University of Louvain. It is certainly a change from the parish ministry that I have been engaged in since my ordination, but I am grateful for the opportunity to serve the Lord now in the work of seminary formation and in my theological studies.

I found this picture (above), a gray and somewhat gloomy depiction of St. Paul’s departure from Caesarea Philippi. It is a stark painting, to be sure, but not one without light and hope. The artist’s name is Jan Brueghel the Elder, and he is a Belgian artist from the late 16th and early 17th century. I think it goes well with St. Paul’s description in the second reading of last week’s feast:

I, Paul, am already being poured out like a libation, and the time of my departure is at hand.
—2 Timothy 4:6

In that brief Scripture verse St. Paul is connecting departure with suffering. Those two usually go together, don’t they? Saying good-bye is never easy, as I have certainly learned over the course of this last month. But like Brueghel’s painting itself, there is always light, always hope. For St. Paul it was the light and hope of the resurrection. For me it will be waffles, chocolate and beer in the short term (with the resurrection always on the horizon)!

I have been posting my weekly homilies here on Living Sacrifice for over three years now, and it has only increased my devotion for Sacred Scripture and the gospel message, as well as my passion for proclaiming that message as a Roman Catholic priest. How I will miss that nearly everyday aspect of parish priesthood in these next few years!

Nonetheless, many people have asked if I plan on continuing the blog when I arrive in Belgium. To be honest, I had not planned on doing so. Living Sacrifice has been almost exclusively a homily blog and I will no longer be preaching as often as when I was in parish ministry. Still, the origin of the name for the blog—as you can see by the heading above—is taken from St. Paul’s Letter to the Romans and it has truly been a “life verse” for me since the day of my ordination. Personally, I have tried to live my priestly ministry according to St. Paul’s challenging words, and have constantly tried to help others to also become “a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God,” indeed our “spiritual worship.”

With that end in mind, I would like to continue to reflect here on what it means for us to offer ourselves to God as “a living sacrifice,” and perhaps provide a small window into life in Belgium and the great work of our Lord in the American College of the Immaculate Conception. I hope you will join me here.

On a final note, I do implore you to pray daily for our seminarians and staff persons, knowing in faith that one can never be outdone in generosity to Christ and His Church. May God bless you abundantly in the days ahead, and grant you His peace.

Witness

(12th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year A; This homily was given on 21 & 22 June, 2008 at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; See Matthew 10:26-33)

His name was John Fisher and he was a witness. He was many things to many people and loved by almost all, but above all else he was a witness. What he witnessed to was his faith in Jesus Christ.

John Fisher bore witness to the God who made him, to the Catholic faith he was ordained—as a priest and eventually a bishop—to proclaim and profess. He witnessed to the teachings of the Catholic faith handed down to us from Christ. And for that witness, under King Henry VIII in sixteenth century England, he died.

That is the ultimate expression of what it means to be a witness. The word in Greek for witness is martus (µαρτυς) and it is where we get the word martyr. To be a martyr is to bear witness with one’s body, one’s earthly existence itself, for faith in Jesus Christ. St. John Fisher did that and for that reason we celebrate his feast day today…but not only his. He shares this feast day with perhaps a better known saint, St. Thomas More.

St. Thomas More was also a witness but unlike St. John Fisher he was a Catholic layman, not a priest; not a bishop. He was a brilliant lawyer and held the highest appointed office in all England: Chancellor.

St. Thomas More loved his family, loved his work and the country of England. He even loved King Henry VIII (no small feat, that). But above all these he loved God. If you have seen the movie A Man for All Seasons, then you will remember the final scene, which is taken directly from the life of St. Thomas More. Immediately before his execution he announces to the crowd gathered there:

I die here the King’s good servant, but God’s first.

That is at the heart of what it means to be a witness: to place God above everyone and everything. Christ this weekend challenges us to be witnesses to Him and the gospel message.

“Fear no one,” He says (Matthew 10:26).

When it comes to being a witness for Jesus Christ we are called to do so without any fear of anyone or anything on earth.

What I say to you in the darkness, speak in the light; what you hear whispered, proclaim on the housetops.
—Matthew 10:27

We are called, every one of us, to be witnesses.

“Everyone who acknowledges me before others,” Jesus assures us, “I will acknowledge before my heavenly Father" (Matthew 10:32). Can you imagine what that would be like? To stand before God in heaven, surrounded by all the saints and angels, and to have Christ point to you and say:

This one, Father. This one was my witness on earth.

But if we deny Him…

Whoever denies me before others, I will deny before my heavenly Father.
—Matthew 10:33

Our message for the gospel this weekend is a sobering one indeed. We are called to be witnesses, to bear witness to Jesus Christ in this world so that we can live forever with Him in the next. How are we called to do that?

I would suggest there are at least three ways we are called to be witnesses. The first is given to us by way of example in the lives of St. John Fisher and St. Thomas More. They were witnesses for Christ by defending the teachings of the faith handed down to us by God through the apostles. They died defending that faith. We are called to bear witness to that same faith and defend it when necessary.

What are the teachings of our faith that are in need of being defended in our own time and culture? The number one teaching under fire today and one that every Christian man and woman is bound to defend is the dignity of every human life, from the moment of conception until natural death.

The world we live in does not accept that teaching, as you know. Abortion on demand is the law of the land here in our own country and in many other places around the world. The state says we can decide—each one of us—which unborn child lives or dies. Or we can decide to experiment on life in its tiniest and most vulnerable form: the human embryo.

It is never acceptable to take another human life, or to do embryonic stem-cell research on a living human being, no matter what the possible results or outcome may be. We are called to defend the dignity of all human life and to speak out boldly and clearly for those who cannot speak for themselves.

Life at the end of our earthly journey, our faith teaches, is equally sacred. There are several countries in Europe and one state here in our own country (Oregon) where that teaching is thoroughly rejected. Euthanasia or “mercy killing” is an accepted way of facing death for the elderly and those who make their own decision that life is no longer worth living.

Will we have the courage to stand up and defend the sacredness of human life, from the moment of conception until the moment of natural death, when necessary in our own country or our own state? We will have the chance to do that this election year, when we can speak up and be heard and let our beliefs be made known to those we will choose to represent us. May we be faithful witnesses in that!

Marriage: another key tenet of our faith and a foundational institution given to us by God, which is under attack daily in our nation. That was the issue in sixteenth century England, as well. King Henry VIII had no problem with the Trinity. He believed that Christ was the Son of God, and Mary was the Mother of God. No problems there. It was marriage that he had a problem with.

King Henry VIII said that he was going to decide when marriage begins and when it ends; not the Pope, and not the Church. He would be the head of the Church in his England, and he would tell them what marriage was.

St. Thomas More and St. John Fisher said: No you won’t! They opposed King Henry VIII because we already have a Head of the Church, Jesus Christ, and He has to told us clearly what marriage is. For that opposition they were executed.

God, right now, is asking for a lot less from you and me. But He is asking us to defend this teaching of our faith and the institution He has given us in the Garden of Eden, a covenant relationship of love between one man and one woman. That is marriage; not two men or two women.

And if you give that witness, if you defend marriage as God has revealed it, you will be criticized! They will say that you are a bigot, or that you do not love people with another lifestyle, or worse: that you hate them.

That is a lie.

But we are called to defend marriage even if we are misrepresented and maligned. We bear witness to the faith by defending it when necessary.

Yet being a witness is more than being defensive. We are also called to live out our faith with great love and great passion, so that others may see what we have and be brought closer to God. I will give you an example: saying grace before meals. Sounds simple enough, right?

Do you pray before meals, thanking God for the food and the people around your table? But do you do that in public, in a restaurant? If you do, I promise you people around you will look. They will notice, and maybe even stare. But one thing they probably will not do is tell you what they are thinking inside. They will not say that they are thinking:

If only I had that kind of faith, maybe I would be able to get through this struggle or trial in my life right now.

If only I had faith like that, maybe I would be more joyful or more at peace in my life.

And that leads us to the third reason why we are called to be witnesses: not for ourselves, or for God, but for them. We are called to be witnesses for the men and women who do not yet believe in Jesus Christ, or the ones who do believe but are not living that faith the way God wants them to. We are called to be witnesses to them, sharing with them the message of the gospel and the overwhelming mercy and forgiveness already shown to us.

Pope Paul VI, in his encyclical Evangelii Nuntiandi, said the reason why the Church exists in the first place is to evangelize. We exist not for ourselves but for the world around us, to proclaim the gospel and to lead other souls to God and eternal life.

Do we have the courage to do that in our lives, and are we willing to ask God to help us to live our faith in that way? If so then, please God, may Christ point to us when our lives here are complete, and say about us:

That one, Father. That one was my witness on earth. Come.

The Heart of a Father

(11th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year A; This homily was given on 14 & 15 June, 2008 at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; See Matthew 9:36-10:4)

I am sure that all of us are familiar with the image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus: a heart on fire and burning with love for souls. In the gospel this weekend St. Matthew reveals the Sacred Heart of Christ in a particular and powerful way as the heart of a father.

In a certain sense, the heart of God the Father beats inside the incarnate Son of God. The burning love and desire of the Father finds its beautiful expression in the Sacred Heart of Jesus Christ, His Son.

St. Matthew describes how Christ looked out at the multitude of people before Him and was stirred with emotion at what He saw:

At the sight of the crowds, Jesus’ heart was moved with pity for them.
—Matthew 9:36

The word St. Matthew uses is the strongest word for pity in the Greek language. It means, literally, to be effected deep within one's body. When He looked out at the people, their condition moved Him physically as well as spiritually. Why?

Because they were troubled and abandoned, like sheep without a shepherd.
—Matthew 9:36

The men God had appointed to lead and guide them in the spiritual life, those commissioned to be spiritual fathers in Israel, had failed. Instead of caring for the flock, they had “fed themselves on their sheep” (Ezekiel 34:1-16). Suddenly Christ responds to that desperate situation but His response is not what we would first expect: He does not react in anger or in bitter frustration. He responds with the heart of a father. His first response, made in love, is prayer.

Jesus prays and He commands the disciples gathered before Him to pray, as well:

Ask the master of the harvest to send out laborers for his harvest.
—Matthew 9:38

Then, with that prayer still on their lips, He sends out the Twelve Apostles. The mystery of prayer often works like that. God inspires and even commands us to pray for something so that He can then give us the very thing we ask for. He says to us:

“Ask me. Ask me for forgiveness. Ask me for mercy. Ask me for grace and strength in your spiritual life. Ask me for the infinite joy of the Holy Spirit.”

And then He proceeds to pour out upon us those very things we have asked for!

“Ask the master of the harvest,” Jesus commands, “to send out laborers for his harvest” (Matthew 9:38). Then He sends out the twelve; ordinary men sent to do the extraordinary work of the gospel.

There is a spiritual principle at work here, however, that is important for us to recognize: Grace builds on nature. God does not work against our nature when it comes to the spiritual life and the building up of the Church. Grace builds on nature. Christ builds on what is already present in each person He chooses and calls. He takes our natural gifts and abilities, as well as our unique characteristics, likes and dislikes, and then He builds upon that with His supernatural gifts.

Peter, Andrew, James and John were all fishermen. That is what they did. They were good at it, and they enjoyed it. Christ does not short circuit them and reprogram their natural desires. They were fishermen, but Christ now says to them: “Come after me, and I will make you fishers of men” (Matthew 4:19). You used to catch fish, but now you will be catching men and women for the kingdom of God. Grace builds on nature.

The same is true of St. Matthew, the tax collector. He used to use his pen to mark down who paid and who owed him money. He would tally up his riches and look at them in ink and paper. When Christ calls him to be an Apostle and Evangelist, he never lays down that pen. Instead he now uses it to write down the gospel and share the message of salvation and mercy.

Grace builds on nature. It was true in the first century and it remains true today. For nine years I worked for Stop & Shop Supermarket Companies. I worked with hundreds of people and met thousands in the different stores throughout the state. God has built upon that foundation in the work that He has called me to as a parish priest, working with and serving thousands of people in the supernatural ministry of proclaiming the gospel.

The bishops of our country recently published an article on the men from across the United States who will be ordained to the priesthood this year (five of them will be from our own Diocese of Providence! We have much to celebrate here in the local Church). The article listed some of the professions of those men before they entered the seminary: a dean of a major university, a United States Marine officer, a clinical psychologist, and many more. God will use all these gifts and experiences to build on and enhance the supernatural work of His gospel.

But one gift, one necessary requirement for all men called to the priesthood—the sine qua non for each, be he fisherman, psychologist or supermarket employee—is that he have the heart of a father. He must look out and see the people and be moved with compassion and desire to serve as Christ Himself. How desperately priests need your prayers to do that! Pray for your parish priests, and all priests, that they may have the heart of a father. It is obviously much more difficult for us than it was for Christ to have the Father’s heart burning within us. But the heart of a father is essential nonetheless if we would truly be His priests.

Which brings us back to that spiritual principle: Grace builds on nature. On this Father’s Day I can reflect on the fact that what I have known and experienced of spiritual fatherhood has come to me firstly through my own Dad. His example and life in my family is the foundation on which God has built in making me a spiritual father to His people. I thank God for my Dad and pray in thanksgiving for the many things he taught me and for his support on my way to the priesthood.

Our fathers teach us how to love, how to be strong in our families and how to sacrifice for the sake of others. There are no perfect fathers on this side of heaven, and though perhaps sometimes through mistakes and imperfections, all of our fathers give us the solid foundation on which God continues to build as we strive for the kingdom of God.

Together we thank God for them all. May God continue to bless our fathers, as well as the world we live in, through them. And may we respond well to the call of Christ in the Gospel of St. Matthew this weekend, to “ask the master of the harvest to send out laborers for his harvest” (Matthew 9:38). May God continue to send us men who have the heart of a father, willing to love as Christ loves, for the glory of God and the building up of His Church.

Making It Look Easy

(10th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year A; This homily was given on 7 & 8 June, 2008 at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; See Matthew 9:9-13)

We have all watched sports on TV at one time or another. Maybe you have been watching the NBA Finals between the Celtics and the Lakers. You probably watched the Red Sox win the World Series this past fall, or the New England Patriots in their remarkable season last year (if you are lucky, you didn’t watch the Super Bowl; I still have nightmares about that game).

Certainly many of us have played sports in high school or maybe we squeeze in a little golf on the weekends. But there is nothing quite like watching the pros on TV: To see Tiger Woods drive a golf ball 375 yards, straight as an arrow, and land it right in the middle of the fairway; or to watch Tom Brady throw 15 straight completions, never once missing his intended receivers.

We watch those players and we think to ourselves:

They really make it look easy! They are so good, it must be like second nature to them. It seems like no effort at all.

But we know that is far from the truth.

The reason they are so good is because they spend hours and hours, day in and day out, faithfully practicing and striving for perfection. They have been given a gift from God, a remarkable talent and ability to be sure, but they have chosen to respond well to that gift. It may look easy to us, but there is a lot going on beneath the surface.

The gospel we listen to this weekend—the Calling of St. Matthew—is something quite like that.

St. Matthew is one of the original Twelve Apostles. He is also a martyr, one who was killed for his faith in Jesus Christ. Matthew is one of the “four evangelists,” one of the four great gospel writers (along with Mark, Luke and John).

And even though Matthew was a tax collector—tax collectors were despised by their fellow Jews, for they worked in league with the Roman government and often swindled their own people for a living—Christ walks right into that customs post this morning and calls Matthew to follow Him.

Matthew’s response is automatic:

He got up and followed him.
—Matthew 9:9

All that temptation, so much power and money, and he just got up, walked away and became a saint. Matthew makes it look easy! But of course there is a lot more to the story than that.

We know at least three things for a fact that Matthew did, things that we should be striving for on a daily basis; three things that could help each of us to become saints.

[That is the goal of the Christian life, by the way: to be holy men and women of God, to be saints. No matter what our sins, shortcomings or weaknesses may be, and no matter what the world we live in says about how difficult it is to follow the commandments and live according to the teachings of our faith, we are called to be holy. Ask St. Matthew]

Firstly, as we hear in the gospel this weekend, when Christ called Matthew, “He got up” (Matthew 9:9). It is such a short phrase, but it tells us so much. He did not remain in the midst of the temptations and the situation that had separated him from his brothers and sisters and probably God as well. He got up. He got up and got out of the way of sin. Do we?

In our own lives, do we get up and get out of the way of the things that entangle us in sin and separate us from God and each other?

When we are watching TV, and suddenly something comes on the screen that we know we should not be watching, do we get up and get out of the way of sin by switching the channel?

When we are engaged in a conversation with a friend or with a group of people and suddenly the conversation gets dark; when someone’s reputation is being damaged or when the topic turns vulgar; when these things happen do we have the courage and the strength to get up and get out of the way of sin? Do we change the subject or leave the conversation?

It could be any of these things. It could be a bad habit, or a relationship that is taking us further away from God and the teachings of our faith. Like St. Matthew, we have to get up and get out of the way of sin when Jesus Christ calls us.

Secondly, we know that after Matthew “got up,” he immediately “followed [Christ]” (Matthew 9:9). Again, it is a short phrase, but speaks volumes. Matthew walked with Christ. He followed the example and teachings of Jesus Christ.

As Christians we need to do so much more than just avoid evil. Many people avoid evil and stay out of trouble, but they are not good Christians because they simply do what they want to do, or what feels good, or what everyone else is doing. They do not truly follow Christ. Do we?

One of my favorite passages from the Second Vatican Council, and one I have quoted many different times, beautifully describes the life of Christ and outlines well what we should be doing as His followers. It says:

“Man cannot fully find himself except through a sincere gift of himself.”
—Gaudium et Spes, #24

By nature, we are creatures who are fulfilled only by giving to others: our families, those around us, and most especially, God Himself. That is what Christ did. He poured Himself out for us all on the cross so that we could be forgiven and have the hope of eternal life. He gave everything to God and to others in complete generosity, thinking lastly of Himself. That is what we are called to do as His followers. That is what St. Matthew began to do the day he left the customs post and never looked back.

Finally, we know not only that Matthew “got up,” and got out of the way of sin, that he “followed [Christ],” but also that he proclaimed the gospel of Jesus Christ.

St. Matthew paid attention! He paid attention to the way Christ treated him with such compassion and mercy; he paid attention to the way that Christ worked in the lives of others and to the truths that He taught and lived so well. Matthew saw all of this, he observed it and reflected on it, and then he wrote it down! He shared with the people of his culture and the world around him this good news about who God is and all the things He has done. We, some 2000 years later, are still listening to what he has to say.

We may not all be called to proclaim the gospel in the same way as St. Matthew. The great Italian poverello, St. Francis of Assisi, was known to have said that we should “proclaim the gospel always and everywhere, and—when necessary—use words.”

We proclaim the gospel whenever we live our lives vibrantly for Christ. We proclaim the gospel by our Christian witness in the everyday circumstances of life at work, in our homes and friendships. And at times, it is necessary that we use words. We should always be ready to put into words what God is doing in our lives and in the lives of those around us.

Avoiding evil, following Christ by giving generously of ourselves to God and others, and proclaiming the gospel of Jesus Christ. Are we able to devote ourselves to these practices each day, week after week? If so, perhaps some day the people who know us best will look at our lives and say:

That man or that woman really knew what it meant to follow Christ. They really lived the gospel well. And do you know what?

They made it look easy!