New Website for the American College!

Check out our new website (under "Links" on this webpage) for the American College of the Immaculate Conception, where Jesus Christ, our Eucharistic Lord, is at the center of our lives and formation. The website is still a work in progress, but you can check out some of the things that God is doing in the lives of our seminarians as they prepare to serve the Church as priests of Jesus Christ.

Please pray for an increase in vocations to the priesthood and for those who are currently in formation for the priesthood at the American College in Belgium.

April Fools

(5th Sunday of Lent-Year B; This homily was given on 29 March, 2009 at the Chapel of The American College of the Immaculate Conception in Louvain, Belgium; See Letter to the Hebrews 5:7-9 and John 12:20-33)

We are about to enter the month of April in just a few short days; this Wednesday will be April 1st, a day commonly known as “April Fools’ Day.” April Fools’ is the day when many people will play games or jokes on those around them to “fool” them; hence the name. Now, some April Fools’ jokes are funny, and some are not so funny, depending upon the circumstances.

It was back in April of 1998 that Burger King published a full page advertisement in USA Today announcing the introduction of their latest product: the “Left-Handed Whopper.” That ad spoke about how the lettuce, tomatoes, onion, all the condiments, had been rotated 180 degrees under the bun so that millions of left-handed customers could now enjoy that great burger even more!

Do you know what happened? Thousands of customers that April came to Burger King and requested the Left-Handed Whopper! Many other customers also asked for Whoppers, but they clarified that they were right-handed, and wanted to make sure they received the correct one. It was a hoax, an April Fools’ joke, and thousands of people were fooled by it.

On April Fools’ Day in Copenhagen in 1965, a bit closer to where we are this morning, a local newspaper reported that parliament had passed a new law requiring all dogs to be painted white. The reason, that article clarified, was so that motorists could spot them easier and the animals would be safer near the roadways. Obviously, it was a joke, but many people hid their dogs in basements or the garage, fearful that the government wanted to paint their dog white! Many were fooled by that prank.

But as I mentioned a moment ago, not all April Fools’ jokes are funny. Some of them, in fact, can be quite awful. In April of 2000, in the country of Romania, the newspaper Opinia announced that political prisoners were going to be released from the Baia Mare prison. About 60 people made the long journey to the prison and waited anxiously outside the gates, only to learn that the paper had played an April Fool's joke on them. Opinia later apologized but by that time the damage had already been done. There is nothing funny about that April Fools’ joke.

But even worse than that, on April 1, 2002 in the Netherlands a law came into effect for the legalization of a practice that had already been happening for years: Euthanasia and Assisted Suicide. The legislation had already been proposed on 28 November, 2000, but on 1 April, 2002 the “Termination of Life on Request and Assisted Suicide Act” finally came into force.

Of course, it was never meant to be an April Fools’ joke, but it fooled many people, and still does today. Many people were—and still are—fooled about the misplaced meaning of suffering and death and its consequences for eternal life. Many people were—and still are—fooled about the loss of meaning and inherent value of every human life created in the image and likeness of God.

Some argued that the practice of Euthanasia and Assisted Suicide in the Netherlands had been going on for years already. What harm could be done in making it “officially” legal? Certainly that would only help to regulate it better. No harm there.

Yet less than two months later, on 28 May, 2002 here in Belgium the “Act Concerning Euthanasia” was passed by the Belgian House of Representatives and within four months it came into force. Belgium, which at one time had been one of the most Catholic countries in the world, became the second country in the world to legalize Euthanasia and Physician Assisted Suicide.

Just two weeks ago, on 17 March, 2009, Luxembourg became the third. If you look at that geographically, it is quite startling: the Netherlands is due north of Belgium. Bordering Belgium on the south east is Luxembourg. They are falling like dominoes, and it is not just here.

Switzerland and the State of Oregon in the U.S. do not allow Euthanasia. Yet Physician Assisted Suicide has been accepted and practiced in those places for years. And you may ask, “What is the difference between the two practices? What is the difference between a physician taking the life of a patient upon that person’s request and the physician who prescribes a lethal dose of drugs with the intention of taking the person’s life?” The answer, sadly, is the same as the question: what’s the difference!

Both actions are contrary to the moral law and violate the dignity of the human person created by God. They both hold to a radical autonomy which considers suffering something to be eliminated at all costs, even the cost of taking one’s life. And there are many who are fooled by that mentality. There are many who come to believe such a practice is a fundamental right.

But God would not have us become April Fools, believing such a lie about the human life He gave us. He would not have us be fooled by the Culture of Death that is so radically vocal and successfully active in the world around us. God challenges us to be wise and faithful followers of Jesus Christ who understand what He has taught and revealed about suffering and death, and about so much more than that.

This is the time of the year in a particular way that we focus on suffering and death and, ultimately, on the resurrection. God has something to say—especially in this time of the year—about those things.

Next weekend, with Passion Sunday, and throughout Holy Week, culminating with Easter, we meditate on and thank God for the suffering, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. Our readings this weekend allow us a deeper insight into those mysteries as we enter more deeply into this holiest of seasons in the Church’s liturgical year.

In our second reading, from the Letter to the Hebrews, we hear about Christ that:

Son though he was, he learned obedience from what he suffered.
—Hebrews 5:8

What an odd thing to say about the Son of God! Yet we know that there were things in Jesus’ human nature that He had to learn as He grew “in wisdom and in stature, and in favor with God and man” (Luke 2:52).

For instance, the Divine Son of God did not know—immediately in His human nature—what it was like to be rejected. But He learned it; over and over again he would learn that. He did not know, in His human nature, what it was like to be misunderstood, or not be loved and accepted as He should have been, but he learned all those things, and painfully so.

In the same way he also “learned obedience.” Now to understand that requires that we know the full meaning of the biblical word for “obedience.” That word, in the Greek language, as well as in Latin, means more than merely “following the rules.” The Letter to the Hebrews is not saying that Christ was rebellious and needed to be taught a lesson. The word obedience means literally “to have an open ear to.” In Latin it is ab-audire, to listen to.

In other words, in His suffering Jesus Christ learned all the more keenly how to listen to the voice of the Father. When He was rejected, and misunderstood, and not loved or accepted the way He should have been, Christ learned—even and especially in those places—how to listen to the Father and follow more intimately the Father’s will for Him and for our salvation. In the moment of His agony in Gethsemane, Christ kneels in the garden with his heart and ears wide open, and He cries out “Father…not my will, but thine, be done” (Luke 22:42). That is what it means to say that Christ “learned obedience from what He suffered.”

The question is, “Do we?” Are we able, when we are rejected, or misunderstood, or not loved and accepted the way that we should be; are we able, when we are frustrated or struggling or going through difficulties great or small, are we able to learn obedience, to have an “open ear” to God the Father? Are we able to listen to Him saying to us:

I would never abandon you. I would never leave you. I will help you and assist you and guide you to an eternal home with me. Follow me, and let me guide you in the way you should go.

Are we able to do that?


In the Gospel of St. John we come to discover that not only is God able to teach us and lead us in our suffering, but also that our suffering and even our death can bear fruit. That is the exact opposite message of those who advocate for Euthanasia and Assisted Suicide. They say that there is no meaning in suffering and it should be avoided at almost any cost. But Christ tells us:

Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit.
—John 12:24

He is talking, of course, about His own suffering death, and how that gift of Himself in love will bear fruit in His resurrection from the dead; it will bear fruit also in our eternal salvation. The redemption of the world comes through the love of God in the midst of suffering and death.

We who are united to Him by Baptism and place our faith and trust in Him also share in those same fruits. We share in His resurrection and life. That is an entirely hopeful and meaningful understanding of suffering, especially for those who face the prospect of death.

And finally Christ teaches us how to live right here in this world so that we can share that eternal life with Him. He says:

Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will preserve it for eternal life.
—John 12:25

Like so many of the paradoxes in the Christian life, this one forces us to see things from God’s perspective, and to be docile to a way of living and acting that is open to learning the things that please God and lead us to eternal happiness.

Such a docility and openness is completely the opposite of what we find in the Culture of Death regarding the issue of Euthanasia and Assisted Suicide. Instead what is argued for is a radical autonomy which sets itself up against everyone and everything. The person says, “I will determine how and how long I will suffer, or even if I will suffer; not God; not the Church; not a member of my family. I will die on my own terms, and in my own way.”

To live like that is to fall short of the very life God is offering to us, to separate ourselves from the people who love us most, from the community and even from God. It is to love our lives on our own terms, and to risk the prospect of losing them because we have isolated ourselves from the very source of life, who is God.

Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will preserve it for eternal life.
—John 12:25

I would like to close this homily by illustrating this point with a quote from a Christian missionary named Jim Elliot. He came from Portland, Oregon many years before Oregon legalized Physician Assisted Suicide. Jim’s passion was to bring the Gospel message to those who had never heard of Christ. He and several companions died doing exactly that, trying to proclaim the Gospel to the native people of Ecuador.

Years before his death, in a journal entry he had written as he reflected on the call of God to give his life as a missionary, he wrote the following:

“He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep
to gain that which he cannot lose.”

God is challenging all of us this Lent and Easter not to become April Fools. He is calling us to be wise and faithful followers of Christ who have an open ear to Him, even in the midst of the challenges and difficulties we face in our daily lives. He is asking us to trust in Him and to never forget that all who put their hope and faith in Christ—even though they fall to the ground and die—will be raised up again to eternal life in Him.

The Annunciation: God at the Center of Our Lives

(Solemnity of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary-Year B; This homily was given on 25 March, 2009 at the Chapel of The American College of the Immaculate Conception in Louvain, Belgium; See Luke 1:26-38)

The Blessed Virgin Mary is a woman who placed God at the very center of her life.

All the gospels, everything we learn about our Blessed Mother from the teachings of our faith, and every aspect of a true devotion to Mary emphasize that same central reality: Mary placed God at the very center of her life.

That is also the reason why she is able to respond the way she does in St. Luke’s Gospel this morning. When greeted by the Angel Gabriel with the most remarkable and amazing news, even amidst the fear and questions that she would have had and in spite of all the obstacles in her way, so many events that she could never foresee, Mary is able to say: Yes.

Fiat voluntas tua.

Let it be done unto me
according to your word.
—Luke 1:38

If this is God's plan then this is what I want, because God is at the very center of my life.

This reality in the life of the Virgin Mary is the key to understanding why we celebrate this Solemnity of the Annunciation today, on March 25. This calendar date has absolutely no historical significance to the Blessed Virgin Mary whatsoever. The traditional months dedicated to Our Lady are October and May, not March (but let's be honest: how could there be a month in any calendar that does not honor her).

But in celebrating this feast today, we turn immediately not to Mary but to her Son, and our Lord, Jesus Christ. We look to the incarnation of the eternal Son of God and the celebration of that feast on December 25, and then we simply turn the calendar back 9 months to the moment He is conceived.

Jesus Christ is the source, center and point of reference for the feast we celebrate today, just as He was the source, the center and the point of reference for everything else in the life of the Blessed Virgin Mary. That is precisely the way she wanted it, because Mary placed God at the very center of her life.

And because she placed Him at the center, and completely surrendered herself to His perfect plan and desire for her life, Mary comes to experience God even physically as the center of her life. The Son of God is conceived within her, and suddenly God is growing physically in the center of her body.

Mary nurtures and loves the Author of Life within her, and her greatest desire is to bring Him into the world so that He can be made manifest as the center of the entire universe, that He may be the center of our own redemption, our own salvation and eternal life with God.

Now, if God can do that—bring about so great a salvation through one woman who willingly, knowingly and with great love placed God at the center of her life—imagine what he can do in your life and mine today, and every day, if only we place God at the very center of our lives.

Forgiveness, Mercy and Grace-A Christian Story

(Wednesday of the 2nd Week of Lent-Year B; This homily was given on 11 March, 2009 at the Chapel of The American College of the Immaculate Conception in Louvain, Belgium; See Jeremiah 18:18-20 and Matthew 20:17-28)

There is a movie that came out a number of years ago starring Harrison Ford and Brad Pitt called The Devil’s Own. Harrison Ford plays New York City police officer Tom O’Meara who agrees to welcome an exchange student from Ireland to live with him and his family.

That is where Frankie Maguire (played by Brad Pitt) comes in. In truth, Frankie is not an exchange student at all. He is a soldier in the Irish Republican Army and has come to the United States with a lot of money to purchase weapons so that he can return to Ireland and continue to fight for the cause.

As the film develops there is a very revealing dialogue in which Frankie suddenly shares a terrible and tragic moment from his childhood in Ireland. He tells Tom how people came in and shot his dad right in front of their family. Tom can hardly believe it and just looks at him, stunned and speechless.

Eventually the police officer within him starts to question and he asks about the people who committed that horrible crime. Did they get caught? Were they brought to justice? Frankie turns to him and replies with what could very well be the theme of the entire movie. He says:

“Don’t go looking for happy endings, Tom.
It’s not an American story.
It’s an Irish one.”

American stories are inherently focused on the happy ending; the good guys always come out on top and the bad guys get what they have coming; all the wrongs are set right and everything is packaged up neatly in the end.

Frankie Maguire is saying, “Don’t go looking for that in my story, because you will not find it. My story is a different story.”

We would do well to have that same caution when we read the Scriptures. If we are trying to force an American story into our reading of the Scriptures we will inevitably end up frustrated.

Look at the story of Jeremiah that we listen to this morning. Jeremiah is being denounced by the people around him, who are focused on his demise. They have come out against an innocent man to destroy him. As we listen to this story we may be tempted to wish that God would do to them what they are trying to do to Jeremiah!

The same could be said for our gospel. Christ talks about how the Son of Man will be mocked and scourged and crucified. We all know the story: how the Roman soldiers spat in His face, tied Him up and beat Him; how the Pharisees and Scribes derided Him while He suffered and died on the cross. A part of us would like to see Almighty God bring down the hammer on those people!

But that is an American story. Here the hammer comes down upon the hands and feet of Christ instead, because the story of the gospel is not an American story, nor is it an Irish one. The story of the gospel is a Christian story, and at the heart of that story we discover the mercy, forgiveness and overwhelming grace of Almighty God.

If we fail to understand this essential point then we will never understand the message of the gospel. Worse still, if we fail to recognize this core plot in the story of God and His plan for our salvation then we will never really understand ourselves and the purpose of our lives here on earth.

But it is possible to hear and discern that story and that message on almost every page of the Scriptures, if we tune in and listen. Listen to Jeremiah this morning, as he says:

Heed me, O Lord, and listen to what my adversaries say. Must good be repaid with evil that they should dig a pit to take my life? Remember that I stood before you to speak in their behalf, to turn away your wrath from them.
—Jeremiah 18:19-20

All the while they were speaking about Jeremiah and plotting his destruction, Jeremiah had been speaking about them, “behind their backs,” asking God to spare them and grant them His mercy. There was an internal dialogue going on, a conversation between Jeremiah and God, for their well being.

The same is true for the gospel. Christ describes His own suffering and death, yet even while those terrible events will take place, Christ will continue that internal dialogue with God for them: Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing (Luke 23:34).

Is it possible that the conflicts, trials and difficulties that we are experiencing in our own lives right now, have been allowed by God not only for our own sanctification, for that strengthening of the relationship we share with Him, but perhaps also for the people around us, as well?

Is it possible that God is calling us more deeply into that internal dialogue with Him, to speak with Him about the people in our lives that cause us sorrow and pain by their words and actions and what they have failed to do to help us?

I believe that it is entirely possible because the life we are called to in Christ—at its very core—is not merely an American story, nor an Irish one. It is a Christian story and has the forgiveness, mercy and overwhelming grace of God at its very foundation.

Might we allow Christ to continue writing that story in our lives this Lent as we become more docile and open to all that he wants to say to us—and through us—in the days ahead.

Salvifici Doloris and the Question: “Why Suffering?”

(5th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year B; This homily was given on 8 February, 2009 at the Chapel of The American College of the Immaculate Conception in Louvain, Belgium; See Job 7:1-7 and Mark 1:29-39)

It was a beautiful spring day in 1981 when our late Holy Father, Pope John Paul II, was riding through St. Peter’s Square, just as he had done a hundred times before, and as he would do—thanks be to God—hundreds of times after that. But on that particular day, May 13, 1981, as you may well remember, John Paul was shot at nearly point blank range by an assassin. He would later say that “one hand fired the gun, but another one guided the bullet,” for it was on the Feast of Our Lady of Fatima, to whom the Holy Father attributed his miraculous survival, that the assassination attempt occurred (see George Weigel, Witness to Hope).

But it was more than just the bullet that nearly took the life of John Paul II. He also received a tainted blood transfusion in the hospital, which did considerable damage to his already weakened body. It would be several long weeks of recovery and many long months of physical and even emotional suffering, as well, before he was finally able to return to a sense of “normalcy.”

A few years later he met with his attacker, face to face, and forgave him. A few weeks after that encounter, on the feast of Our Lady of Lourdes, Pope John Paul II released what was perhaps his most personal Apostolic Letter ever written, Salvifici Doloris, On the Christian Meaning of Human Suffering.

In that letter, John Paul reflects on the problem of evil and the question of suffering. He ponders a question which every one of us has asked at one point or another; perhaps we are even asking it now. That question, of course, is: Why?

Why, if God is all good and all powerful, is there evil in the world we live in?

Why is there suffering in my life and in the lives of those close to me?

Why do the people I love suffer?

Of course, one of the best known persons in all of Scripture to ask that question is the one we hear from in our first reading this morning: Job. Job has encountered unspeakable suffering. He has lost members of his family, his property, his own physical health; he experiences the spiritual suffering of one who has lost the sense of God in his life. He feels alone and in the dark and simply wants to know where God is through all of this sorrow. He laments in that first reading:

Is not man’s life on earth a drudgery?...I have been assigned months of misery, and troubled nights have been allotted to me…the night drags on; I am filled with restlessness until the dawn…I shall not see happiness again.
—Job 7:1-7

We are probably all familiar with the complete story of Job, how his friends come to comfort him in his suffering. They had very good intentions; initially they were so overwhelmed by the suffering of their friend that none of them said a single word for seven days. They sat with him in solidarity and silence…and then they figured it all out!

Their basic conclusion was that suffering comes as a result of sin. Job was suffering, so he must have done something to offend God. Therefore, he simply needed to repent and that would clear things up. Books have been written critiquing their counsel, but we would do well not to dismiss their logic too quickly. Job’s friends stand on solid theological ground when they connect suffering with sin.

All throughout the Old Testament, and right on into the New Testament, we find stories of men and women who suffer because of the sins that they have committed. We can look at our own lives and see the times we have said or done something we knew was wrong, we knew was a sin, and then suffered the consequences of that decision. Perhaps we have done nothing wrong, but we suffer because of the sins of those around us who have made terrible decisions. There is no solid reason for us to say that suffering and sin are not connected.

But the problem with Job’s friends, of course, is that when they make that connection in Job’s case, they’re wrong! We know that he is innocent. We have already been told that in the prologue, before all his suffering occurs. So that connection between suffering and sin, while certainly a credible and understandable one, cannot be applied across the board. It is, of itself, inadequate to explain all the suffering in the world we live in.

Ultimately, says John Paul II, suffering remains a mystery. We will not be able to answer all our questions about suffering here in this life. But to say something is a mystery is not to say that we cannot find meaning in it.

God is a mystery. We can never completely “figure out” God or find all the answers to our questions about Him on this side of heaven. But we can know Him. We can love Him and be loved by Him, and that is the context in which Pope John Paul II situates his reflection in the mystery of human suffering:

In order to perceive the true answer to the “why” of suffering, we must look to the revelation of divine love, the ultimate source of meaning of everything that exists.
—John Paul II, Salvifici Doloris, #13

God saw the suffering and the pain in the world He created, and He chose to come to us in the midst of it. Think about how different that is from the choices so many people make, especially in our present culture. They look at all that is wrong with the world, and all the suffering, and say, “I would never want to bring a child into this world.” God looks at all the suffering and everything that is wrong around us and says, “I must be born into that world. I must come and respond to those who are suffering and who find themselves in sorrow and distress. I will come to them.”

This is what we find in the gospel this morning. Jesus Christ comes among His own people and begins to respond to all the needs of the sick and suffering at St. Peter’s house. We are told that, after healing St. Peter’s mother-in-law, “they brought to him all who were ill or possessed by demons. The whole town was gathered at the door” (Mark 1:32-34). Christ was healing all those who came to Him; he cured body and soul. But at one point, we discover, He ceased to do so. He withdrew, by Himself, to a quiet place and prayed.

The disciples seek Him out, for there were many more in need of healing, and suddenly Jesus shocks them all: we’re leaving! There was something even more important, more pressing, than healing the physical and spiritual diseases of the people at St. Peter’s house. Christ tells us what it is: “Let us go on to the nearby villages that I may preach there also. For this purpose have I come” (Mark 1:38).

The ultimate reason Christ has come is not merely to heal the deficiencies and diseases of this earthly life. He comes also because there is an even greater sickness and suffering that we all share: the possibility of a life eternally separated from God. Christ has come to restore the most fundamental and devastating disease of humanity: the loss of eternal life.

To heal that rift—caused by our first parents, Adam and Eve, and perpetuated by our own personal sins—Christ will willingly suffer and die on the cross. Now we can have a new life with God once again. We can be healed of that eternal loss and come to share eternity with the God who redeems us. That is the purpose for which Christ has come. That is the message that he takes with Him to all the surrounding towns and villages. It is the message he teaches to His disciples, and the message of the gospel proclaimed in the Church for 2,000 years.

This truth of our redemption, says John Paul II, is also the key to understanding the mystery of suffering. He says “in the cross of Christ not only is the Redemption accomplished through suffering, but also human suffering itself has been redeemed” (Salvifici Doloris, #19). Our suffering, which had always been“drudgery,” a burden only, and a meaningless “misery,” can now find meaning in light of the sufferings of Christ.

Christ comes into our lives to help us carry our crosses, and He in turn allows us a share in His own cross, His own redemptive act of love that transforms the world we live in. This is not automatic; it is not something that happens in an instant or through one decision or one circumstance in life. It happens over the course of our lives, and through consciously sharing in a living relationship with God.

But we who share in the sufferings of Christ, and who participate in His redemption, will also share His resurrection (Philippians 3:10-11; Colossians 1:24). How has that message changed our lives and the way we look at the world around us? How has the message of the gospel, which Christ held to be the most important task and the purpose for his coming among us, changed us and transformed the way live?

May we come to understand our own lives, and even our own sufferings, more completely in the light of the mystery of divine love that God has revealed among us, and may we proclaim with Job the words of hope that were spoken by him in anticipation of the saving grace of God, who never forgets the ones He has created and loves:

For I know that my Redeemer lives, and at last he will stand upon the earth.
—Job 19:25

The Baptism of the Lord-"What is God like?"

(Feast of the Baptism of the Lord; This homily was given on 11 January, 2009 at the Chapel of The American College of the Immaculate Conception in Louvain, Belgium; See Mark 1:7-11)

What do you think God is like? If you could sit down with God and ask Him questions over a cup of coffee, what kinds of things would you discover? What are His likes and dislikes? What moves Him? How does He love? These are the kinds of questions that have preoccupied the saints in every age.

The mystics in particular—St. Teresa of Avila, St. John of the Cross, St. Catherine of Siena; not to mention St. Francis and St. Clare of Assisi—they were consumed with finding the answers to those questions. Who is God? What is God’s nature? How can I know Him and have a deep, personal, intimate relationship with the living God?

Of course, we could never know the answers to those questions…ever…unless God Himself revealed them to us. At the core of our faith as Catholics is the belief in a God of revelation; the God who reveals Himself, makes Himself known in time and space, and in human history.

Certainly we can know that God exists from reason. St. Thomas Aquinas, St. Anselm and many others offer us proofs for the existence of God. It is perfectly reasonable and even accessible, this belief in a God who created the ordered universe that we live in. We can look at a beautiful sunset, or recognize that every winter—even one as cold and bitter as this one!—each year, is followed by spring…and it is always beautiful. We can know that God exists from reason.

But only through God’s own decision to reveal Himself can we know what He is like. Isn’t that what we have been celebrating for the past several weeks? God has revealed Himself in the Incarnation; we come to see the God who became man in the person of Jesus Christ. God, who chose a people for Himself—Israel—and revealed Himself to them; made a covenant of love with them, and promised to be their faithful spouse; God, who sent the prophets to call them back to fidelity to the covenant; this God ultimately promised them the Messiah, one who would rule over the House of David forever.

A few short weeks ago we celebrated the birth of that Messiah, Jesus Christ the Son of God born in Bethlehem. Last week we celebrated the Epiphany, God made manifest not only as the savior of Israel but the savior of all the nations of the world. We see that God, and then we have the answer to our questions. We know—through Jesus Christ—what God is like, how He loves, and what it means to have a deep and intimate relationship with Him.

We come here to a place like this, and listen to the Scriptures—the Old Testament and New Testament—we gather together as the Body of Christ; we come to this altar to receive the God who reveals Himself in the Sacrament of the Eucharist, and we know what God is like. What an amazing gift, to be Catholic!

But there are dozens of people—in your life and in mine—that we encounter every week, who will never pick up a Bible and read about this God of revelation. There are dozens of people who will never come to this chapel or approach this altar for the Body and Blood of Christ. They will never know, as fully as God desires, the answers to the questions: What is God like? How much does He love us? How can I have a real and intimate relationship with Him? They will never know the answer to those questions…unless we tell them, and share that amazing news with them.

That is at the heart of the feast we are here to celebrate this morning: the Baptism of the Lord. We listen to St. Mark’s account of Jesus’ baptism in the Jordan River by John the Baptist. Have you ever wondered why Jesus, the eternal and sinless Son of God, is being baptized? People were coming in from all over Palestine, repenting of their sins and beginning a new life with God. But Jesus is God, and He has no sins to repent from!

We could look to the Christian Sacrament of Baptism for clarification, for we know that two things happen whenever someone is baptized: the soul is cleansed of Original Sin, and the person is given new life in the Holy Spirit. But Jesus is born without Original Sin; furthermore, He does not need new life in the Holy Spirit because He is already one with the Holy Spirit, from all eternity!

So why is Jesus baptized? The fathers of the Church and our tradition clearly answer that question: He is baptized in the Jordan River for the same reason He became man in the first place: FOR US. Jesus, who took upon Himself our human nature in order to redeem us, now takes that same human nature and plunges it in the Jordan. He comes to cleanse us, and to reveal for us God’s perfect plan for our salvation. That is why He is baptized. That is why the Holy Spirit descends upon Him and He immediately begins His public ministry.

Christ sets out to teach, and preach, and suffer, and die, and rise again, FOR US. He has cut a path of holiness right through this world we live in, and now we are the ones—as His Body, the Church—who must follow in that path. That is what the saints have done, and we are called now to walk in their footsteps as they followed Christ.

Today we, who have been baptized into Jesus Christ, we who have received the anointing and the gifts of the Holy Spirit at our Confirmation, are called to go forth, sent by the Father, and in the power of the Holy Spirit to make Christ known, to reveal Him in the world we live in. Are we ready to do that?

Because there are thousands of people in this world right now, many of them very close to us, people we see on a daily basis, who are longing for the answers to the questions that burn deep within the human heart:

Who is God? How does He love us? How can I have a real, deep, and intimate relationship with the living God?

St. Francis of Assisi, Upside Down (ACL Pilgrimage, Day 9, Assisi)

(Sixth Day in the Octave of Christmas; This homily was given on 30 December, 2008 in the Basilica of St. Francis in Assisi; See 1 John 2:12-17)

Towards the beginning of St. John’s Gospel there is a beautiful statement which describes God’s attitude and response to the world. The Evangelist—whose feast we just celebrated a few days ago—says:

God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life.
—John 3:16

John could not be any clearer about this God who loves the world enough to send us Christ; His stance towards the world is one of compassion, one of mercy.

Therefore it is with some curiosity that we listen to the same Evangelist, in our first reading this afternoon, warning us quite directly:

Do not love the world or the things of the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him.
—1 John 2:15

Of course, St. John is talking about two completely different things. The world, as God created it, is good. We see that clearly in the Book of Genesis. But what John is referring to in our first reading is the world corrupted by sin; he is talking about a world system that is opposed to God’s perfect plan for our happiness.

In describing that system he says “all that is in the world, sensual lust, enticement for the eyes, and a pretentious life, is not from the Father but is from the world” (1 John 2:16). So, obviously, we find two very different uses of “world” in St. John.

We could say that God looks at the world in one way (with love and mercy and a desire to see things set right) and we, because of sin, are prone to see it differently and embrace the world for its own sake, without God. We sometimes look at the world incorrectly, even sinfully, our vision impaired through lust, covetousness and pride.

We can take a moment here in Assisi this afternoon to recognize both of these perspectives in the person of St. Francis. I am sure it comes as no big surprise to you that Francis, as a young man, was quite worldly. He very much saw the world with that impaired vision described by St. John. He was misguided by “sensual lust, enticement for the eyes, and a pretentious life.” But while still a young man, and to the surprise of many close to him, everything changed.

Francis’ life underwent a complete transformation, and it happened here, in this city. It happened here in the few square miles that we will walk through and pray in throughout this day. What happened, according to the great Catholic author, G.K. Chesterton, is that St. Francis began to see the world he lived in…and God…and himself…differently.

Chesterton, in his biography on St. Francis of Assisi, says that Francis’ transformation took place through humiliation. Through being humbled in all kinds of circumstances, through humbling himself in prayer, fasting, and imitation of the poor Christ, he began to see things differently and to live differently. His life, says Chesterton, was turned upside down.

Think about how it feels to be humbled, or better yet, humiliated. We feel like our whole world has turned upside down. Eventually we get back “on our feet” and move forward. But what Chesterton suggests is that Francis underwent that experience so many times and with such intensity that he simply stayed that way, upside down! It is a powerful image to be sure. Chesterton says:

If a man saw the world upside down, with all the trees and towers hanging head downwards as in a pool, one effect would be to emphasize the idea of dependence… He would be thankful to God for not dropping the whole cosmos like a vast crystal to be shattered into falling stars.

Perhaps St. Peter saw the world so, when he was crucified head downwards… men have said “Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall not be disappointed.” It was in a wholly happy and enthusiastic sense that St. Francis said, “Blessed is he who expecteth nothing, for he shall enjoy everything.” It was by this deliberate idea of starting from zero…that he did come to enjoy even earthly things as few people have enjoyed them.

—G. K. Chesterton

Francis begins to see the world the way God does, and how utterly dependent we are upon Him for everything. That vision eventually set him free and allowed him to live in an entirely new way.

Today we ask for that same grace, to stand on our heads here in Assisi! We pray for the grace to see things as they are, completely dependent upon God. Then we shall live here in this world, and love the world, even as God does. We shall live and love as St. Francis, as we walk the streets of his hometown.

Obedience Begets Joy (ACL Pilgrimage, Day 8, Rome)

(Fifth Day in the Octave of Christmas; This homily was given on 29 December, 2008 in the Basilica of St. Paul in Rome; See Luke 2:22-35)

What joy to be able to celebrate this Holy Mass here in the Basilica of St. Paul, and in the Year of St. Paul! This morning I would like to begin with something rather un-Pauline, and offer some word associations. We are all familiar with how word associations work. As soon as we hear a word—because of past experiences or the various contexts in which that word has been used—we immediately have certain feelings or emotions.

For instance: Gelato. What is your first impression when you hear that word? Perhaps it is one of great happiness, mixed with memories of these last few days.

What about the word: Pilgrimage?

Hopefully, for years to come, when you hear that word you will think about all the Churches we have prayed in and the grace-filled experiences of Rome, Florence, and Assisi.

But there is one more word I would like to mention this morning, and it is one which is essential to the life of the Church. It is also one that is of particular importance to me, and for you who are preparing for the priesthood, as well.

And yet, it is a word that does not receive a very favorable response in the world we live in. One is likely to illicit a negative response when the word is used. The word, of course, is obedience.

What comes to mind when you hear that word? What if I were to say: “You should obey those in authority in the Church,” or “We are called to be obedient to the laws of God."

I think many people today would be offended by statements like that. Obedience is often viewed as a threat to autonomy. Some might think, “I am no longer free to be who I want to be, or to do what I want to do, because obedience forces me to do otherwise.” Obedience is seen as the enemy of free choice.

In popular culture we find many different expressions of this mistaken view of obedience. As I am sure you know, one of my favorite television shows is the series 24, featuring action hero Jack Bauer. Jack is a man of tremendous courage and self sacrifice. Time and again he is willing to risk his own life while trying to save others. Yet nearly every episode finds him breaking the law, stretching the ethical code of his profession, and many times deliberately disobeying his superiors. Undoubtedly he saves the day every time! It is awfully exciting to watch, but offers a very unhealthy perspective when it comes to obedience.

Thankfully we have someone close to each of us who offers a stellar vision of what it means to obey: The Blessed Virgin Mary. Mary’s obedience to God brings Jesus Christ into this world. There is a remarkably short distance between Mary’s fiat voluntas tua and the unfathomable mystery of verbum caro factum est. She obeys God’s will and the Light of the World begins to shine in the darkness! Now that is a positive perspective on obedience!

Our gospel this morning gets even more specific. We hear no less than four times that Mary and Joseph have brought the Child Jesus to Jerusalem because that was what they were required to do by the law of the Lord.

Mary would have gladly complied with this law. It would have given her great joy to bring her little Child to the city and participate in the sacred rituals of her faith. But it is not only Mary, Joseph and the Child who are affected here. We soon discover that there is an old man in Jerusalem to whom God has made a promise!

God told this man that he would see the Messiah. He would see the Christ with his own eyes. God is that kind, that he would offer a grace and consolation to a devout soul simply because He wanted to. Yet then He steps back and makes that promise completely dependent upon a young girl’s desire to be obedient!

If Mary chooses that she, who is without sin, and her Child, who is the eternal Son of God, do not need to fulfill the Mosaic law, then Simeon will not see the Christ. Yet Mary’s loving obedience is the very thing that brings great joy to that holy man. He takes the Child into his arms, blesses almighty God, and says:

Lord, now let your servant go in peace; your word has been fulfilled: my own eyes have seen the salvation which you prepared in the sight of every people, a light to reveal you to the nations and the glory of your people Israel.
—Luke 2:29-32

Obedience brings joy into the world we live in; obedience has the power even to bring Christ to those who wait for Him. And so I would ask each of us to consider one simple question today: Who is Simeon in our lives right now? Who are the ones that God has made promises to, or offered hope to, but is depending upon us to fulfill those promises and bring that hope?

Who are the people to whom God has said “I will never leave you,” and who are now waiting for us to make due on that promise? Who are the people waiting for the consolation intimated by God, a consolation dependent now only upon our words or the attentiveness of our will in obedience to Him?

Or perhaps to go a little deeper with the question for you who are preparing for the priesthood: Who will be Simeon in your life in the days to come? Who are the men and women that will benefit from your promise of obedience to your bishop and his successors on the day of your ordination? Who are the lives that will be touched by your willingness to obey God and the teachings of our faith? Who will receive the sacraments of the Church through your obedience today and in the days ahead?

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.