Onesimus: Brother, Disciple...Bishop?

(23rd Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 8 & 9 September, 2007, at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; read Philemon and Luke 14:25-33)

Note:

This homily touches on the abhorrent practice of human slavery, unfortunately an accepted reality at the time of the nascent Church. For a thorough treatment on the issue of slavery, and the Catholic Church’s position regarding it, please refer to Rev. Raymond Suriani and his homily this week. The link to his blog is on the right.

This morning Christ speaks to us about the cost of discipleship—what it takes to follow Him in this world—and what He asks of us is no less than everything. We must love Him more than our own possessions, more than our own families, more than we love our very lives. And we must be willing to follow Him even in the midst of our own suffering. He says:

Whoever does not carry his own cross
and come after me cannot be my disciple.
—Luke 14:27

But have you ever wondered if it would be easier to follow Christ if you had a different cross than the one you carry? Perhaps you’ve thought to yourself, “I would be a much better Christian if I didn’t have these particular struggles in my life.” Maybe you have even said to yourself, “If I could just start over again, someplace far away, everything would be different.”

I would like to tell you a story about a young man who tried to do exactly that; I’m going to save his name until the end, but I promise that you have heard of him before.

He was a servant in a very large household, and he was unhappy. One night he decided to leave everything behind, and he ran away to make a new life for himself. But the further he went, and the harder he tried, the worse things became. Before long he hit rock bottom and he eventually found himself in the local jail.

It was at that time, in that jail, that he met an old man who would change his life forever. The old man taught him to trust in God, and shared with him the truth about forgiveness in Christ, and God’s unconditional love. He taught him that his life had meaning and purpose, and then he encouraged the young man to go back to the household he had run away from.

“Go back?” the young man said to him. “I can’t do that!” He was a servant and the penalty for running away at that time was severe. But the old man told him not to worry, and he assured him that he actually knew the master of that house, and would personally write a letter guaranteeing his acceptance back. He assured the young man that, now that he had Christ in his life, everything had changed.

The name of that young man was Onesimus, and I said earlier that you had heard of him because he is the subject of this morning’s 2nd Reading. The old man was none other than the Apostle Paul himself, and the letter he promised to write—which is our 2nd Reading—has been read in the Church for nearly 2000 years. St. Paul had written to the master, Philemon, in the strongest language:

I, Paul, an old man, and now also a prisoner for Christ Jesus, urge you on behalf of my child Onesimus, whose father I have become in my imprisonment…

Perhaps this is why he was away from you for a while, that you might have him back forever, no longer as a slave but more than a slave, a brother . . . Welcome him as you would welcome me.

—Philemon 9, 15-17

Onesimus had tried, on his own, to change his life, but he had failed. Yet in the midst of his own failure and the recognition of his own trials and difficulties, he discovered the freedom he was searching for all along. He found Jesus Christ, and became a brother to the Apostle Paul, and Philemon. He had entered into that new life and new beginning he was so ardently seeking, and today he teaches us the lesson that Christ offers in the gospel: that we cannot separate our crosses from the call to discipleship:

Whoever does not carry his own cross
and come after me cannot be my disciple.
—Luke 14:27

We cannot separate our daily struggles and the crosses we carry from the call to follow Christ. The two go together, and it is very often in the midst of our crosses that we find Christ and that He draws near to us and helps us shoulder that burden.

And it’s all right to ask God for another cross, or a lighter one. Christ Himself asked the Father three times that his cross might be lifted. What matters is that we are willing to follow Christ, even if the cross remains. We are willing to take up our cross and follow Him.

There is a very moving scene in the film, The Lord of the Rings, in which Frodo, who has been carrying the ring which causes him so much suffering, turns to the wise and prudent Gandalf and says, “I wish the ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened.” And Gandalf replies:

So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.

Maybe we could follow Christ better if we had a different cross, or a different life. But this is the life that we have been given, and in this life, and in no other, God offers us hope. He offers us strength and the help we need to follow Him. And so we must decide what we will do with the time that is given to us, we must decide to take up our cross and follow Christ.

Which brings us back to our friend Onesimus. We never do find out in Paul’s letter what happened to him. But we do know that a man named Onesimus, around this time, became the Bishop of the Church at Ephesus, one of the most important cities in the early Church. Many scholars believe that this is the same Onesimus who met St. Paul in that jail only years before.

We don’t know for sure, but what we do know is that this young man—in the end—was “no longer a slave but a brother,” and above all, a disciple of Jesus Christ. May we, too, become faithful disciples of Christ and follow Him in our daily lives.

Award-Winning Humility

(22nd Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 1 & 2 September, 2007, at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; read Sirach 3: 17-20 and Luke 14:7-14)

You may have heard the story of the parish priest who was so humble that his parishioners decided something had to be done to recognize him. They had a medal cast with his name on the front, and on the back was inscribed: “The Most Humble Priest Ever.” They gave it to him at a special ceremony after Mass one Sunday. But just one week later, they decided to take that medal away from him…because he had the audacity to wear it!

Humility, a theme we find in our readings this weekend, can be an elusive virtue. As soon as we think we have it, we’ve lost it! But if there ever was such a thing as an award for humility, it could certainly be given to the author of our first reading, the author of the Book of Sirach. His full name, as we are told in the introduction to that book, is Yeshua Ben Sira (Sirach in Greek) and he is one of the great sages of the Old Testament. He is also considered one of the most modest and humble.

Sirach lived and taught about 200 years before Christ and his book is literally full of counsel and advice about how to love and serve God, how to follow the commandments and live at peace with those around us. In our first reading, Sirach offers us his teaching on humility (Sirach 3:17-20):

"My child," he says, "conduct your affairs with humility, and you will be loved more than a giver of gifts."

Do you want people, to love you? If so, Sirach is saying, then be humble. If you want people to like you, then live in humility. He continues:

"Humble yourself the more, the greater you are, and you will find favor with God."

Not only are the humble attractive to those around them; humility attracts God Himself! God favors those who live in humility. Finally, Sirach offers the key to achieving this humility:

"What is too sublime for you, seek not, into things beyond your strength search not."

Knowing who we truly are, according to Sirach, is the key to humility: to not go beyond our limits; to know where God has placed us and to be content there. That is the path we are called to walk.

There is a great book, written by Ursula Le Guin, called, The Farthest Shore. It is very much like C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia or J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings; the fantasy-fiction genre. The book begins by describing the land of Earthsea, a world overtaken by a dark force which has drained the land and its people of their power. The wizards and all the inhabitants of Earthsea have been drawn into this darkness and are helpless to overcome it.

The main character and hero, a wizard named Ged, sets off with his young apprentice, Arren, to confront this dark force. Before long, Arren notices that Ged—unlike all the other wizards—has somehow retained all of his powers. Intrigued, Arren questions this strange phenomenon:

“How is it that all the wizards…have lost their art, but you keep yours?”

Ged answers without hesitation:

“Because I desire nothing beyond my art.”

He alone had lived his life according to the wisdom of Sirach:

What is too sublime for you, seek not,
into things beyond your strength search not.
—Sirach 3:17-18, 20

That was they key to his strength, and to his ability to practice well the art which all the others had lost. “I desire nothing beyond my art.” That is true humility: being content to be the person God created us to be, and not striving to go one bit beyond it.

What would the world look like if everyone followed that advice?

What would “Corporate America” look like if men and women in the business world followed the counsel of Sirach?

Or closer to home, what would our families, marriages, vocations and personal lives look like if we followed that advice?

What is too sublime for you, seek not,
into things beyond your strength search not.
—Sirach 3:17-18, 20

Jesus Christ, in the Gospel this weekend, gives us a picture of exactly what that would look like. He reveals to us what happens when we do not seek to go beyond our own limits. When we do not spend all of our efforts looking after “Number One,” then God begins to look after us Himself. When we seek merely to take the lowest place, God Himself moves us up higher to where we never dreamed of going. Jesus says:

When you are invited [to a banquet], go and take the lowest place so that when the host comes to you he may say, “My friend, move up to a higher position.”
—Luke 14:10

Back in the summer of 2001, when I was about to begin my second year of Major Seminary in Rome, I was part of what was called the Orientation Committee. Each summer, the Second Year seminarians work together as part of that committee to welcome the new students to Rome for the first time. One of the most moving events of that orientation is the trip to the Pope’s summer residence in Castelgondolfo, joining about 1,000 other pilgrims for the general audience there.

Since we had been to Castelgondolfo already, just one year before, many of the members of the Orientation Committee began to move the new students closer to the window where the Holy Father was about to appear. As we moved them forward, we ourselves took up the places towards the back of the group.

While we were in the very process of doing that, the archbishop in charge of the Papal Household came out and addressed our rector, who had just begun his position as the leader of our seminary. The archbishop said to him, “Are you the new Rector of the North American College? Take two people from your group, and follow me.”

The rector pointed to me and one of my classmates, and suddenly the three of us were led through a door and up a flight of stairs, and eventually into a small room where Pope John Paul II greeted us, and spoke to us for a few minutes, before finally giving us his blessing. It was one of the most memorable moments of my seminary formation.

The first thing that came to my mind that day was the gospel passage for this weekend, and the call for those who take the lowest place to “move up to a higher position.”

This morning we gather here at God’s great banquet, the Banquet of the Eucharist, to meet not the Pope but Jesus Christ Himself. God calls us to take the lowest place, to approach this great mystery of the Eucharist with the same faith and humility that we express at every Mass, praying in the words of the humble centurion in the gospel:

Lord, I am not worthy to receive You,
but only say the word and I shall be healed.

May we truly come to recognize, here before Jesus Christ in the Eucharist, who we truly are in the sight of God; may our joy, our contentment find its foundation in that knowledge. And may we hear the voice of Christ Himself inviting us “to move up to a higher position,” more and more intimately into a life of union with Him.

Pilgrimage to Jerusalem

(21st Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 25 & 26 August, 2007, at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; read Isaiah 66:18-21 and Luke 13:22-30)

Like it or not, the summer is almost over. School will begin in just a few short days and life will take on a much quicker pace. Hopefully you had the chance this summer to take a nice vacation.

A few weeks ago I announced that Fr. Verdelotti was returning from his summer vacation, and I thanked God for that! I was very much looking forward to taking a few days off myself. That very day I received an email from a close friend who is a Franciscan Sister of the Eucharist. She is part of an order of religious sisters and brothers who have convents and religious houses across the country, and in places like Rome and Jerusalem.

She emailed me about the pilgrimage that some of the sisters in formation were about to take later that week, a pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the Holy land. They had been planning it all year. In the email she said, “Father, I know it is last minute, but we are wondering if there is even a remote chance that you could join us as our priest on this pilgrimage.”

I was shocked. The first thought that crossed my mind was to send this brief reply: “Are you crazy?” How could I possibly go on a trip like that with just a few days’ notice? Instead, I looked at my calendar and saw that I had planned to take a week’s vacation anyway at that same time. I would need to add a few more days to it; when I looked at those days, they were all wide open. That never happens! It was the providence of God, and suddenly I found myself on Pilgrimage with the Franciscan Sisters and Brothers of the Eucharist.

It was the most remarkable and beautiful trip I have ever taken. We went to Bethlehem, where Christ was born. We had Mass in Nazareth, where Christ grew up, and in Galilee where he preached, healed the sick and performed miracles. We celebrated the Eucharist in the place where He instituted that Blessed Sacrament, and on Calvary, where He died. We knelt down and prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane, and in the empty tomb where He rose again from the dead. I will never forget what God did in our lives on that pilgrimage.

I mention that today because our readings for this weekend talk about the pilgrimage to Jerusalem that God is planning, a pilgrimage that all of us are invited to. In fact, God intends to bring all the nations of the earth on that pilgrimage to the Holy City of Jerusalem. As He says in our first reading, through the prophet Isaiah:

I come to gather the nations of every language; they shall come and see my glory…They shall bring all your brothers and sisters from all the nations as an offering to the Lord, on horses and in chariots, in carts, upon mules and dromedaries, to Jerusalem, my holy mountain, says the Lord.
—Isaiah 66:18, 20

Isaiah is not saying that God will literally put us on mules and camels and bring us into Jerusalem. He is talking about God’s eternal plan of salvation. At the beginning, after the fall of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, God began immediately to put a plan together to redeem us and save us from sin and death. That plan involved calling together a people, a single nation among all the others, to be holy and set apart for God.

That nation was Israel, whom God brought into the Promised Land and gave the City of Jerusalem, where they built a temple to worship Him alone and follow His commandments. From this nation a Savior was born, Jesus Christ, the Messiah. He came to suffer and die to redeem not only Israel, but so that all the nations of the world might be saved. Jesus Himself, in the Gospel of Luke this morning, puts it this way:

People will come from the east and the west and from the north and the south and will recline at table in the kingdom of God.
—Luke 13:29

That is God’s eternal plan for our salvation; it is the pilgrimage of a lifetime, one that begins right here and will continue for eternal life. Today we can ask ourselves, in light of that journey which God has called us all to participate in:

Are we ready to make that pilgrimage?

Are we willing to make whatever change is necessary, to conform our lives to God’s will and enter that kingdom?

It is not simply automatic.

When the Franciscan Sisters of the Eucharist invited me to join them on their pilgrimage, I did not simply show up at the airport! I had to check and make sure my passport was in order; I had to go out and purchase some last minute items for the trip; I had to pack my bags; I needed to make a good confession to prepare spiritually for that pilgrimage. The same is true for us as we prepare for the pilgrimage that God is calling us to. We have to get ready!

There is a beautiful story about St. Francis of Assisi, who was asked what he planned to do one day. He replied that he was going to work in his garden. The person said, “What if this was the last day of your life? Then what would you do?” He paused for a minute, thoughtfully, and then replied, “Well, I suppose I would go and work in my garden.” His life was in order. He was already conformed to Christ, and so he was totally free to follow God in the ordinary rhythms of life and ready for whatever each day might bring.

Blessed Pope John XXIII, closer to our own time, was asked the very same question: “What if this was the last day of your life?” Do you know what his reply was? He said, “My bags are packed.” Can you imagine yourself responding that way? What a beautiful way to live.

Now most of us, if we are honest, will admit that we are not St. Francis of Assisi; we are not Blessed John XXIII. We are still striving and trying to conform our lives to God’s will and to follow Christ as closely as we can. That is why Christ, in the gospel this weekend, challenges us to keep at it. He says that we need to strive to find our way into the kingdom God is calling us to:

Strive to enter through the narrow gate, for many, I tell you, will attempt to enter but will not be strong enough.
—Luke 13:24

Unfortunately, the word He uses, strive, does not translate well into the English language. When we hear that word—strive—we think “Give it your best shot; give it the old college try.” But Jesus is saying something much stronger than that.

The Greek word we find in St. Luke is agonizomai. It is where we get the word agony. Jesus is saying to us: Agonize to enter through the narrow gate. Do everything you can, even if it hurts. For God’s sake, and for your own, get into this kingdom; get on this pilgrimage; go to heaven!

With that said, what are we willing to do to conform our lives to Jesus Christ? In the words of Blessed Pope John XXIII, are our bags packed? Are there things in our bags that we do not need, or would not want God to see?

Are there personal sins that we need to repent from, and things we need to change in our lives? Are there any bad habits, or addictions, or other obstacles that we need God’s grace and strength to overcome?

How about our relationships? Are we living at peace with God and with each other? Is there any un-forgiveness in our lives? Today we ask God for all the grace we will need to make that pilgrimage to Jerusalem. May we truly strive to meet God on that journey that begins here in this life, and continues on forever in eternal life with Him.

Franciscan Brothers and Sisters of the Eucharist-Holy Land Pilgrimage 2007

(This homily was given for the Mass of First Vows of Sister Monica Navalta of the Franciscan Sisters of the Eucharist. I am currently on pilgrimage with them in the Holy Land. Mass this morning was celebrated at the Church of the Primacy of Peter, located on the Sea of Galilee. It is the very place where Christ asked St. Peter that defining question: “Do you love me?” Read 1 Peter 5:1-4 and John 21:1-19)

Yesterday afternoon, as we were coming by this Church on the boat tour of the Sea of Galilee, Sister Monica spoke to me about why she chose this Church among all the other places she has experienced here in her ministry in the Holy Land; why the Primacy of Peter as the place of First Vows as a Franciscan Sister of the Eucharist? Her answer was simple, and profound: Discipleship.

St. Peter is, in many ways, the quintessential disciple. He is the one to whom Christ says, at the end of the gospel we just listened to: “Follow me” (John 21:19). Yet I think all of us would admit that Peter is a complicated disciple. There is nothing simple about St. Peter. We find him, all throughout the gospels, and in the Acts of the Apostles, on both sides of the spectrum.

St. Peter is the one who often bumbles into situations, flags in faith as he sinks into the water, and even denies our Lord hours after the Last Supper. But Peter alone is the one who has the courage to walk out on the sea. To him alone was it revealed by the Father that Jesus was the Messiah, the Christ of God. And Peter alone is given that special place of primacy among the other apostles. As Christ says to the fisherman from Galilee: “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church” (Matthew 16:18).

It is fitting that St. Peter, who we find at both of those extremes, offers to us a contrast of discipleship in our first reading. He talks about two different kinds of discipleship: the one of constraint, and discipleship taken up willingly. He says to the presbyters or priests of the Church:

Tend the flock of God in your midst, overseeing not by constraint but willingly, as God would have it…
—1 Peter 5:2-3

Constrained means moved by outside forces, or inward motives that are not from God. St. Peter says we should have nothing to do with that. Discipleship taken up willingly is that which is done in freedom, with an undivided heart. And therein lies the paradox of Christian freedom! For the Christian, freedom IS constraint. To be totally free as a Christian is to be totally constrained to love, to follow Christ, to serve. It is what drives us, the only option.

It pains me to have to do it at a Franciscan gathering, in a Church which is in the custody of the Franciscans, but the great Dominican Theologian, St. Thomas Aquinas, offers a beautiful example of this kind of freedom. He says that the people who are most free are the saints in heaven. Unlike us, they are unable to sin, unable to turn away from God in any way. They are “locked in” to the beatific vision, and can only love, only serve, only see what God sees. Bound to truth, bound to love, bound to Christ…that is the true definition of freedom for the Christian.

We find that freedom, in a striking and particular way, in the person of Jesus Christ. What is Jesus’ triumphant moment of freedom? We were there several days ago; we knelt in the very spot. Gethsemane. The Garden of Gethsemane is the place where Christ takes our human will, which he took from us in the Incarnation—a will that, from the Garden of Eden, had gone awry and chosen to disobey God—and He unites that will to the Father’s will. He does not want to die, but He is constrained by love and the desire to obey the Father and set us free from sin, and so He prays, “Not my will, but Thine, be done (Luke 22:42).

Immediately after He makes that prayer, what happens? He is arrested and bound. They tie His hands and drag him off the house of the high priest. He is thrown into the cistern, imprisoned in that place, but undoubtedly the most free man on the face of the earth. The Son of God is not bound by chains, or prison walls, or even by being fastened to the wood of the cross. Jesus Christ is bound by love, and He shows each one of us that this is true freedom; freedom bound by love.

That is the freedom Christ revealed to St. Peter on this very spot, by this very lake. Jesus said to Simon Peter:

When you were younger, you used to dress yourself and go where you wanted; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go.
—John 21:18

Literally, Jesus says that Peter used to “gird” himself, put a belt upon himself. Now, He says, Peter will stretch out his hands and another will gird not his waist but his hands. He will be taken away, against his will, to serve the Church by giving his very life. St. Peter would be bound to the cross, as Christ was, and offer everything in true discipleship. Yet in that St. Peter was more completely free than he ever was when he could “go where he wanted.” Freedom for the Christian is constraint; it is to be bound by love, bound by service, bound to follow Christ and offer everything to Him.

Sister Monica, that is what you are saying “Yes,” to this morning. You are making vows not by constraint, but willingly, as one bound by love. And this morning, in this Church, you will make promises that will become visible in the world around you. Someone else will bind you with the cincture around your waist. Someone else will place a cross around your neck, the ultimate symbol of discipleship and love.

In the weeks, months, and years to come, in the cities where He lived, and taught, and died, Jesus Christ will come to you many times—in the poor, in the lonely, in those who are suffering and sorrowful, in the knock at the door when it is inconvenient, in a thousand different ways, He will come to you—and He will say to you what He said to St. Peter. He will ask you:

Sister Monica, do you love me?... Do you love me?... Do you love me? Then if you do, feed my sheep.

Vigilance and the Divine Thief

(19th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 11 & 12 August, 2007, at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; read Wisdom 18:6-9 and Luke 12:35-40)

Our readings for this weekend are about vigilance: what it means to be ready, watchful, prepared for the coming of God into our lives.

The first reading, from the Book of Wisdom, tells the story of the People of Israel on the eve of the Passover. They had been enslaved in the land of Egypt, suffering hardship and oppression while all hope seemed lost.

In a single night God changed all that; he came suddenly and delivered them. He brought them salvation and set them on the road to the Promised Land.

But that same night was devastating for the people of Egypt. The Angel of Death came through that country and claimed the firstborn of the Egyptians. They never saw it coming.

Not so for the nation of Israel. Today’s reading tells us how they were ready:

For in secret the holy children of the good were offering sacrifice and putting into effect with one accord the divine institution.
—Wisdom 18:9

They had listened the instructions God had given to His servant Moses. They had offered the sacrifice of the lamb, sharing that meal that united them as one people. They had sprinkled the blood of the lamb on the doorposts and gathered together with loins girt, staff in hand, sandals on their feet. They were ready. When God began to move in the land of Egypt, they were ready.

In our Gospel today, Jesus tells us, in the same way, to be ready:

Be like servants who await their master’s return from a wedding, ready to open immediately when he comes and knocks.
—Luke 12:36

And what is Christ calling us to be ready for? His second coming. We believe—in fact, we profess and announce each week in our Creed—that Jesus Christ is coming back again. That may happen in our lifetime; we don’t know.

But we are also ready for that moment when our lives will end, and we will meet Christ face to face. That is also a moment that will come for every one of us. And all of the moments between now and that day, all the many ways that Christ comes into our lives each day. We are called to be vigilant, watchful, ready.

To accent our need to be vigilant, Christ uses a surprising image: that of the thief. He says:

If the master of the house had known the hour when the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into. You also must be prepared, for at an hour you do not expect, the Son of man will come.
—Luke 12:39

Almost always in the Scriptures, and in our own everyday experience, the thief has negative connotations. Oddly, and effectively, Christ uses it here in reference to Himself. His point is that we must be ready at every moment, for we do not know when He will come.

Several years ago, while I was still working for Stop & Shop Supermarket Company, I bought a nice new pick-up truck. It was one of those 4-wheel drive sport models, fully loaded. Each day I could hardly wait to get out of work, to go and drive it. One day I went out to do just that and there was an empty parking spot where my truck used to be!

After three days they found it, or at least what was left of it. It had been stripped of everything, and “The Club” anti theft device that was on the steering wheel had been placed back into the truck, where the seats would have been. This happened in broad daylight, with the police station right across the street! It caught me completely of guard; I never saw it coming. That is what Jesus is trying to say to us this weekend. Be ready!

But the analogy Christ uses, like all analogies, only goes so far. Usually, with a thief, our guard is up. We want to lock the doors and put the alarm on (or get something a little more effective than “The Club”). But not with this Thief! Jesus is the Divine Thief that we want to have in our lives. We want Him in our homes, in our cars, in our families and workplaces.

When it comes to Jesus, the Divine Thief, we need to unlock the doors, turn off alarms, open all the windows, and even break down walls if necessary. We need to let Him in! How do we do that?

First and foremost, we do it through prayer. We keep vigilant by watching for Christ each and every day in prayer. Do we spend time alone each day with God in silence and in prayer? The more vigilant we are to daily prayer, the more prepared we will be to meet Christ when He comes to us each day in our lives…and at the end of them. We let in the Divine Thief through prayer.

Secondly, we allow Christ to "break in" through lives of repentance. We all have places in our lives where we strive to, as we say each Lent, “turn from sin and be faithful to the Gospel.” But if there are any sins that we have left un-confessed or areas of impenitence in our lives, not even the Divine Thief can find His way in.

We need to take down those walls through repentance. If there are serious sins, we need to receive the grace God so willingly gives us in the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Repentance lets in the Divine Thief and allows Him to carry us ever closer to eternal life.

Finally, we let in the Divine Thief through what we are doing here this morning: opening the door to His presence in our lives in the Eucharist. Our first reading spoke about the people of Israel, who were “offering sacrifice and putting into effect … the divine institution (Wisdom 18:9)”. It was a reference to the Passover Meal.

This Eucharist is the fulfillment of that Passover Meal. It is here that we celebrate the Lamb of God, whose sacrifice on the altar of the cross and whose sprinkled blood won for us the forgiveness of sins and opened up for us the way to Heaven. Here at this Supper, we are most vigilant, most open, most ready to receive our Lord.

As Christ tells us in St. Luke’s Gospel this weekend, regarding those who are ready for His coming:

He will gird himself, have them recline at table, and proceed to wait on them.
—Luke 12:37

Christ, the Divine Thief, comes to us here to wait upon us, and to serve us with the Bread of Life, His own Body and His own Blood. Are we ready for that meal? Are we ready for that “divine institution?”

Pleonexia

(18th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 4 & 5 August, 2007, at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; read Colossians 3:1-11 and Luke 12:13-21)

Have you ever been diagnosed with the disease or illness called Pleonexia? This may be the first time you even heard of Pleonexia, but by no means is it a rare disease. In fact, it is something that affects almost every single one of us, directly or indirectly. The illness of Pleonexia is something that can destroy individual lives, families, and even countries; it is a plague that has, in the course of human history, wiped out entire cultures!

St. Paul uses the word Pleonexia in our second reading from the Letter to the Colossians. Jesus strongly cautions us against it in the Gospel. He says:

Take care to guard against all pleonexia.
—Luke 12:15

You may have guessed by now, but Pleonexia is the Greek word translated in our Scriptures this weekend as greed or avarice, and it is taken from the word pleon, which means “more.” Basically Pleonexia, or greed, is the desire for more, more, more. It drives us on to desire more money, more possessions, more sex, more power. More. It’s the “more” disease.

Pleonexia has the uncanny ability to root us right here to this earth, and blind us to the things of heaven. It creates a false sense of happiness in a life here without God, and takes our attention from the Kingdom of God that each of us are called to embrace. That is why Christ is so adamant in that Gospel to warn us against it.

Often the topic of money and material possessions can be a bit unnerving, because—more than likely in our country—we all have them! A gospel like the one this weekend can cause us to ask, “Is it a sin to have nice things, or to want nice things? Is it wrong to have a nice car, a nice house, a good bank account or financial portfolio? Is it wrong to want that kind of security for my family?”

Of course not! There is nothing wrong with having possessions. There is nothing wrong with a desire for material things. The problem comes when our possessions begin to possess us. It is when our material goods become material gods that we run into trouble. That is the very thing Jesus is warning us about when He says “Take care to guard against all pleonexia.”

In the Parable of the Rich Fool, Christ teaches us the difference between wealth and greed, between possessing good things in this life on the one hand, and being consumed by Pleonexia on the other.

The man in that parable has received an abundance of material wealth. St. Luke tells us that his land “produced a bountiful harvest” (Luke 12:16). He had, in fact, too much. He could not fit it all in his barns. There is no indication anywhere from Christ that this is a bad thing. On the contrary, it is a blessing, not a problem.

What he chooses to do what that blessing is the problem. Instead of being grateful for that abundant harvest, instead of being generous with what he has received, the rich fool says to himself—exclusive from God, and separate from those around him:

I shall tear down my barns and build larger ones…and I shall say to myself, “Now as for you, you have so many good things stored up for so many years, rest, eat, drink, be merry!”
—Luke 12:18-19

Why does he need bigger barns? Because with bigger barns he can fit more things. More, more, more. That is Pleonexia. There will never be enough barns to satisfy his craving for more.

I am sure you have heard of the expanse of military victories Alexander the Great was able to amass in his time as king in Ancient Greece. He won over nation after nation, until all the world was under his rule. One oft quoted line summarizes well the attitude he had to such success:

“When Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept for there were no more worlds to conquer.”

That is Pleonexia. When the world we live in is not enough, and still we long for more, that is a clear indication of greed, avarice, pleonexia. It is said that by the end of his life Alexander finally understood the futility of such a thirst for power and possessions. He arranged to be buried with his hand sticking out of the coffin, palm outstretched and empty. He wanted the world to know that no one—not even Alexander—can take it with them!

No one is exempt from Pleonexia. It can affect all of us, even priests! When I first began my priesthood after being ordained, I moved into my first assignment with only one car load of things. Everything I owned fit into that one car.

When I moved last month into the rectory here at St. Mary’s, I still had that same car filled with my possessions…plus a pick-up truck with the rest of them! It was what I had accumulated in three years. By the time I leave St. Mary’s, if I’m not careful, I’ll need an eighteen wheeler! Pleonexia! It can affect us all.

In Dante’s Divine Comedy, the poet Virgil takes Dante on a little tour of the Inferno and shows him the place reserved in hell for the greedy, those guilty of the sin of avarice. Dante is awed by the sheer number of miserable persons in that place.

Suddenly he notices that a very large number of them are tonsured. (In Dante’s time, those who entered the clerical state were tonsured: they shaved the hair on the top of their heads to show that they were clerics.) He questions Virgil, almost surprised to believe that there could be such here in the Inferno. Virgil’s response is sobering:

“Those bare of head were clerics, cardinals, popes, in whom the passion of avarice has wrought excess.”

No one is exempt from the temptation of greed and avarice; none of us are safe from the plague of Pleonexia. Yet the Good News is that there is an antidote for Pleonexia. There is a cure for that illness, and we find it in our second reading from St. Paul. But you’re probably not going to like it! The cure for Pleonexia, according to St. Paul, is death! He says:

Brothers and sisters…You have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God.
—Colossians 3:3

In other words, St. Paul is saying, the old life that you used to live is dead. Your old desires for possessions and the things of this earth are dead. Now you live your life for Jesus Christ. He continues:

Put to death, then, the parts of you that are earthly: immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and the greed (pleonexia) that is idolatry.
—Colossians 3:5

There is a story about an old man on the Alaskan coastline that used to raise wolves. Every week he would bring two of them into a small village nearby, and have them fight against each other. The people in that village would come out and bet on which of the wolves would win.

A little boy in the village noticed that, although there were always different wolves each week, whichever one the old man bet on always won. One day he asked the old man how he knew which one would win. The old man said to him:

“That’s easy. I am the one who takes care of them. Each week I pick out two of them, and one I starve all week long. I give him table scraps, just enough to get by. But the other wolf I feed with three meals a day, until he is healthy and strong. The wolf I feed is the wolf that wins.”

We can ask ourselves this weekend: which wolf are we feeding? Are we feeding the wolf of Pleonexia? The greed and desire for more of the things of this world that will consume us in the end? Are we feeding the things that St. Paul mentions: immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and greed?

Or are we, instead, feeding our spiritual lives and allowing Christ to live in us? Are we being fed by the Bread of Life, Jesus Christ, who feeds us right here from this table in the gift of the Holy Eucharist?

Let us be fed here in this place, and strengthened by Christ, so that we can leave here and witness to Christ in the world that we live in. May those we encounter this week recognize that the strength we have in this world is not from us, but that it is the strength of Christ Jesus, who lives in us.

La Festa di Maria Santissima della Civita

(Patronal Feast of Madonna della Civita; This homily was given 21 & 22 July, 2007, at St. Mary Church, Cranston, R.I.; read Luke 1:39-56)

Today we celebrate our patronal feast, La Festa di Maria Santissima della Civita. What is at the heart of our feast is an image of the Blessed Virgin Mary and her Son, our Lord, Jesus Christ. It is an image we have come to know so well: Mary’s hands raised in prayer and adoration, her infant Son seated upon her lap.

The history of that image dates back to nearly apostolic times, finding its roots in the region of Antioch, later known as Constantinople. This beautiful image, lost and found down through the centuries, was finally re-discovered in the 8th Century, more than 1200 years ago, on July 21, 796.

It was then that the deaf and mute herdsman from Itri, that small Italian village, followed a wandering ox to a field atop Mount Civita and came upon the tree that held in its branches that image of Maria Santissima and the child Jesus. Suddenly he was cured and ran back into the town to declare the great things God had done for him.

And so it is this image that, down through the centuries, has gathered together the people of Itri, and subsequently their descendants—so many of you—who have come to settle here in the Knightsville section of Cranston.

As we sing each year with great solemnity during this week of celebration in the beloved hymn Evviva Maria:

Immagine santé che gente raduna.
The holy image that gathers the people.

Of course, that sacred image comes to us from none other than St. Luke himself. Again, as we sing each year:

San Luca dipense l’amabil’ ritratto.
St. Luke painted this loveable portrait.

It is fitting that this painting should come to us from St. Luke, for it is that “dear and glorious physician” who always paints for us the most beautiful portraits of Mary in the New Testament.

The portrait of the Annunciation—that great visit of the angel Gabriel to the Blessed Virgin Mary announcing the child to be born—is found only in Luke.

And the Visitation, which we heard today on our patronal feast, Mary’s visit to her cousin Elizabeth and Mary’s song of praise, the Magnificat, are found only in St. Luke’s Gospel.

In his encyclical on the Blessed Virgin Mary, Redemptoris Mater, John Paul the Great links these two beautiful portraits together. He says that both the Annunciation and the Visitation, together, reveal to us the greatness of Mary as one who both receives the gift of God, and responds to that gift in faith:

“Both of these texts reveal an essential Mariological content, namely the truth about Mary, who has become really present in the mystery of Christ precisely because she “has believed.” The fullness of grace announced by the angel means the gift of God himself. Mary’s faith, proclaimed by Elizabeth at the visitation, indicates how the Virgin of Nazareth responded to this gift.”
—Redemptoris Mater, # 12 (emphasis his)

As we heard in the gospel today, Elizabeth proclaims:

Blessed are you who believed that what was spoken to you by the Lord would be fulfilled.
—Luke 1:45

Mary’s Motherhood, therefore, is not just a physical act; it is first and foremost an act of faith. The great Fathers of the Church, St. Augustine and St. Leo the Great, tell us that Mary conceived Christ in her heart before she conceived Him in her womb.

This is something that we find all throughout the life of Mary. She is constantly conceiving Christ, and then continually giving birth to Him in this world we live in. Even at the hour of His death, Mary stands at the foot of the cross and gives her “Yes” to God. She continues to receive that gift of God which is Christ her son, and by faith she offers Him to the world and participates in His radical gift of Himself for the salvation of us all.

We, as followers of Christ, and as men and women who look to Mary as our Blessed Mother, are called to do the same. We are called to constantly receive the gift of God, in silence and in prayer, and through our faith and our assent to Him, to give birth to Christ; to give flesh to Him in the world we live in.

I think that all of us are quite familiar with the extraordinary life of service and compassion that Blessed Mother Theresa of Calcutta exemplified in our own lifetime. Yet few people know of her total dedication to the spiritual life and prayer as the top priority for herself and her sisters, the Missionaries of Charity.

Blessed Mother Theresa of Calcutta would insist that they begin each day with Mass, and then spend one hour minimum before Christ in the Blessed Sacrament before they ever went out to serve the poor. She would say to them:

Until we can learn to recognize Jesus here in the Eucharist, then we will never be able to recognize Him in the lives of the poor.

Today, on this feast of Maria Santissima della Civita, how is God challenging us to imitate Mary, and Blessed Theresa of Calcutta, in receiving the gift of God in silence and in prayer, and then to respond to that great gift through lives of service and love?

In the year 796, that deaf and mute herdsman from Itri saw an image of Mary and her son, our Lord, Jesus Christ, which healed him. He went in haste to announce that image and the message of Jesus and Mary to all who would listen. May we bring that same message to a world that desperately longs to hear it.

Evviva Maria!

Adam, Embryos and the Good Samaritan

(15th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 14 & 15 July, 2007, at St. Mary Church, Cranston, R.I.; read Luke 10:25-37)

The parable we hear this weekend—The Good Samaritan—is one of the most familiar parables in the gospel. Even non Christians are quite familiar with the image of the Good Samaritan. We see it in organizations of good will and even in the CVS Samaritan Van that often lends a helping hand to motorists in need.

Precisely because the Good Samaritan is so familiar, there is a risk of losing the meaning Christ intends when He gives us that moving tale; there is a risk of reducing this parable to particular incidents or roadside accidents.

Yet to the particular question asked by the scholar in our gospel: “Who is my neighbor?” (Luke 10:29), Jesus Christ offers an answer that is universal: Everyone is my neighbor. Every man, woman and child is neighbor to the follower of Christ.

St. Augustine, commenting on this very parable, says that the victim of the robbers is Adam: He is every single one of us, wounded by original sin. Augustine says that it is Adam who has been attacked by Satan and his legions; as a result of original sin he is stripped of his immortality and lies helpless on the side of the road.

It is Christ who comes along as the Good Samaritan, that Outsider and Divine Visitor, who comes to rescue Adam. He looks upon that fallen and broken man and is moved to compassion.

Think of all the many times we see this replayed in the gospels. Christ looks lovingly upon the sinful woman, caught in the act of adultery, and has compassion. He looks with compassion on the sinners and tax collectors, and constantly seeks to draw them to Himself and heal them as the Divine Physician.

Here in the parable of the Good Samaritan, says Augustine, it is Christ Himself who lovingly picks Adam up and places him on his own animal. He brings him to the inn—which represents the Church—and provides him with refreshment and healing through the Sacraments, symbolized in the oil and wine poured over his wounds.

Our response to this beautiful story of our redemption should be two-fold. First and foremost we should allow Christ to truly become the Good Samaritan in our own lives. Where have our sins, and the sins of others, wounded us and left us broken and in need? Have we allowed Christ to enter deeply into those hurts, those wounds, and to heal us through the sacramental life of the Church?

But more than that, we are called to follow the command that Christ issues at the end of that inspiring parable: “Go and do likewise” (Luke 10:37). Where do we find Adam, helpless on the side of the road, in our own lives? How is God calling us to care for those who are weak or helpless and in need, those we encounter everyday?

One of the great crises of our culture, one that we cannot help but notice, is the great lack of care that we have for the weak and the vulnerable. What Pope John Paul II referred to as the “Culture of Death” is evident on many levels in the world we live in.

Abortion on demand remains one of the tragic legal choices open to the very mothers and fathers who are most in need of care and support. How many lives have been lost and broken—not just the unborn, but also the mothers and fathers of those children—and all in the name of freedom, in the name of choice.

When we look to the other end of the spectrum, to those who are preparing to enter into eternal life, we find this same lack of respect for the dignity of the human person. Many people facing the twilight of life and the prospect of death are tempted, and even at times encouraged, to consider Euthanasia or “mercy killing.”

It is a false solution and a misplaced compassion which robs the person of the dignity owed them as a child of God. This was once an isolated issue, involving some other country or another state, and one that did not really seem to concern us. The national attention given to the case of Terri Schiavo a few years ago changed all that. That young woman literally died of de-hydration as a result of the choices of supposed caregivers, doctors and lawyers, who never even really seemed to know her. That tragic outcome is one that should concern each one of us.

But much closer to home for us today is the issue of aggressive embryonic stem-cell research. This is something that is in the news constantly, and there is a great lack of understanding for many Catholics and non-Catholics alike when it comes to stem cells and stem-cell research.

Firstly, stem-cell research is a very good thing; it provides a tremendous amount of hope for those with any number of diseases and illnesses and the Church certainly supports it. Stem cells taken from the human body have the potential to regenerate and form new cells which may be able to cure someone who has been afflicted with diabetes, Alzheimer’s disease, and Parkinson’s disease, to name just a few.

And there are legitimate, ethical ways of obtaining these cells. They can be found in bone marrow, various tissues and organs, and in the umbilical chord after the birth of a child. These are what are commonly referred to as adult stem cells—taken from the bodies of those who willingly offer them—and there have been hundreds of successful cures from these stem cells to date. We should, by all means, thank God for that.

Just yesterday, in the Providence Journal, there was an editorial written by Lieutenant Governor, Elizabeth Roberts, mentioning this hope for breakthroughs in the research and medical application of stem cells. But the Lieutenant Governor greatly confused the issue by failing to distinguish the nature and methods of adult stem cells over and against embryonic stem cells and embryonic stem-cell research. She wrote about both together, and strongly advocated for the research and use of each.

As the name indicates, embryonic stem cells are taken from human embryos, human beings in their tiniest and most vulnerable form. What was also missing from the lieutenant governor’s editorial is what happens to those human embryos after they have been harvested for their stem cells: they are destroyed, discarded as mere medical waste.

This is not, and never will be, ethical or humane. One of the foundational moral principles that applies to all people of all times and cultures is that one cannot do evil so that good may come about. The destruction of a human embryo—human life having both a body and a soul—can never be justified, no matter how hopeful the outcome or possibility of good that it may entail.

The lieutenant governor is undeterred by this sound and clear ethical principle. In fact, she is determined to use our tax dollars to fund research that will deliberately involve the destruction of innocent human life. As she stated unabashedly in that editorial:

“I want to expand Rhode Island’s share of research dollars and scientific contributions immediately.”

It should be the hope and prayer of every Catholic and person of good will in the State of Rhode Island that her wish for aggressive embryonic stem-cell research using our tax dollars never becomes a reality.

But a bit closer to our gospel this weekend, we can ask: How are we called to be Good Samaritans in the face of these challenging issues? Above all else, we should be available to help heal those who place so much of themselves in these poor and unethical choices.

When these terrible abuses of freedom fail…and they will… we need to be there to help people find true meaning and well founded hope for their future with God.

When the choice of abortion fails...and it will, and there are broken persons and broken lives, when people turn to Euthanasia as an option and discover that they have made a terrible and irrevocable choice, or when the empty promise of embryonic stem-cell research fails…and it will …there has not been one single cure from embryonic stem cells. There have been hundreds of cures, tremendous results from adult stem cells, the obtaining of which are perfectly ethical and morally sound, but none whatsoever from embryonic stem cells. So when these choices end in failure and brokenness, then we have to be there to look upon our brothers and sisters with compassion and help them to come here.

We are called not to condemn them, but to love them, to look upon them with compassion and to bring them here, to the one place where Jesus Christ, the Good Samaritan, can pour oil and wine over their wounds and bring them healing, restoration and peace.

Reversal of Fortune

(14th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 7 & 8 July, 2007, at St. Mary Church, Cranston, R.I.; read Luke 10:1-20)

We are continuing, in this period called Ordinary Time, to hear from St. Luke’s Gospel. One of the themes we find throughout that gospel is what we could call “reversal of fortune.”

Over and over again, St. Luke shows us how those who are small, insignificant and unimportant in the eyes of this world are often the very people who are great, magnificent and beautiful in the eyes of God.

In the second chapter of his gospel, St. Luke sets the historical scene by mentioning the Roman Emperor, Caesar Augustus. At the time, Caesar was the king of the world as they knew it. But the Emperor quickly fades into the background as St. Luke moves on to announce the newborn baby king in Bethlehem. It is Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who is the true king of the world and master of the universe, not Caesar Augustus!

We find the same “reversal of fortune” in the person of the Blessed Virgin Mary. She discovers that she will be the Mother of God. She, the lowly handmaid of the Lord, will be the one to bear Christ in her body and bring Him into this world. St. Luke describes her reaction to that remarkable news as he gives us Mary’s song of praise, her Magnificat (Luke 1:46-56):

The Almighty has done great things for me, and holy is His name…He has cast down the mighty from their thrones and has lifted up the lowly…He has filled the hungry with good things and the rich he has sent away empty…

God has turned the tables! With the coming of Jesus Christ everything has changed. And one of the greatest reversals of all is the Kingdom of God itself: that we here on this earth can attain to the very heights of heaven.

In our gospel today, Christ sends out the 72 disciples to announce that message. It is a message of hope for those who were in despair and truly the Good News that they longed for. Finally those disciples return to Christ with great rejoicing:

Lord, even the demons are subject to us because of your name.
—Luke 10: 17

Jesus quickly responds:

I have observed Satan fall like lighting from the sky
—Luke 10:18

Yes, the time of the Devil and his minions is at an end. But Christ goes on to say:

Nevertheless, do not rejoice because the spirits are subject to you, but rejoice because your names are written in heaven.
—Luke 10:20

In the upper level of the Basilica of St. Francis in the City of Assisi there is a painting by Giotto of a vision one of the friars had while St. Francis was still alive. In that vision the friar saw numerous thrones set up in heaven. Some were larger and more ornate than others, but one of them stood out among them all. A voice then said to that friar:

“This throne belonged to one of the angels cast out of paradise; now it is reserved for the humble Francis.”

That story is the very image of the great “reversal of fortune” that the gospel brings to our fallen world. God loves us just as we are…but far too much to leave us there!

Today we can ask ourselves: of all the thrones that appeared in that friar’s vision of heaven, which one belongs to us? Which throne is God calling us to occupy when our earthly life is complete? How is God calling us to walk in the footsteps of the humble St. Francis of Assisi and to follow the example of those 72 disciples whose “names are written in heaven” in our Gospel today? We are all called to do the work of the Gospel. We are all called to be saints.

One of the more traditional titles for the Catholic priest is that of alter Christus: another Christ. Because he uses the words of Christ and acts in the person of Christ when celebrating the Eucharist and absolving sins in the Sacrament of Reconciliation, and because he is called upon to image Christ throughout his life and ministry, the priest must surrender himself continually so that he may truly be an alter Christus.

Yet the first person to be called an alter Christus was not a Catholic priest. The first person who was given that title was St. Francis of Assisi himself. He so lived out the gospel call to holiness and proclaimed God’s saving message in word and deed that when people looked to him they saw another Christ. Is that what they see when they look at us?

We are all called to be Altri Christi: other Christs. The 72 disciples sent out to proclaim the Kingdom of God are representative of all disciples; they could be any one of us. How is God challenging us to walk in their footsteps this week, to announce the Kingdom of God in our own towns, workplaces, and families?

This week might we rejoice in that work of the Gospel that God has called each one of us to…and one day may we also rejoice not only because of what God is doing here on this earth, but also because our names—please, God— will be written in heaven.

Discipleship

(13th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 30 June & 1 July, 2007, at St. Mary Church, Cranston, R.I.; read 1 Kings 19:16-21 & Luke 9:51-62)

It is good to be back at St. Mary’s parish! You may remember me from the time I was here as a seminarian about four years ago…or maybe not. Certainly much has taken place since that time.

I dropped by the parish just a couple of weeks ago and Fr. Angelo took me to a local restaurant to eat. While at table, a gentleman came over and welcomed me back to the parish. He said, “You look like you’ve lost some hair since the last time you were at St. Mary’s.”

While I was still recovering from that comment, he added, “And the hair that is left looks like it’s starting to turn gray.” I tried to make excuses and said, “It’s the priesthood! Three years as a priest and this is what happened. The priesthood will do that to you!”

But if we look at our readings for this weekend we can see that it is not only the priesthood that is tough. Discipleship itself is tough. It is not easy to be a disciple of Jesus Christ. It requires sacrifice. Discipleship can be demanding.

Jesus, in our Gospel today, is demanding! One would-be follower says to Him:

I will follow you wherever you go.
—Luke 9:57

Jesus responds to that wide-eyed enthusiasm with the sobering reality of His own personal life:

Foxes have dens and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man has nowhere to lay his head.
—Luke 9:58

Jesus is saying, essentially, “Get ready! Being a disciple is not easy. You will encounter difficulties. You will have to make sacrifices. You will have to make God the top priority in your life, above your own desires and even above the people you love.”

As He says to another would-be disciple:

Let the dead bury their own dead;
but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.
—Luke 9:60

Does that sound harsh? Christ is not saying that we should ignore the needs of those we love, nor is He saying that we should take no heed to bury our deceased loved ones (to bury the dead is, in fact, one of the Corporal Works of Mercy). He is simply saying that the kingdom of God takes precedence even over that! Discipleship places God and His kingdom as priority number one.

But the good news is that when it comes to following Christ and being a disciple, however demanding it may seem, we are never alone. Tertullian, one of the early Church Fathers, said “A Christian alone is no Christian.” We need each other; we are called to encourage and strengthen one another.

The communal aspect of discipleship is one that we see beautifully expressed in our first reading from the First Book of Kings. Elisha the prophet is being called by God to succeed the prophet Elijah. To be a prophet in Israel at that time was demanding! The prophets called the people, and especially the king, to account for their decisions and actions. As one would imagine, they were often quite unpopular. It was a difficult and demanding ministry.

And so when God calls Elisha to be a prophet, He does not give him a letter of appointment. He does not send him an email! He sends him, instead, the prophet Elijah. Very beautifully, we are told how Elijah approached Elisha and “threw his cloak over him” (1 Kings 19:19).

Elijah “clothes” Elisha with his prophetic office. He will remain with Elisha in the days ahead to instruct and encourage him in this new and challenging role as a prophet of Israel.

If you have ever been to a priesthood ordination before then you know how moving the ceremony can be. Four men were recently ordained in our diocese just a month ago, and as they entered the Cathedral they were each wearing a white garment called an alb. Immediately after the priest is ordained he is clothed with the chasuble, the outer vestment that is worn whenever the Eucharist is celebrated.

When I was ordained to the priesthood three years ago, the alb that I wore was a personal gift to me from Fr. James Verdelotti, the pastor of this parish. The first chasuble I ever received was from Fr. Angelo Carusi, the priest who I am replacing here today. There are no coincidences in the work of God. These two men, who have served the parish of St. Mary’s faithfully for the past five years, were instrumental in “clothing” me in the priesthood. They supported me in my time here as a seminarian, as did so many of you. Today it is a joy for me to be your new associate pastor.

Let us continue to pray for and encourage one another as we grow in our own discipleship. Whatever the demands and sacrifices God is calling us to make, might we experience the fullness of what it means to be a follower of Christ as we walk with Him on the way to eternal life.

The Birth of St. John the Baptist

(Solemnity of the Birth of St. John the Baptist; This homily was given 23-24 June, 2007, at Our Lady of Mercy, East Greenwich, R.I.; read Luke Chapter 1)

Upon my arrival here at Our Lady of Mercy, three years ago, Fr. Lolio told the story about a phone call he received about a month earlier from Monsignor Evans, who at that time was still in Rome. I also was in Rome, completing my exams and preparing for ordination to the priesthood. I had just finished celebrating my birthday and so Monsignor phoned Fr. Lolio to say:

“Congratulations! You are now the proud father of a brand new 34-year-old baby boy!”

It is fitting that on this, my last weekend here at Our Lady of Mercy, we celebrate the birthday of another baby boy: St. John the Baptist.

The celebration of a person’s birthday in the Church’s Liturgical Year is a rare thing. In fact, there are only three such celebrations: The Nativity of Christ (Christmas), the Feast of the Birth of the Most Blessed Virgin Mary on September 8, and today’s Feast: The Solemnity of the Birth of St. John the Baptist.

Keeping company with the Son of God and the Blessed Mother is no small thing! Then again, St. John the Baptist is no ordinary man. Remember it was Christ Himself who said:

Among those born of women there has been none greater than John the Baptist.
—Matthew 11:11

St. Augustine writes about how the Word was coming into the world, and how St. John the Baptist was the Voice announcing that Word. He is the forerunner of the Christ, the one who prepares the entire world for the coming of the Messiah.

If we look at the life and mission of St. John the Baptist, it becomes clear that in many ways he is a very “priestly” figure. To be certain, he was not a priest. John was beheaded long before Christ instituted the priesthood at the Last Supper. Nonetheless, there are a number of aspects about the Baptist’s life that are quite priestly.

St. John’s father, Zechariah, was a priest of the temple. His mother, St. Elizabeth, we hear in the Gospel of St. Luke, was “from the daughters of Aaron” (Luke 1:5). She was a descendant of the priestly family in Israel. And there are three specific aspects about the mission and ministry of St. John the Baptist that I believe every priest should try to emulate. I pray to God that I have been able to do that in these last three years at Our Lady of Mercy.

Firstly, St. John the Baptist is one whose entire life was dedicated to preparing the way of the Lord. His entire vocation was one of clearing the way so that people could be more closely connected to Jesus Christ. The priest, in his life and ministry, is called to do the same.

Pope John Paul II, in his document on priestly formation, talks about how the priest is called to be a bridge connecting others to Christ (Pastores Dabo Vobis, #43). He also warns, however, that the priest may also become—through his own human weakness—an obstacle instead. If that has happened at all in these last three years, I would certainly like to express my apologies at this time. But if I have been able to be that bridge in some small way, connecting you more closely to Jesus Christ and His Church, then I thank and praise God for that grace and opportunity.

I know I have mentioned before that being called to the priesthood is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. To be able to preach the Gospel and serve the people of God is a tremendous gift in my life, so I am grateful today for the chance to have done that here at Our Lady of Mercy in these past three years.

The second aspect of the ministry and mission of John the Baptist that I would mention today is that he is the one who points out the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world (John 1:29).

In my ministry here at OLM I have tried continually to do just that. In preaching the Gospel, celebrating weddings, baptisms, and even at funerals and moments of tragedy, I have tried to always help the people of God to see Christ in their lives. So many times I have pointed to the cross in our sanctuary and drawn your attention to the Lamb of God, who suffers and dies on the cross to save us from our sins.

But certainly pointing out Christ, the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world, is a two-way street. It is not the case that I alone have shown you where Christ is in your life; so many of you have shown me where Christ is present and active in my own life. Today I would like to thank you for doing that.

In my very first homily here in June of 2004, I spoke about how I had received already everything necessary for beginning the ministry of priesthood, but that you would be the ones to teach me how to be a good, joyful, and faithful priest. Thank you so much for helping me to do that in these past three years! I am grateful to all of you, and to Fr. Lolio for his help and patience with me in this, my first assignment in the priesthood.

But I also asked you to pray, on that first weekend in June, one specific prayer for me: that I would become a holy priest. Three years later I am still convinced that it is the single most important prayer you could make for any priest, and I ask you to continue to pray it for me.

Which brings us to the final aspect of the life and ministry of St. John the Baptist: that after preparing the way of the Lord, and pointing out the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world, he knew how to get out of the way!

Remember that scene in St. John’s Gospel, when people from all over Judea were flocking to Christ after He was made manifest following His baptism by John in the Jordan. The disciples of St. John the Baptist come to him and complain about this newcomer from Nazareth: “here he is baptizing and everyone is coming to him” (John 3:28). Very beautifully the Baptist reassures them all, while at the same time acknowledging his own true identity and mission. He says of Christ:

He must increase and I must decrease.
—John 3:30

It is my sincere prayer that you will not remember so much me personally, or the words that I have spoken here, as much as Jesus Christ and how He is increasing in your families and in your own personal lives. Thanks for a remarkable and beautiful three years here at OLM!

The Extraordinary Gospel of Mercy

(11th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 16-17 June, 2007, at Our Lady of Mercy, East Greenwich, R.I.; read the Gospel of St. Luke)

We have just finished, in the liturgical life of the Church, a long season of celebration. Throughout the seven weeks of the Easter Season we celebrated the resurrection of Christ, right up until the Feast of Pentecost. These past two weekends we have explored two of the greatest mysteries of our faith: God as Father, Son and Holy Spirit on Trinity Sunday, and the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist on the Feast of Corpus Christi.

This weekend, for the first Sunday since last February, we come together to celebrate "Ordinary Time." That designation—Ordinary Time—can be a bit misleading. Certainly there is nothing ordinary about the mysteries we celebrate here. There is nothing ordinary in the Gospel we listen to; nothing ordinary about the body and blood of Christ and the sacramental life that we enter more deeply into each week.

On this Eleventh Sunday in Ordinary Time, St. Luke reminds us of that extraordinary love we find so abundantly in the forgiveness and mercy of God. For these next five months of “Ordinary Time,” we will be hearing from the Gospel of St. Luke. That Gospel, more than all the other three says Pope John Paul II, has earned the title “Gospel of Mercy” (Dives in Misericordia, # 3). Why is that?

St. Luke is careful to include several parables and details of the life of Christ that are not found in the other gospel accounts, all of them focused on the abundant mercy of God.

Only St. Luke gives us Jesus’ parable of the Prodigal Son, that moving story of the young man who comes home ragged and ruined, deserving nothing, only to be welcomed lovingly with open arms by a Father whose love knows no limits.

Only St. Luke includes the parable of the Good Samaritan, that outsider who becomes a true neighbor to the Israelite who had fallen into the hands of robbers, giving generously from his own resources to restore that Israelite to health once again.

And only St. Luke tells us the story of the Good Thief, who dies on the cross beside Christ. Acknowledging the Kingship of Christ and expressing faith in Jesus, despite his own unworthiness, he receives the greatest promise attainable in this life: “Today you will be with me in Paradise” (Luke 23:43).

In our “Gospel of Mercy” today, St. Luke tells us the story of the sinful woman with the alabaster jar (Luke 7:36-50). It is one of the most visual, sense-heavy gospel accounts we have. You can almost picture yourself there in the house of Simon the Pharisee. You can see that woman kneeling before Christ. You can hear her sobbing and weeping as she wipes His feet with her hair. You can smell the ointment that is in that room.

That powerful scene fits well the image of mercy that John Paul II offers in his encyclical, Rich in Mercy (Dives in Misericordia). He describes how true love, real mercy is effective; it has effects in the world we live in. Those effects are revealed, Pope John Paul II says, in two very specific and concrete ways.

Firstly, we see the mercy of God as it is revealed in the person of Jesus Christ Himself:

"Especially through His lifestyle and through His actions, Jesus revealed that love is present in the world in which we live—an effective love, a love that addresses itself to man and embraces everything that makes up his humanity."
—Dives in Misericordia, #3

In the Letters of St. Paul, God is described as “the Father of mercies” (2 Corinthians 1:3) and the “God who is rich in mercy” (Ephesians 2:4). We would have no way of grasping what that means if it were not for Christ. When we look to Christ and see His love, His forgiveness of sinners, His willingness to give His very life for us on the cross, then we come to recognize the effects of God’s mercy.

But the effects of mercy cannot remain there. Mercy is not just an image of the cross or a story that remains on the pages of the Bible. We should also see the effects of God’s mercy in our own lives. Christ “demanded from people that they also should be guided in their lives by love and mercy” (Dives in Misericordia, #3). Having received so great a gift as God’s merciful and forgiving love, we should be able to then see its effects expressed in ways that others around us can recognize and experience.

Which brings us back to our Gospel and the woman with the alabaster jar. No one in that room could have doubted that she had been touched by the merciful love of Christ. Whether they liked it or not (as was the case with Simon, the Pharisee), they could never deny that the mercy of Christ effected that woman. Do we allow ourselves to be so effected by that same mercy?

In these next five months of “Ordinary Time”, how is God calling each of us to celebrate His extraordinary love, His extraordinary mercy in our own lives?

How are we called to first acknowledge and receive the mercy of God? To acknowledge our faults and sins and our own need for God’ mercy, seeking His forgiveness and being open to the way His mercy is lavished upon us through Christ? How are we called especially to receive and celebrate that great mercy by receiving the sacrament of mercy, the Sacrament of Reconciliation?

And finally, where do we ourselves need to express that same mercy in the world we live in? Where are the places that God is calling upon us to break open those alabaster jars and pour out more freely the ointment of mercy in our families, workplaces, and wherever we find ourselves?

Today we ask God for all the oil we can hold in our alabaster jar, and for His help and assistance to break that jar open, and pour it out everywhere in the world we live in.

Corpus Christi: Offering

(Feast of Corpus Christi-Year C; This homily was given 10 June, 2007, at Our Lady of Mercy, East Greenwich, R.I.; read Genesis 14:18-20, 1 Corinthians 11:23-26 & Luke 9:11-17)

Why do we pray and ask God for good things when He already knows what we want, or more importantly, exactly what we need?

Why are we encouraged, all throughout the Scriptures and especially in the Book of Psalms, to praise and worship God, although there is nothing we could ever say that would add a single thing to His glory and majesty?

And why does God constantly challenge us, in the Bible and in the person of Jesus Christ, to give generously of ourselves to those around us and in particular to Him, even though we have nothing that He could possibly need?

The answer is rather obvious: when we do those things, we are the ones who benefit. That is why God wants us to pray, worship Him, and give.

When we pray, we are the ones who are sanctified and made more holy. We grow in our relationship and friendship with God.

It is when we praise and adore God that we are most reminded of who we are as children of God, His sons and daughters created to do that very thing.

And it is only when we give of ourselves that we are complete and fulfilled in our own personal lives. One of the most often quoted expressions of the Second Vatican Council is a line that is referred to as the “Law of the Gift.” Simply stated, it says:

Man can only fully discover himself through a sincere gift of himself.
—Gaudium et Spes, #24

We find that “Law of the Gift,” in all the lives of the Saints, and hopefully in our own lives as well. We only become complete, whole and fulfilled in this life when we learn how to offer ourselves freely and generously to God and to those around us.

Today, on this Feast of Corpus Christi, we find that theme of offering in all of our readings and in the Eucharistic Prayer itself.

In St. Luke’s Gospel Jesus performs the miracle of the feeding of the five thousand in that deserted place, but Christ is not doing some magic trick here. He doesn’t just pull that food out of thin air. In fact, He pulls it out of the disciples! They come to Him with the desperate situation of the crowds, and Jesus offers them the solution:

“Give them some food yourselves.”

It was not the solution they were looking for. They quickly complain that “Five loaves and two fish are all we have” (Luke 9:13). Yet Christ is able to take that simple and seemingly insignificant offering and feed the multitudes.

When I was first ordained, one of the biggest struggles for me was preparing the weekly homily. I would look over the readings each week, pray over them, and feel so inadequate and unprepared to present the fullness of the Gospel message. I complained to a priest friend of mine, who is an excellent preacher, and he said to me:

“You never really have to worry about that. All you have to do is give to God five loaves and two fish, and trust in Him to do the rest.”

He was obviously referring to this very passage we heard from St. Luke, and I think his advice applies to all of our lives, no matter who we are or what we do. We simply give to God what we have, however inadequate we might feel or how insignificant we may think our offering is. We give God what we have, and trust in Him to do something truly beautiful.

In our first reading this morning, from the Book of Genesis, we hear of that mysterious person Melchizedek. Melchizedek appears only once in all the Scriptures, in this brief passage from Genesis, and as “priest of God Most High” (Genesis 14:18) he offers to Abram gifts of bread and wine. Then just as quickly he disappears.

Melchizedek is a mere blip on the radar screen of the Old Testament, and yet he is mentioned specifically in the Responsorial Psalm this morning: “You are a priest forever, in the line of Melchizedek” (Psalm 110:4).

He is given an elaborate description in the New Testament Letter to the Hebrews, and he is mentioned by the Fathers of the Church and by scriptures scholars across the centuries as a pre-figuration for Christ, an archetype for Christ in the Old Testament.

St. Paul, in our Second Reading from the First Letter to the Corinthians, talks about the Last Supper, and how Christ Himself offered bread and wine in a whole new way. He relates how Christ took the bread and said:

“This is my body that is for you . . .” and how He took the cup and said, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood . . .”
—1 Corinthians 11:23-26

It was the greatest offering that has ever been made, the offering of Jesus Christ Himself, the Son of God, poured out for the life of us all. It is the sacrifice of Himself, offered to them and to us, on the night before He suffered and died, to be celebrated as an everlasting memorial uniting us to Him forever.

Today on this Feast of Corpus Christi, we reflect upon and enter deeply into that offering, which will be made present here at this altar…but it will not be made present without that seemingly insignificant offering on that little table in the center isle this morning. There we have the gifts of bread and wine.

God expects us, like those first disciples at the miracle of the loaves and the fish, to bring something here to this altar. He expects us to offer the bread and wine, but more importantly, to offer ourselves along with Christ here in the Eucharist this morning (Sacrosanctum Concilium, #48). This is the place where our offering is united to the one perfect offering and sacrifice of Christ.

In the Eucharistic Prayer we will hear this morning, the Roman Canon, the word “offering” is used 10 different times. It is like a mantra running throughout that entire Eucharistic Prayer. What are we offering here at this Mass, on this Feast of Corpus Christi?

What are the five loaves and two fish we are bringing to this celebration? Our sufferings, our disappointments, our prayers for loved ones, for guidance, for strength? Our desires for the present, hopes and joys regarding the future. What are we bringing to this altar today, along with that bread and wine?

And what is it that God wants us to receive from this altar? Nothing less than the offering of Jesus Christ Himself, the Corpus Christi, everything we need to sustain us and strengthen us on our journey home to Him.

R.I. Catholics and the Holy Trinity

(Trinity Sunday-Year C; This homily was given 2 & 3 June, 2007, at Our Lady of Mercy, East Greenwich, R.I.; read Proverbs 8:22-31 & Romans 5:1-5)

Just the other day I was able to talk with our Third Graders next door at the school, to take some time for questions and answers. They asked me a question that almost always seems to come up on those occasions:

“Father, what exactly do you do all day?”

You would think that after three years I would have a clear answer to that question! Actually, each day can be so different that it is not so easy to summarize what an “average” day is like for a priest.

Nonetheless, I was reminded of a conversation that my sister had with one of her friends while I was still a seminarian. Her friend said to her: “You brother is going to be a priest, isn’t he?” After my sister answered in the affirmative, her friend went on to say:

“You know, those guys have it made. They say a couple of Masses on the weekend, and then they do absolutely nothing all week long.”

Well, that is certainly not what I do all day! But today, on this Trinity Sunday, as we celebrate the mystery of God—Father, Son and Holy Spirit—we can ask ourselves: What about God? What does He do all day?

Theologians tell us that, for certain, God does one thing from all eternity: He loves. The Father loves the Son and the Son loves the Father. They love one another totally, completely, truly. Does that sound boring to you? Far from it! The love between the Father and the Son is so powerful, so explosive, so awesome and beautiful, that it is itself another Person: The Holy Spirit.

The Father, Son and Holy Spirit live together, from all eternity, in a communal relationship of total, self-giving love. What does that mean? What does that look like? We would never be able to answer those questions if God had not suddenly chosen to do something completely different, something He had never done.

Our readings for this Trinity Sunday tell us what that “something” is. The Book of Proverbs speaks about how God created the earth; how He delights in that creation and with great love lavishes all that He has upon us. The Wisdom of God says:

I was beside him as his craftsman, and I was his delight day by day, playing before him all the while, playing on the surface of his earth; and I found delight in the human race.
—Proverbs 8:30-31

St. Paul, in our second reading, talks about how God then redeemed us after we had fallen. He talks about Jesus Christ, the Son of God who became man and dwelt among us. It is Jesus Christ who comes to walk through our streets and takes on our burdens, and dies on the cross in our place.

Now we can say with certainty that we know exactly what the love of God looks like. To the question: “What does God do all day?” we need look no further than Jesus Christ.

It is Jesus Christ who comes among His people and proclaims to them the Good News, God’s eternal plan of salvation.

It is Jesus Christ who speaks out boldly for those who are weak and exploited. He is a voice for those who have no voice in this world.

And on every page of the Gospels we find Christ living among ordinary people with extraordinary love.

He even gives His life for us, on the cross and in His body and blood in the Eucharist and in the Sacraments that He institutes in the Church.

Finally, along with the Father, He sends us the Holy Spirit. As St. Paul tells us in the second reading: The love of God has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us (Romans 5:5).

And that is where our lives become intimately connected to this Feast of the Most Holy Trinity. We are not mere spectators or observers of the life of Christ. We do not take Him simply as the most important person in history, and seek to imitate Him.

No, much more than that! Because of the gift of the Holy Spirit—which we celebrated last week at Pentecost—and because of our own baptism, God lives in us. The Holy Spirit lives in us. The power of the Holy Trinity is at work in our lives and in our Church. The very same things we saw in the life of Christ can, and should, be found today in His body, the Church.

I mention that specifically because in this week’s issue of the Rhode Island Catholic—the new name for our old diocesan newspaper—we see all those things taking place in our diocese.

There is an article about the priests in West Warwick and their work of evangelization, reaching out, just like Christ, to those who long for the Good News of God’s plan of salvation.

In several places the voice of the Church speaks out boldly for those who have no voice in this world. Bishop Tobin, in a very clear and distinct manner, speaks out for the unborn and decries the hypocrisy of Catholic politicians who have failed to take a stand against the practice of abortion. On the front page of the Rhode Island Catholic there is an article on Human Trafficking, a huge problem in our state; again, the Church speaking out for the weak and the exploited.

There are many articles about those who—just like Christ—are living among ordinary people with extraordinary love: Kindergarteners, parishioners celebrating their faith, even biker priests!

And finally, there is an article on the four men who were just ordained to the priesthood in our diocese; men who, like Christ, have given their lives for the work of sacrifice and service, and to bring the Gospel and the Body and Blood of Christ to the parishes of our diocese.

This is the power of the Holy Trinity, alive and at work in our diocese. How is God calling each of us to live like that, to become swept up in the power of God and to allow Jesus Christ to live in us, so that when people ask us:

“What do you do all day?”

We can honestly say:

“I am one who is caught up into the very life of the Holy Trinity. God lives in me and I, to the best of my ability, try to love as God loves.”

Because that is what we are called to do all day.
That is what we are called to do everyday.