Two Tickets to Paradise

(Solemnity of Christ the King-Year C; This homily was given 24 & 25 November, 2007, at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; Read 2 Samuel 5:1-3, Luke 23:35-43, and St. Teresa of Avila's Book of Her Life)

It was back in the late 70s and early 80s (I was in grammar school, not to give too much away here!), and one of the most popular songs on the radio was a tune by a man named Eddie Money called “Two Tickets to Paradise.” Now if you have never heard that song before, or if you’ve forgotten it, allow me to refresh your memory. It begins:

Got a surprise especially for you,
Something that both of us have always wanted to do.
We’ve waited so long…

I’ve got two tickets to paradise
Won’t you pack your bags, we’ll leave tonight
I’ve got two tickets to paradise.

If you are familiar with that song then you know that Eddie Money never tells us what paradise is; he never gives us his version. Of course, we can guess what a rock star from the 70s and 80s meant by paradise, but this weekend we can also ask ourselves: How do we define paradise?

I would be willing to bet if you asked five different people that question, you would probably get five different answers. The original meaning of the word paradise, however, goes way back before Eddie Money, and well before Christ Himself. It comes from the ancient Persian culture (modern day Iran) and means, literally, a walled-in garden or enclosed park.

It was customary for the Persian King to allow only a select few subjects of the kingdom to walk with him in that enclosed garden; such intimacy was reserved for only those closest to him. It was a great honor to walk with the king in paradise.

In our gospel this weekend Jesus Christ, the King of Kings, invites the Good Thief to do exactly that. Christ is suffering on the cross in great agony, looking like anything but a king. Nonetheless, the Good Thief next to him recognizes royalty when he sees it. Turning to Christ in the midst of his own suffering, he makes that now famous request:

Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.
—Luke 23:42

Suddenly, with great love and in the midst of His own pain, Christ turns to the Good Thief and replies:

Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise.
—Luke 23:43

Today you will walk with me in my garden.

Today you will be my intimate friend and close companion.

Today you will walk with me in eternal life.

It is a powerful reflection for us this weekend on the Feast of Christ the King. Yet our feast also reminds us that we are all called to share in the intimacy and personal relationship with Christ which the Good Thief enjoys. By virtue of our baptism, we are all intimately connected to Jesus Christ the King.

Part of the Rite of Baptism that occurs immediately after a child is cleansed of Original Sin is the anointing with holy chrism. The priest or deacon uses chrism to make the sign of the cross on the crown—that word is used intentionally in the rubrics for the Rite of Baptism—on the crown of the head. All the baptized share, in a particular way, in the person of Christ and in the kingship of Christ.

In the Old Testament, when kings were taken from among the people they were anointed with oil to signify that they were being chosen for a special task and a particular mission in this world. We saw that this morning in our first reading from the Second Book of Samuel. King David was anointed in Hebron as King of Israel (2 Samuel 5:3).

In the same way all the baptized are anointed as emissaries for Christ; we share His mission in this world and are called also to share in that close, personal relationship with the King of Glory. We do not wait until heaven to participate in that relationship. Christ the King intends for that relationship to take place right here, right now. I would suggest this weekend three way in which that happens; three ways in which we walk with Christ in paradise right here on earth.

The first and irreplaceable way is the way of prayer. St. Teresa of Avila, the 16th century Spanish mystic and Doctor of the Church (and also my Favorite. Saint. Ever.) constantly in her writings refers to Jesus Christ as “His Majesty.” As far as St. Teresa is concerned, He is always Christ the King! Yet in addition to being the King of Kings and Lord of all, St. Theresa also recognizes Him as her intimate and personal friend. In one of the most beautiful definitions on prayer ever given, she describes this friendship in her autobiography:

For mental prayer in my opinion is nothing else than an intimate sharing between friends; it means taking time frequently to be alone with Him who we know loves us.
—The Book of Her Life, Chapter 8, #5

We walk with the King in paradise whenever we spend time with Him in prayer.

The second way that we experience paradise right here on earth is through the sacramental life of the Church. Especially when we receive Christ in the Eucharist, we are drawn into that intimate relationship with Him that exceeds all earthly limits. The bread and wine on the altar become the Body and Blood of Christ and we are brought together in Christ to share the Bread of Angels and a foretaste of eternal life.

Similarly, when we receive the grace of God in the Sacrament of Reconciliation, and hear the words of Christ Himself through the voice of the priest—I absolve you of your sins—the very mercy of God and the power of heaven is poured out for us on earth.

The sacraments draw us into the garden of paradise and allow us to walk closely with Christ the King.

Finally, we walk closely with Christ in paradise whenever we walk closely with Him in our daily lives. It is whenever we invite Him into our hearts, into our homes, into our families and workplaces, whenever we invite Christ into our own “space” that He shows up and brings paradise right along with Him!

This is perhaps never more true than when we invite Him into our suffering. Remember that is that place that the Good Thief discovers Christ in our gospel this weekend. He is suffering beside our Lord and suddenly acknowledges Christ the King, not in bitterness or in hopelessness, but in faith. The result is that great promise of an intimate and eternal relationship with the King:

Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise.
—Luke 23:43

And so, prayer, the sacraments and inviting Christ into our daily lives and daily sufferings; these are the ways that Christ calls us to experience a foretaste of heaven and paradise right here on earth.

This weekend, on the Feast of Christ the King, Jesus says to each one of us:

“I’ve got two tickets to paradise, and one of them has your name on it!”

Thanksgiving and the Antidote to Hostility

(This homily was given Thanksgiving Day, 22 November, 2007, at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.)

Just a few days ago the pastor and I were invited to attend a prayer service at the school being conducted by our First Graders. Half of them were dressed as pilgrims and the other half wore costumes depicting Native Americans; the service included a beautiful mixture of prayer and songs.

The whole scene, of course, was reminiscent of the historical event of the First Thanksgiving. In the year 1621 the pilgrims that had come over on the Mayflower just one year before gathered together with the Wampanoag people to celebrate and thank God for a bountiful harvest and for a brand new beginning in the New World.

We can sometimes have a nostalgic or romantic sense of that new beginning, but the reality of those first years for the pilgrims was not all about peace and tranquility. In many ways what the pilgrims encountered when they came to the New World was not so much tranquility as hostility.

The land was hostile to them; they had to learn new methods of farming and new ways of surviving in a foreign place. More to the point, not all the Native Americans were as welcoming and helpful as the Wampanoag peoples. As “politically incorrect” as it may sound, hostility and even violence were not uncommon.

But the pilgrims at Plymouth Colony and the other colonies made it through. They remained steadfast in their pursuit for a new way of life here in America, because they realized that nothing of value is gained without difficulty; nothing worthwhile in this life comes without sacrifice.

Isn’t that the same thing our own relatives experienced in the 19th and 20th century? Millions of pilgrims came here from Italy (especially those from the small Italian village of Itri, settling right here in Knightsville); they came from Ireland, and from all over Europe to start a whole new life in America.

They came seeking opportunities and a new way of life, but more often than not what they encountered was hostility. Italian immigrants were far from welcomed in this new land; neither was it uncommon to find signs in shop windows that read: Irish Need Not Apply. Pilgrims coming to America have always encountered challenges.

But what is the one thing that has remained constant through all those periods of hostility? What is the one thing in this country that made us different—from the beginning—and given us hope for a future beyond hostility?

The Christian faith.

On this Thanksgiving Day we thank God for our Christian faith and the way that it has molded our lives, perhaps in ways that we do not even fully appreciate. Today we thank God for that faith, and for the people who have gone before us and modeled it so well by their words and actions.

Just this past week I was on vacation and had the chance to visit the Shrine of the North American Martyrs in Auriesville, New York. It is a place that commemorates the faithfulness and the sacrifice offered by St. Isaac Jogues and several other Catholic saints who courageously proclaimed the Gospel to the Native Americans there. They eventually gave their lives in witness to Christ. In the face of hostility they responded with a sincere gift of themselves, even to the point of death.

Two hundred years later, when millions of people from Europe began to migrate here, an Italian nun named Mother Cabrini came over with them and established schools and hospitals for those who were not welcomed anywhere else. She became a citizen of this country, and eventually St. Francis Xavier Cabrini became the first American citizen to be canonized.

This is our heritage; this is what we give thanks to God for today. We are grateful to God for all that He has given us, but we are also mindful of the people who have gone before us and given us such a witness of faith by the way they lived the Gospel.

But we can ask ourselves this morning, in light of the heritage that we have been given and mindful of the many blessings we share: what is our response to the challenges and the difficulties that we find in our country today? How are we responding to the pilgrims of 2007, to the immigrants who have come here in our own time to find a new way of life and another chance in this land of opportunity? Are we able to look at them—even those that are here illegally—with the dignity and respect that is so central to our life and faith as Catholics?

This is a challenging issue for our time. There are many varying opinions about what to do with our borders; how to strengthen or change the immigration laws; what to do with those who are here illegally. But there is one opinion and one response not open to us as Christians: hostility.

In fact, the Church needs to be the place of sanctuary and welcome par excellence, because we are called to be the sign of welcome, hospitality and solidarity among all peoples. That is our heritage and our calling in Christ.

Our late Holy Father, Pope John Paul the Great, in his message on World Migration Day in 1995, said:

In the Church no one is a stranger, and the Church is not foreign to anyone, anywhere. As a sacrament of unity and thus a sign and a binding force for the whole human race, the Church is the place where illegal immigrants are also recognized and accepted as brothers and sisters.

Do we believe that? Does that challenge us to see things differently in the culture we live in?

Today we thank God for all that we have been given, and for the men and women of faith who have sacrificed so much and paved the way before us. May we also follow in their footsteps. May we see the world we live in, and especially the people around us, with the same vision of St. Isaac Jogues, St. Francis Xavier Cabrini, and countless others who gave all in gratitude to God so that others might live in the peace of Christ.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Marriage and the Dialogue of Love

(32nd Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 10 & 11 November, 2007, at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; Read Luke 20:27-38)

This weekend we listen in on what has to be one of the most exasperating conversations in the New Testament: the conversation between the Sadducees and Jesus Christ. It is exasperating because they are taking something that is holy and sacred—the covenant of love between a man and a woman as instituted by God, marriage—and manipulating that sacred institution in order to advance their own agenda. They are using marriage as a means in order to mock Christ and deny the resurrection. That’s exasperating!

But you will notice that Christ does not enter the conversation on their level; He does not become a part of that dialogue. Instead He takes the conversation to an entirely new level; He raises it. Jesus Christ begins a new dialogue on marriage that begins with heaven and eternal life. He reveals how marriage—as we know it—will not continue in heaven in the same way. A married couple work together as partners to help each other get to heaven. By all means they will be closer in heaven than they ever were on earth, but differently.

With all of that said, you have probably heard the expression before: “The more things change the more they stay the same.” Here we are, some 2,000 years later in our own State of Rhode Island and we are still listening to that same exasperating conversation on marriage.

Just like the Sadducees, who are manipulating the institution of marriage for their agenda, many groups today are doing the same to advance their own political, social and moral agendas. I am talking, in particular, about the steady stream of articles and columns written in the Providence Journal by persons like Bob Kerr and M. Charles Bakst. They, and many groups and individuals along with them, are strongly advocating for same sex marriage in the State of Rhode Island.

Just this past week, Mr. Bakst’s political column criticized Bishop Tobin for his stance against same sex marriage. Bakst called for, instead, more dialogue. He wants more conversation about how we look at and define marriage in our state.

But the Catholic Church is not interested in that dialogue! The Church is not interested in a conversation which seeks a new definition for married life, and the reason is that we already have one. There is already a vision and definition of marriage given to us by God. That vision is powerful and beautiful, and ironically, it involves the very thing that M. Charles Bakst is asking for: dialogue.



Marriage, defined by God “from the beginning” (Matthew 19:8, Genesis 2:24) is a dialogue or a conversation between a man and a woman. It is a dialogue of love that involves three things.

First and foremost, that conversation of love between a husband and wife is one that is exclusive. It is an intimate conversation into which no one else is invited. They speak that special language of love between the two of them only.

Secondly, that dialogue of love between the spouses is one that is lifelong. They agree to carry on that conversation “until death do us part.”

Finally, the dialogue or conversation of love in married life is one that is open to the gift of life; they are open to children, if God should grant that remarkable and magnificent gift.

Does that sound familiar? It should, because it is a conversation we hear at every wedding. In nuptial language we call that conversation vows. When a couple stands before the altar of God they exchange vows—a dialogue of love—in which they promise to be exclusive and totally faithful in a lifelong commitment of love that is open to new life.

But that conversation is not spoken only on that day of their wedding. A couple continues that conversation and renews their vows in a thousand different ways all throughout their married life…but never more so than when they enter the dialogue of love with their bodies in the marital embrace. Never more so than when, in the language of the Scriptures, “the two become one flesh” (Genesis 2:24).

Whenever I prepare couples for marriage I tell them how this conversation of love and dialogue of marriage spoken with their bodies is so powerfully beautiful that in nine months they could be holding it in their arms! The love between them is so powerful that in nine months they could be giving him or her a name.

That can never happen with a same-sex couple; it is biologically impossible for two men or two women to bear fruit in a new child as the fruit of their mutual love. More than that, it is inherently clear in the Scriptures and in the teachings of our faith that for a same sex couple to speak that language anyway, to become involved physically and bodily in acts which can never bring new life, is a grave sin.

To be clear, I am not talking about same sex attraction. That is different. We do not neccesarily choose who we are attracted to. We cannot be judged for falling in love with another person, regardless if that person is of the same or opposite sex as us. The Church does not teach that same sex attraction is a sin.

But to act on that attraction, physically, in a sexual relationship, is a grave sin. Saint Paul says, with great love but with tremendous sorrow, that those who do so anyway “will not inherit the kingdom of God” (1 Corinthians 6:10). It is that serious. So far from being a political issue, this issue of same sex marriage could be the very hinge upon which one’s eternal salvation rests.

And nothing is more important than the kingdom of God. Nothing is more important than heaven and eternal life. That should be on everyone’s agenda. And it is primarily in that light that the Church looks at every person, regardless of their sexual orientation.

The Church looks at every person as a child of God and a magnificent creature called to eternal life with God. Back in 1986 the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith issued a Letter to All Bishops of the Catholic Church on the pastoral care of those who are attracted to persons of the same sex. The man responsible for that document is Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, who we know today as Pope Benedict XVI, and the document states clearly that:

“The Church…refuses to consider the person as a ‘heterosexual’ or a ‘homosexual’, and insists that every person has a fundamental identity: the creature of God, and by grace, His child and heir to eternal life.”

If we truly want to know how the Church feels about all people, regardless of sexual orientation or attraction, then that is where we must begin; it is the very place where all dialogue must start.

It is also the reason why the Church—from Pope Benedict XVI, to Bishop Tobin, right on down to you and I—the Church has a grave responsibility to say and do whatever we can to make sure every person gets there, to heaven and to eternal life with God. That is the reason why every member of the Church has a grave responsibility to “speak the truth in love” (Ephesians 4:15). Now that is a dialogue which every single one of us should be involved in.

The Risky Business of the Seeker

(31st Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 3 & 4 November, 2007, at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; Read Luke 19:1-10)

This weekend we are introduced to one of the more intriguing characters of St. Luke’s Gospel: Zacchaeus. He is intriguing because there are only a few things that we know about him, and they all seem to be in conflict with each other.

St. Luke tells us he was “a wealthy man” (Luke 19:2). Certainly there is nothing wrong with that. Many times in the Old Testament and New Testament alike, wealth, property, possessions are understood as a blessing from God.

But St. Luke also tells us that Zacchaeus was the chief tax collector of that region; that was how he made a living, how he became so wealthy. That is where the conflict comes in!

Tax collectors were Jews who worked along with—and in a certain sense, for—the Roman Empire. They collected taxes from their own people and sent most of the money to the Romans, often keeping a sizable portion for themselves! It was a lucrative business. But it was also very risky business, because the people of Israel despised them. They would have hated Zacchaeus for the way he made his living, literally, off his own people.

Which brings us to the last thing we know about Zacchaeus: He was “Seeking to see who Jesus was” (Luke 19:3). That was the desire of his heart. Now that would have been risky business! Remember, everyone in town would have wanted a piece of him. He was quite unpopular. To even venture out in public could be dangerous; but to see Jesus he would have to do exactly that.

To make matters worse, he was short so he had to climb up a tree in order to see Christ. There he was, totally exposed, out in the open, literally out on a limb…but it was a risk that paid off. Suddenly Christ spotted him. Zacchaeus, who was seeking Jesus, found Him and his life was changed forever. He invited Christ into his home, and then into his heart, and nothing was ever the same again.

It is a beautiful and powerful story about conversion and renewal. Yet like so many stories in the Scriptures, there is so much more below that surface level. If we go a little deeper, and listen the final words of Christ in that gospel passage, we discover that it is really not a story about Zacchaeus seeking Jesus at all. In fact, it is really a story about Jesus who was seeking Zacchaeus!

At the end of our gospel this week, Jesus declares that salvation has come to Zacchaeus’ house, “for the Son of Man has come to seek and to save what was lost” (Luke 19:10). That is not just Zacchaeus’ story. It is our story. It is the story of the God who became man so that we could enter into eternal life with Him. God was willing to come here among us, and to run the risk of being rejected, mistreated, and even crucified, out of love for us and to give us the offer of a life forever with Him.

It is the greatest risk of all, because we have the ability to—on account of the freedom that He gave us—reject that offer of salvation and keep God at a distance. We can choose to remain exactly who we want to be, without ever letting God change and transform us, like He did to Zacchaeus.

There is a beautiful poem by the Spanish mystic and Doctor of the Church, St. John of the Cross, which describes this very risk of God and His passion to break through our complacency. It is a poem about a young shepherd who is absolutely in love with a young shepherd girl. He cannot keep his mind off her. But as the poem begins his heart is broken and he is weeping because she has forgotten him. St. John of the Cross continues:

That one thought:
his shining one
has forgotten him,
is such great pain
that he bows to brutal handling
in a foreign land,
his heart an open wound with love.

And yet even after running the tremendous risk of being beaten and mishandled in a strange place, still she has not returned. Finally, in desperation, and as a last resort, he climbs a tree (like Zacchaeus in this weekend’s gospel):

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

That is the risk of God. Christ climbs up the tree of the cross and reveals the great love of God in all its glory. It is the distance He was willing to go “to seek and to save what was lost.”

This weekend we must ask ourselves the question:

What is our response to this remarkable risk of God? How is God challenging us to respond to this offer of love? Like Zacchaeus, how are we called to come out of ourselves and into uncharted territory in response to the love of God?

How is God challenging us to take chances and risk our love this week? Perhaps to write that letter; to make that phone call; to forgive someone who has hurt us; to ask forgiveness from others; from God in the Sacrament of Reconciliation?

It might be the risk of intimacy with God. God is constantly seeking to draw closer to us in an intimate relationship of prayer and faith. Like Zacchaeus, He is seeking to enter our homes, our families, our workplaces, and into every single aspect of our lives. Are we letting Him do that? How are we responding to the Son of Man who risked everything “to seek and to save what was lost”?

Feast of All Saints: Embodiment of Beatitude

(Solemnity of All Saints-Year C; This homily was given 1 November, 2007, at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; Read Matthew 5:1-12)

Our gospel for this Solemn Feast of All Saints is taken from St. Matthew’s Gospel, and focuses on perhaps the best known and most often quoted teachings of Christ: The Beatitudes. That word—Beatitude—is Latin for “blessing,” a word which Christ repeats nine times in almost as many verses.

The Beatitudes are situated at the very beginning of Jesus’ famous “Sermon on the Mount.” As St. Matthew relates at the beginning of that passage:

When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain, and after he had sat down, his disciples came to him. He began to teach them.
—Matthew 5:1-2

What did He teach them? In the Sermon on the Mount, and especially in the Beatitudes, Jesus teaches us about heaven and earth. He does not instruct us only about heaven; the Beatitudes do not draw our attention only to the things of earth. They teach us both.

Jesus Christ as Teacher is the perfect embodiment of His own teaching, since He is in Himself the culmination of both heaven and earth. In His very person He brings those two realities together. He is the eternal Son of God, dwelling from all eternity in heaven. Yet He comes to be born in space and time, taking on our human nature and a body of flesh and blood like us. He takes on our earthly existence.

And no one ever lived out the Beatitudes as fully as Jesus Christ. No one was ever poorer in spirit than Him; no one ever mourned or felt more sorrow than Christ as a result of the tragedy of sin and suffering that has cast its shadow upon this earth; no one was ever more clean of heart; no one was ever more persecuted for the sake of righteousness.

Neither was there ever a man who was more blessed than He! Christ is the One who is forever blessed here on this earth, and forever in heaven.

Our feast day today reminds us that we too are called to share in that same blessedness. We, too, baptized into Christ and committed to Him by a life of faith, are called to embody the Beatitudes in our daily lives with our hearts set on the life of the world to come.

My favorite quote from the great Christian writer, C.S. Lewis, makes this very assertion. He says:

The men and women who did the most for this world were the men and women who thought mostly of the world to come.

Aim at heaven and you will get earth ‘thrown in.’

Aim at earth and you will get neither.

Is that not the moral, social and political failure of our time? Men and women who have the best of intentions, dead set on making this world a better place, yet focusing all of their work and will and hopes right here in this life only? When we leave God out of the equation, and do not set our sights on heaven and the Kingdom of God, we lose both heaven and earth together.

How radically different are the lives of the saints! These are the men and women who changed and transformed the world around them. They were fearless, passionate, and effective in renewing the face of the earth. They challenged kings, guided nations, founded hospitals and health care centers, reformed society and set the world on fire.

They did these things not because they were experts in public policy or skilled in political science. They accomplished great things for this world because they had their hearts, minds, and wills completely set on the world that is to come.

Today we are reminded that we are called to do the same. How is Christ challenging us to embody the Beatitudes and reveal the lives of the saints in our own world right now?

Prayer and Daily Life

(30th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 27 & 28 October, 2007, at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; Read Luke 18:9-14, CCC #2725)

How is your prayer life? How is your relationship with God in that daily conversation we call prayer? In the story of this weekend’s gospel, the Parable of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector, we are given the third in a series of three great parables on prayer that are found in the Gospel of Luke. It says a lot, that Jesus would spend so much time teaching His disciples about prayer.

Prayer has the power to strengthen us and set our lives on fire so that we can boldly proclaim the Gospel. It can mean the difference between a life of faith and vitality or one lived in bland mediocrity.

Our prayer makes a difference in the way we live our lives, and the two of them—prayer and life—are intrinsically bound together. The Catechism of the Catholic Church, one quarter of which is dedicated to Christian prayer, says that “We pray as we live, because we live as we pray” (CCC #2725).

And in this weekend’s gospel we can see that the Pharisee isn’t doing either of those two things very well! On the outside he seems to have it all together. He begins with a prayer of thanksgiving: a good start.

But what he is thankful for is that he is “not like the rest of humanity,” or “like this tax collector.” And although it is true that he may not be “greedy, dishonest, or adulterous,” he is arrogant and self-righteous; and that’s a problem.

And the tragedy here is that the Pharisee misses the very point of why he came to the temple to begin with: to pray to God. He is so preoccupied with himself and how he measures up before the rest of humanity, and this Tax Collector, that he fails to see how he measures up before God.

How different is the prayer of the Tax Collector. He’s not looking around at anyone. In fact, he doesn’t even raise his eyes to heaven, but simply prays, “O God, be merciful to me a sinner.”

And because of his humility, and his recognition of the need for God’s mercy, Jesus tells us he “went home justified,” while the Pharisee did not. That must be our starting point for prayer: a humble recognition of our own sinfulness and the need for God’s mercy.

The Times of London, in the early part of the twentieth century, sponsored an essay contest in which they invited several accomplished authors to respond to the question: “What is wrong with the world?” The enigmatic Catholic writer G.K. Chesterton, who himself had written an entire book on the subject, was asked to participate in the project. With perhaps the shortest essay ever written, in the response to the question “What is wrong with the world?” he won hands down with the following entry:

Dear Sirs,

I am.

Sincerely,
G. K. Chesterton

Chesterton was not being cynical or negative. He was simply being honest. He understood that the problem plaguing our world since the fall our first parents is the problem of sin. We are all caught up in that problem. Our starting point in prayer, and in life, must be a humble recognition of that fact.

When we are able to admit our sinfulness, and take accountability for our own sins before God, then we begin to see that the real power in prayer and the power in life come from God and not from us. He is the one who comes to us in the midst of our woundedness, in spite of our sins, giving us reconciliation and peace. He brings us healing and then sends us out as instruments of healing in the world we live in.

I spent six years in seminary formation, preparing for ordination to the priesthood. They were some of the most memorable and cherished years of my life. But they were also very challenging. The seminarian lives a life of intense introspection. Once a year he is required to write a self evaluation, describing his strengths and his weaknesses. The seminary faculty also evaluates him each year, pointing out the same gifts, as well as his failings and shortcomings.

I remember one time, during my first few years of formation, praying in Aquinas Chapel at Providence College. It was a cold winter afternoon. I was alone before the Blessed Sacrament and suddenly felt painfully aware of the many ways I had failed to love God and love neighbor the way Christ calls us to. As I continued to struggle through prayer, I began to see more clearly that I was not alone in that place. There was someone else there with me, who was also wounded, in His hands, and feet, and side. It dawned on me that He was not wounded so that He could thrust his hands in my face and say, “Look what you did!” No, as Isaiah the prophet had written:

He was wounded for our transgressions,
he was bruised for our iniquities;
upon him was the chastisement that made us whole,
and with his stripes we are healed.
—Isaiah 53:5

In that chapel on that cold December day I wrote, on the inside cover of my Bible, the following words:

O Lord, I would give anything
Not to be wounded.

But You gave up everything
So that You could be.

And so that we
could be healed.

If it is true that “We pray as we live, because we live as we pray” (CCC #2725), we can ask ourselves once again: How is your prayer? How is your Christian life right now? Are we, like the Tax Collector, able to humbly recognize in prayer our own need for the overwhelming mercy and forgiveness of God?

How is Jesus Christ calling us—this week—to look at our wounds, in the light of His wounds, and to be healed? How are we called to then bring the Gospel message of that healing into a world that desperately needs it?

Pray Always Without Becoming Weary

(29th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 21 October, 2007, at St. Mark's Church, Cranston, R.I.; Read Luke 18:1-8)

Fr. Michael Najim, our diocesan Vocations Director, was preaching at my parish of St. Mary's this weekend, giving me the opportunity to preach at St. Mark's. Please pray, and when you pray, ask for more vocations to the priesthood and religious life in the Diocese of Providence and throughout the Church.

What are you praying for in your life right now? What are the intentions or petitions that you are bringing before God on a regular basis?

Recently there was an experiment conducted by a major university on the effectiveness of prayer. A number of patients who were seriously ill in hospitals volunteered to be part of the experiment, and they were divided into two groups. Information on the first group was given to various religious organizations to pray for, while the second group was not prayed for at all.

Now none of the patients knew which group they were in. The results of the experiment showed that the patients being prayed for did not survive or recover any better than the ones who were not prayed for. Other studies have yielded different results, but based upon this university study we may be tempted to ask ourselves: “Why bother to pray at all?” All of us have offered prayers that seem to go unanswered. Why keep praying?

Firstly, as people of faith we are called to “pray always without becoming weary” (Luke 18:1), as we hear in this morning’s Gospel. Jesus Christ challenges us to pray. He teaches us by His own example and by the constant attention He gave to prayer that this is the way of life for the Christian. But even with all of that said, and from a purely practical point of view, we can recognize that there are several factors which that university study did not take into account.

For instance, what about the spiritual effects on the patients? Were they drawn any closer to God? Were they being prepared for eternal life? Were they becoming more and more open to the eternal relationship that God is calling all of us to in heaven? No scientific experiment can give us the answers to those questions. And aren’t they the most important questions of all?

Secondly, what about the effects on the people who were doing the praying? Jesus calls us “to pray always without becoming weary,” because when we pray, God changes our own heart, and makes us more and more like Christ. It might seem like a lot to ask—this making us more like Christ—and it can even be painful at times, but He is able to accomplish it, if we’ll let Him, and if we remain steadfast in prayer.

Several years ago, while I was still working for Stop & Shop, I bought a nice new pick-up truck, 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 I discovered—to my great astonishment and discontent—that there was an empty parking space 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.

And being a person of faith, I began to pray. What I prayed for was justice. It was justice bordering on vengeance! And for a few days, to be quite honest, that prayer felt really, really good! But before long that feeling faded, and I could sense that God was asking me for a bit more. I began, little by little, to pray for the grace to forgive, to let go, and eventually even for the gift of faith for whomever it was that had stolen my truck. But it took a while. It didn’t happen overnight.

And that is why Christ challenges us this weekend “to pray always without becoming weary.” When we pray, our prayer does not change God. It is not as if He is in heaven, waiting to be coerced or manipulated into following our own good counsel. And we may not always see the changes that take place in the people around us. But when we “pray always without becoming weary,” we come to realize that our prayer is changing us and making us more and more like Jesus Christ.

And so I ask once again: What are you praying for in your life right now? I am here today in this parish of St. Mark’s because our Vocations Director, Fr. Mike Najim, is speaking in my parish about the need for more vocations to the priesthood. We constantly ask God for more vocations, because we know that He is calling men and women to the priesthood and religious life. Yet it can be so discouraging to pray so often and not see, right away, the results that we hope for.

This month is Respect Life month in our Church. How often have we prayed for an end to abortion and the protection of the unborn? Yet year after year nothing seems to change.

And how many times have you prayed for your own families, your own personal intentions, and felt discouraged or disappointed that things were not working out the way you had hoped? Christ challenges us again this weekend “to pray always without becoming weary,” because prayer works, even when we do not see the results or understand how God is accomplishing His eternal plan for us. Prayer works, and when it works it changes the world we live in. It changes us.

So let us begin our own experiment of prayer here at St. Mark’s, and not be so concerned about the immediate results. Let us be concerned, instead, with the way God is working in our lives as we pray, and trust that He knows what is best for us and for those we pray for. And one day we will see the results of all our prayers, and understand completely why Christ calls us “to pray always, without becoming weary.”

Eucharistian- A Thanksgiving Offering to God

(28th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 13 & 14 October, 2007, at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; read Luke 17:11-19)

Our gospel for this weekend relates the story of the ten lepers who were healed by Christ, and the one who returned to give thanks and praise to God. It is a beautiful story of healing and transformation. It is also a familiar story.

It is familiar because it is the gospel which is read for every Thanksgiving Day Mass. If you come here to St. Mary’s next month (and I hope you will!) for Thanksgiving Mass, or anywhere in the United States for that matter, this is the gospel you will hear.

But thanksgiving for us as Catholics is more than just a holiday. It is more than just a word or one gospel passage. Thanksgiving is truly at the heart of our faith and the heart of our Church. The Greek word for thanksgiving is eucharistian, and it is where we get the word Eucharist.

Each week as we celebrate the Eucharist we offer thanks and praise to God. We offer to Him, in thanksgiving, the body and blood of His Son, Jesus Christ; we offer to Him ourselves along with that Great Sacrifice. And when we make that thanksgiving offering we ourselves benefit and are filled with the God who becomes the Bread of Life for us. We draw ever closer to our Eucharistic Lord in this mystery that is “the source and summit of the Christian life” (Lumen Gentium #11, Ecclesia de Eucharistia, #1).

I would suggest that the Thankful Leper in today’s gospel teaches us, in three particular ways, how to do that: How to approach Jesus Christ and receive Him in this great mystery of our faith.

Firstly, he teaches us that when we approach Christ we need to do so in humility. Lepers at the time of Christ were ostracized from the community; they were to announce their presence as “unclean” and required to stand apart from the rest of the people. But that did not stop these ten from crying out to Christ in their need.

St. Luke tells us how they “stood at a distance from [Jesus] and raised their voices” (Luke 17:12-13). It is hard enough for any of us to admit when we need help or when we are struggling in our lives. How much more so for these men, and to do so out loud and in public? It would have required an abundance of humility.

Pope John Paul II, in his Encyclical Letter on the Eucharist, says that we need to have the same humility when we approach Christ in the Blessed Sacrament:

The bread which is broken on our altars . . . is panis angelorum, the bread of angels, which cannot be approached except with the humility of the centurion in the Gospel: “Lord, I am not worthy to have you come under my roof” (Mt 8:8; Lk 7:6).
—Ecclesia de Eucharistia, #48

Isn’t that what we say at every Mass? “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.” We need humility to approach so great a gift as Jesus Christ in the Blessed Sacrament.

Secondly, the Thankful Leper teaches us that healing, transformation, and growth in the Christian life is not always automatic. It doesn’t usually happen in an instant. It comes, often times, through an ongoing relationship with Christ.

The lepers, following Christ’s command to show themselves to the priests, discovered with astounding joy that “As they were going, they were cleansed” (Luke 17:14). They were on the way, following in the direction Christ led them to, and in that they received healing. So it is with us.

It is through an ongoing relationship with Jesus Christ that we receive healing, transformation and growth in the Christian life. We come here to Mass to receive not a wafer, or a piece of bread, but a Person, our Lord Jesus Christ. We need to continue to grow in relationship with that Person, and allow Him to heal and transform us “on the way.”

Finally, that Thankful Leper teaches us that, once we have approached Christ in humility and been touched and healed by Him, then we cannot help but fall down before Him, on our knees, in praise, thanksgiving, and adoration.

Realizing he had been healed, [the leper] returned, glorifying God in a loud voice; and he fell at the feet of Jesus and thanked him.
—Luke 17: 15-16

Isn’t that why we gather we gather together for Mass in the first place? We are “built” to make a sacrifice to God. We were created in the image and likeness of God, to thank and praise Him for all the good He has done for us. It is the natural thing to do, and when we worship Him we are never more truly ourselves.

How will our imitation of the Thankful Leper in our gospel this weekend change us and the world we live in as we enter this new week? How are we being draw to the virtue of humility, to ongoing conversion and relationship with Christ in the Eucharist, and to grow in praise and thanksgiving in our own spiritual lives?

May God continue to draw us ever closer together in this holy gift of the Eucharist, and together, may He draw us ever closer to Himself.

Bridging the Gap

(26th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 29 & 30 September, 2007, at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; read Luke 16:19-31)

On the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican is one of the most famous paintings in all of Christian art: Michelangelo’s “Creation of Adam.” It has been reproduced thousands of times on posters, calendars, t-shirts and even coffee mugs!

The scene is that of Adam being brought into life. God is stretching down to him from heaven and Adam’s hand is reaching up; their fingers seem to meet as God infuses him with the gift of life. But if you look closely at that image you will notice that the two are really not touching at all. There remains a slight gap—just a few inches—between them.

And even though it is only a few inches, it might as well be an infinite distance, because there is nothing Adam can do to reach God. There is nothing any of us can do—of ourselves—to reach the heights of heaven. As St. Paul says so clearly in today’s second reading, God is He:

Who alone has immortality, who dwells in unapproachable light, and whom no human being has seen or can see.
—1 Timothy 6:16

There is nothing we could ever do to take hold of heaven and bridge that gap between us and God; but there is something He can do—and has done—to reach us. In Jesus Christ, God has become man and has brought us all closer together, and together, closer to God. Every one of us shares an intimate bond with each other, because we have all been created by God, and an intimate bond with God himself, who sent Christ to redeem us.

In the parable Jesus relates to us in the gospel this weekend, both those bonds are broken.

The rich man, who lived comfortably and had everything he could ever want in life, now finds himself in a place of torment, separated from his fellow man and separated from God. He cries out to Abraham, hoping that maybe Lazarus can come and bring him relief. Sadly, Abraham replies that he cannot:

Between us and you a great chasm is established to prevent anyone from crossing who might wish to go from our side to yours or from your side to ours.
—Luke 16:26

It’s a great chasm, an infinite distance, and there is nothing now that can close the gap. It’s too late. All his life the rich man could have reached out and touched Lazarus, he could have spoken to him and helped him. Instead he chose to ignore this poor man, lying at his door. He chose complacency over compassion, selfishness instead of selfless love for others, and refused to recognize the bond he shared with another human person.

This complacency is something that can affect all the areas of our lives: our relationships, our friendships, and even our faith life. We can become all too comfortable with ourselves and forget the needs of those around us.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy of all is that the rich man in the parable knew Lazarus! Remember, he calls out to Abraham and asks for Lazarus by name. He knew his name!

If we look close enough, each of us can find that there are people in our lives, people we know by name, that are needy in some way or another. It might be a physical need, or an emotional or spiritual one. There are so many needs in this world we live in. How is God calling us to respond to the ones that are right in front of us on a daily basis?

For four years I studied in the City of Rome as I was preparing for the priesthood. Each day, on the walk to school, I would encounter many homeless persons. Some of them were beautiful people, and very easy to connect with. Others were much more challenging and quite difficult, indeed, to love.

One of them used to sit on the pavement about 100 yards from the university, and he was completely unpredictable. Sometimes he would curse as we walked by, or even spit at us. Other times he was soft-spoken and asked us kindly for a helping hand. It was hard to know whether we should reach out and help, or walk quickly by and avoid him.

One day, as I was speaking with another seminarian in his dorm room, I noticed a small painting on his wall that looked familiar. I said, “That’s the university. In fact, I even recognize the angle that picture was painted from. That’s about the place where that homeless guy sits. You know, the mean one.”

The other seminarian said to me, “You mean Joseph?”

I was surprised. “How did you know his name?”

Then he said to me, “Joseph is the one who painted that picture.”

So many times I had walked by that man and seen only someone who was ugly. Yet there was great beauty there, deep within. So often we look at ourselves, or at others, and we see people who are ugly. God challenges us to look deeper, and to recognize the beauty that He put there. He challenges us to look for the image of God at the center of every human person, and to love that image. He calls us, in very concrete ways this week, to love those around us and to close the gap that so often exists between us.

St. Augustine, who wrote extensively about love and the Christian life, was once challenged: “But what does love look like?” It’s as if they were saying, “Enough philosophy and theology. Just tell us what this love should look like.” He answered directly:

Love has feet, to go to the poor and needy.
It has eyes, to see misery and want.
It has ears, to hear the sighs and sorrows of others.

In a moment, God will reach down from heaven and touch us with the gift of the Eucharist. The same God who reached down and touched Adam, giving Him the gift of life, will reach down here and touch our hearts with His Body and His Blood.

May he also touch our feet, that they may go to the poor and needy, our eyes so we can see the suffering all around us, and our ears, that they may be opened to hear the sighs and sorrows of others.

And when the world we live in begins to search for the image of love, and wants to know what it looks like; when they look for that image of God and long for even a glimpse of it, may they find that image in each and every one of us.

The Economy of Salvation

(25th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 22 &23 September, 2007, at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; read Luke 16:1-13 and CCC #258, 1066 & Glossary)

Some of the most powerful and beautiful teachings in the Scriptures are found in the New Testament, in the parables of Jesus Christ; He simply is the greatest Teacher of all time. One of the reasons for His effectiveness and ability to communicate His message so well—to the people of His own day, and to the people of ours—has to do with the examples and illustrations He often used from everyday life.

The parable we hear this weekend, the Parable of the Unjust Steward, is no exception. Christ talks to them about landowners, stewards, debtors and creditors; they were very well acquainted with that system.

We ourselves are also familiar—perhaps too familiar—with some of the very same things: debt, credit cards, bills and payments. All of these things, obviously, have to do with the economy. They make up the economic system. All civilizations and cultures have some kind of economy, however primitive it may be. In order for a society to function it must have some sort of an economy.

That word itself, Economy, is taken from the Greek word oikonomia, and it means literally the “management of a household.” It describes how someone conducts their affairs; how they manage their life.

The Fathers of the Church, however, tell us that there is an economy in God Himself! They call it the “economy of salvation.” It does not mean that God has a credit card, or that He is investing at the New York Stock Exchange. The “economy of God” or the “economy of salvation,” refers to the way God “manages” His household, the world.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church puts it this way:

The economy of salvation…refers to God’s activity in creating and governing the world, particularly to his plan for the salvation of the world in the person of Jesus Christ, a plan which is being accomplished through His Body the Church, in its life and sacraments.

—Catechism of the Catholic Church,
Glossary, “Economy of Salvation”


The “economy of salvation,” then, is basically “what God is up to” on an everyday basis; how He is guiding the course of human history. If you want to know how God is managing Europe or the United States, how He is dealing with Cranston, Rhode Island, or your own household and your own life, then you need look no further than the person of Jesus Christ. That is what God is up to.

Christ is God who became man and walked right into our very lives; He entered into our economic system, into our homes and families. He reached out and touched those who were sick, and healed them. He gave sight to the blind and raised the dead. He suffered and died on the cross so that we could be forgiven for our sins and find new hope and new life in Him.

Jesus Christ rose again from the dead and invited us into His very life, a life that will never end. By our Baptism we can live in Him and through the gift of His Body and Blood to us in the Holy Eucharist, Christ lives in us. Through the Sacrament of Reconciliation we can be forgiven for all our sins and make a brand new start with God.

That is the “economy of Salvation” in all its splendor! That is how God is managing His household.

The challenge Christ issues to us this weekend is simple and clear: To be active in that economy! We are not called to sit back and wait for God to do something in our lives. We cannot be unresponsive to so great a gift! Jesus contrasts those who are inactive and unmotivated in their Christian life to the people of this world who are over-active in the economy and worldly affairs here on earth:

The children of this world are more prudent in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light.
—Luke 16:8

The illustration He uses is the Parable of the Dishonest Steward. Make no mistake about it: this man is a scoundrel! He is a thief. He’s embezzling money from his boss; taking what does not belong to him. And he’s been caught! He is about to get fired, and rightfully so.

Jesus in no way condones what that man has done. But what the parable draws our attention to is the reaction of that scoundrel as soon as he figures out that the game is up: he gets active. This man got busy! He used all his energy, his efforts, gifts and abilities, everything he had, to make sure that he would be well taken care of in this world. He made sure he was well covered when it came to worldly wealth.

Jesus is essentially saying: If only my people were that active in their pursuit of eternal wealth!

He is challenging us to use all our energies, our efforts, gifts, abilities and resources, to seek the Kingdom of God and to make sure we have a place in the eternal kingdom where He lives and reigns forever. Because, in the end, the “economy of Salvation” is not about money. It is not about possessions, or property of anything so mundane.

The “economy of salvation” is ultimately about heaven. It’s about eternal life. We can ask ourselves this weekend: How much are we investing in that economy? Certainly in our generosity with time, talent and treasure, but more than that; also in the way we live and the way we love? How well are we investing in that “economy” which will earn us dividends in an eternal life with God?

Captain Jack Sparrow's Compass

(24th Sunday in Ordinary Time-Year C; This homily was given 15 & 16 September, 2007, at St. Mary's Church, Cranston, R.I.; read Luke 15:1-32)

If you have seen the movie, Pirates of the Caribbean, then you know who Captain Jack Sparrow is. He is the central character, the main pirate, and he always knows exactly where to look for treasure. The reason he has such a good sense of the direction is because of the compass that he carries with him at all times.

It is certainly no ordinary compass. It does not point north, south, east and west; the compass of Captain Jack Sparrow points in only one direction: the direction of the thing he desires the most! When his heart is set on treasure, the compass automatically points in that direction.

But as the sequel to Pirates of the Caribbean begins, in the movie Dead Man’s Chest, we discover that Captain Jack Sparrow is in a crisis: he doesn’t know exactly what he wants. There is some interior confusion, and for that reason, his compass will not work the way it should. It is unable to bring him to the place he wants to go.

That is the picture we are given this weekend in the beautiful and familiar Parable of the Prodigal Son. The son doesn’t know what he wants; he thinks he does. He says to his father: “Give me the share of your estate that should come to me” (Luke 15:12). He then takes that share and goes off to “a distant country” where he squanders the entire inheritance “on a life of dissipation.”

The Fathers of the Church and early Christian writers have always understood that journey into “a distant country” as the alienation from God that comes from the life of sin. The more we become entangled in sin, the further we become entrenched in that “distant country,” and the more estranged we become from God.

The tragedy of the prodigal son lies not so much in the details of the sins he has committed, or even in the sad consequences of those sins which have made him a pig farmer in a foreign land (an unthinkable profession for the Jews). The most painful reality of all is that the son has let his moral compass take him in the opposite direction of where he most needs to be; he has become completely separated from the father.

We listen to that parable knowing all along that the father is such a father! He is so willing to give the son anything he asks for. Later we see how ready the father is to take the son back; how eager he is to reconcile that older brother; how filled with love and compassion! We ask ourselves: “Why would anyone ever leave a father like that?”

And that is the triumph of the Parable of the Prodigal Son: the son suddenly begins to ask himself that very question! There, alienated, broken and alone in “a distant country,” he remembers the kindness and benevolence of his own father; he longs for the home that he now understands he never should have left to begin with. His compass begins to work once again, and sets him back in the right direction, to the one thing he desires more than anything else in the world, the greatest treasure of all.

Pope Benedict XVI, in his new book Jesus of Nazareth, writes about this very conversion of the prodigal son. Our Holy Father (who has probably never seen the movie Pirates of the Caribbean, or probably never heard of Captain Jack Sparrow!) writes:

What [the prodigal son] finds in himself, though, is the compass pointing toward the father, toward the true freedom of a “son.”
—Pope Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth, pg. 205

He gets his bearings once again, and soon makes a decision: “I shall get up and go to my father” (Luke 15:18). He follows through on that decision, and is received back again with open arms.

It is a beautiful and heartwarming story; one that we are all familiar with. But the story prompts us to ask ourselves today: What about us? Where is our compass pointing? Is the compass pointing us in the right direction and bringing us ever closer to God? Or is our compass bringing us farther away, into that “distant country,” and away from the heart of the father?

I would suggest this weekend three aspects of the prodigal son that we should seek to imitate in our own lives.

Firstly, we should remember that this Father is such a father! God is so good, so merciful, so generous to us. He wants nothing but what is good for us, and to give us Himself and draw us to eternal life with Him. That should motivate everything we do, and guide us in the way we live. It should set our compass to the thing we should want more than anything else: God and His plan for our lives.

Secondly, like the prodigal son, we should be ready to make a decision. Whatever God is prompting us to do, we should be ready to answer His call. Has it been a while since we have come to Holy Mass? Are we able to make it some of the time, perhaps even most of the time, but not every weekend? God is asking us to make a decision to be with Him here every weekend.

Going out to dinner on Saturday night, or having a big family breakfast on Sunday morning is a great thing. To sit around the house and read the newspaper, or rest and watch TV is fine. But these things, of themselves, will not bring us to eternal life with God. They will not lead us to the heart of the Father. Mass will.

Mass is the place where Jesus Christ comes to us—Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity—where He comes into our lives and into our souls, and leads us ever closer to His Father. This is the place where we hear the Word of God proclaimed, and the Father says to us, over and over again, “Welcome home. Welcome back, come ever closer to the life I have called you to share.” Is God asking you to make that decision to attend Mass every week?

Or when is the last time you made a good sacramental confession? Is there anything in our lives that still needs to be forgiven by God? Our faith teaches us that when we have committed any serious or grave sins, ordinarily they can only be forgiven in the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Might God be moving us to make that decision this week: to come to Him in that sacrament, and hear the words of absolution, to receive the embrace of our heavenly Father in that special place reserved for reconciliation and peace.

Or are there things in our lives that are keeping us from growing closer to God? Are there things we need to let go of, or say “No” to, or perhaps habits of prayer and fidelity that we need to follow through on in order to become, more and more, the sons and daughters God is calling us to be? Could that be the decision God is calling us to make?

Which brings us to the final aspect of the prodigal son that we should seek to imitate: like the prodigal son, we need to not only make a decision to return and draw closer to the Father. We need to actually do so, to follow through and make good on that decision.

We need to set our course, and, with the prodigal son “get up and go to [our] father.” In our lives this week, may we find our true compass once again, the compass that leads us to the one thing that we should desire above all other things: to seek the heart of the Father, and find in Him our greatest treasure, our deepest desire, and our one hope for eternal life.

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.