Solemnity of the Holy Family (Cycle B)

RECOGNIZING THE SACRED AMONG US

SIRACH 3:2-6, 12-14; COLOSSIANS 3:12-17; LUKE 2:22-40

Today, with our Solemnity of the Holy Family, we’re sort of caught in the middle, aren’t we? Stuck somewhere in the midst of the First Day of Christmas and the Twelfth Day of Christmas – between the Feast of the Nativity and the Feast of the Epiphany. Our trees are still lit, our houses are still decorated. There are still cookies left to devour, and our gifts are still in neat or not-so-neat piles in close proximity to the Christmas tree before they find their ultimate destination in closets, drawers and toy chests. And hopefully too, the great stories that warm our hearts at this time of the year have not been placed back on the bookshelf to gather dust until next year’s reading. This morning, as has been my custom the past couple of years at Christmas, I’d like to use my time in the pulpit to tell you a story, one that perhaps you’re not familiar with. Today’s story you might think is more appropriate for next Sunday’s Feast of the Epiphany, but I think it applies just as much to today’s Gospel. It’s the story of the Fourth Wise Man.

Once, in the days when Augustus Caesar was master of many kingdoms and Herod reigned in Jerusalem, there lived a faithful member of the Magi from Persia named Artaban. Like his fellow Magi, Artaban believed that the highest of all learning is the knowledge of the stars. To trace their course is to untangle the threads of the mystery of life from beginning to end. And if we could follow them perfectly, nothing would be hidden from us.

Artaban had observed a new and great star rising. He studied the ancient writings and believed that the new star was a sign of the birth of a new king, one who would govern the world as one family. And with three of his fellow Magi, Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar, he decides to search for the Promised One. Artaban sells all of his possessions and buys three precious jewels -- a sapphire, a ruby and, the most precious of all, a pearl, to present as tribute to the king.

Accompanied by his servant, Orontes, Artaban begins his journey through the desert. But as he neared the place where he had arranged to meet Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar, he comes upon a dying man. Because the Magi are physicians as well as astrologers, he stops and, for hour after hour, labors until the man is restored to health. Artaban tells the man that he will leave him bread and wine, and a mixture of healing herbs, but that he must leave to continue his quest to Jerusalem to find the one who is to be born King of the Jews, the great Prince and Deliverer of all. Clutching Artaban’s hand, the old man blesses Artaban, and tells him, “I have nothing to give you in return for what you have done for me – only this; that I can tell you where the Messiah must be sought. For our prophets have said that he should be born, not in Jerusalem, but in Bethlehem of Judah.”

And so pressing on, Artaban discovers that his friends have gone on without him. He sells his sapphire to buy a caravan of camels and provision to continue his journey alone. He arrives in Bethlehem just as King Herod’s soldiers are killing the baby boys of Bethlehem. Guarding the doorway of a home where he has discovered a young mother and her baby son hiding, Artaban offers a soldier the ruby as incentive for the soldier to leave them in peace. From the mother, he learns that Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar have already left Bethlehem, as has the child to whom they paid homage and offered their gifts. The child and his parents have fled to find safety in Egypt. And so, Artaban once again embarks upon his quest for his king. He goes to Egypt, and searches tirelessly for him, only to discover that once again, he is a step behind. The child has returned to Israel

The Fourth Wise Man continues his travels from place to place, and in his search he sees hunger and famine, plague stricken cities, the imprisoned and the enslaved. In all the morass of humanity, he found none to worship – but many to help. He feeds the hungry, and clothes the naked, heals the sick and comforts the captive. And although the years of his life pass like the cascading sands in an hour glass, he never abandons the quest for his king.

Thirty-three years of his life pass away, and Artaban is still a pilgrim, still a seeker of light. His hair was now white as the wintry snow. Worn and weary and ready to die, he comes for the last time to Jerusalem. There was great commotion in the city. Everyone was talking about a great prophet named Jesus who had been arrested and was going to be crucified. It was said that God was working through this prophet and that God was in him. He made the lame walk, lepers clean, the deaf hear, the blind recover their sight, the dead rise to life, and the poor, have had good news proclaimed to them. And Artaban realizes that this prophet, Jesus, is the king he had spent so many years searching for.

So Artaban hurries to the place where Jesus is to be crucified. Perhaps his pearl, the last of his precious jewels, can be used to ransom the life of the King. But as Araban moves through the streets of Jerusalem toward Mount Calvary, he sees a girl fleeing from a band of soldiers. “My father is in debt,” she cries out. “And they are taking me to sell as a slave to pay his debt. Save me!” Artaban hesitates; then sadly takes out his pearl, and gives it to the soldiers to buy the girl’s freedom.

Artaban looks up toward the end of the street where he sees a hill on which stand three crosses. He hears a voice cry out, “Father, it is finished. Into your hands I commend my spirit.” Suddenly, the skies were dark, the wind blew, and the earth shook. Artaban knew that his quest was over, and he had failed. He would not find the King. And he fell to the ground, clutching his heart.

Three days later, his servant, Orontes, comes to bring him home to Persia. As they pass the tomb where Jesus had been buried, Artaban closes his eyes and calls for his servant to get him some water. And when he opens them again, he sees a hand offering him a cup of water. He looks up, and his eyes widen and he exclaims, “Lord, it is you! You’re alive! Oh Master, I have long sought you. Forgive me. Once I had precious gifts to give. Now I have nothing.” Jesus smiles, and looks at Artaban with love. “Artaban, you’ve already given your gifts to me.” Confused, Artaban replies, “I don’t understand, my God.” “When I was hungry you gave me to eat, when I was thirsty you gave me to drink. When I was naked you clothed me. When I was homeless, you took me in.” Artaban, confused, responded, “Ah, not so, my Savior. I never saw you hungry, nor thirsty. I never clothed you. I never brought you into my home. I’ve never seen you until now.” But the Risen Savior replied, “Whenever you did these things for the least of my brothers, you did them for me.” A long breath of relief exhaled gently from Artaban's lips. His journey was ended. His treasures were accepted. The Fourth Wise Man had found the King.

Today it might seem like we’re simply stuck somewhere in the middle between Christmas and Epiphany. The shepherds have returned to the fields and the Wise Men have yet to arrive. And maybe to us the three feasts of Christmas, the Holy Family, and the Epiphany seem somewhat disjointed. But I think there’s a strong and significant connection between what we heard on Thursday, what we heard in our Gospel today, what we will hear next week, and in the story of the Fourth Wise Man. And that is: recognizing the sacred among us.

Let’s face it, very few of us will be as blessed as Mary and be visited by an angel. Perhaps none of us will ever be privileged in this life to peer into the face of Jesus, as did St. Catherine of Siena and St. Faustina. If we’re waiting for that sort of encounter with the Divine in our lives, we’re probably going to be disappointed. But maybe the lesson of the liturgies during the Christmas season is that instead of looking up, we need to look around. We need to become aware of the sacred in the ordinary. That’s what the shepherds did, who were innocent enough to hear the song of angels in the whisper of the wind. That’s what the Wise Men did, who were wise enough to see God’s beckoning in the brilliance of a star. That’s what Simeon did, who was so attuned to the will of God, that he heard His voice in the cry of a child.

Are we as dedicated as Artaban to make our whole life a quest to find our Lord? Have we forgotten the oracles of Isaiah the prophet? Have we forgotten the words of the angel to both Mary and Joseph? Have we so quickly forgetten the refrain we sang over and over in the season of Advent? This child whose birth we celebrate is EMMANUEL – “GOD WITH US!” Here. Now. Forever. And so, this wonderful, blessed, miraculous season challenges us to discover the places, the people, the circumstances, and the events in which GOD IS WITH US...right here . . . right now . . . forever.

And where do we begin our search? Maybe today’s feast is meant to tell us that a good starting point is in our homes. Perhaps today’s feast challenges us to recognize Him in the wisdom and experience voiced in the stories we’ve heard countless times by the senior members of our families. Perhaps in the advice, patience and understanding of our spouses. Perhaps in the unconditional love, support and forgiveness of our parents. Perhaps in the spontaneous affection and simple, unexpected, random acts of kindness of our children. And then, moving outside of our homes, maybe it’s in the ear of a neighbor to listen. The shoulder of friend to cry on. The out of the blue smile of a stranger. The voice of affirmation of a boss, a co-worker, a teacher, a coach when we really need to hear it. Or maybe He is in the elderly, the spouse, the parent, the child, the neighbor, the friend, the stranger, the boss, the co-worker, the teacher, the coach who need OUR wisdom, experience, patience, understanding, support, forgiveness, love, affection, kindness. Our ear to listen. Our shoulder to cry on. Our smile. Our voice of affirmation.

Artaban searched his whole life for the king that was always there in his midst, but he never recognized him. Today, let’s go home and let’s look under the tree to see if there is one gift still there unwrapped and unopened: Christmas eyes that enable us to see the sacred within our midst. To see Emmanuel – God with us.

Advent Reflection IV

The Virgin and the Carpenter

Across the heavens an angel races to Nazareth

to give vision to a Virgin;

to disturb the dreams of a Carpenter 

“All things are possible with God,” 

he informs the Virgin.

And sweeter than the song of an angel is 

the Virgin’s response: “Let it Be,”

her “yes” - a constant refrain she will sing throughout her life.

“Do not be afraid” he reassures the Dreamer.

And the Carpenter’s silent assent rises to God like burning incense,

for reality has become greater than his dreams.

The two become Bethlehem bound,

led not by the light of a star,

nor by the song of an angel,

but only by their intense dedication to the will of God. 

And it is to the shabbiest of dwellings,

the most sacred of sanctuaries, 

that they are led.

But it is a place where miracles occur. 

A place where

a plan is accomplished,

a promise is kept,

a prophesy is fulfilled,

and hope is born.

A place where

the longings of generations come to fruition,

and the dreams of countless believers become reality.

It is a place where

a faith-filled Virgin becomes a faithful Mother

and one who is righteous becomes a Father of the heart.

The Virgin finds her place in the stable;

it is next to her Son: 

always present, 

always supporting,

always affirming,

always cooperating.

And the one who dreams dreams finds his place there, too.

It is in the shadows:

forever protecting,

forever offering quiet strength,

forever submissive to the will of God,

forever guiding all who come upon the stable to Jesus and Mary.

Soft Virgin voice sings.

Tender Virgin lips kiss. 

Warm Virgin hugs envelop and embrace.

Strong carpenter hands caress.

Gentle carpenter touch calms.

Reassuring carpenter arms rock baby to sleep.

Before angels give their gift of song,

before kings present their gold, frankincense and myrrh,

before shepherds kneel and offer their praise;

there in the solitude of the stable,

the Virgin and the Carpenter offer the first gift,

the greatest gift: 

the gift of their love.

Advent is our time to decide, 

our time to make ready 

the gifts we will bring to the stable in Bethlehem.

This Christmas, as we come to the stable

and bow our head 

and bend our knee, 

what gift will we offer?

If we offer only gold, frankincense and myrrh like the Kings, 

will our gift look beautiful but fade and dissipate over time?

If we offer only wonder like the shepherds,

will our praise ultimately diminish to mere lip service?

Or will we offer the gift of Virgin and the Carpenter? 

For the gift of love was the first and best of all Christmas gifts.

It is nothing less than the total gift of self.

It is the only one that is truly worth giving.

Because, 

after all, 

that is the gift 

He gave to us.

Advent Reflection III

Shepherds & Kings

On a night so long ago

angels and stars raced across winter skies

to announce,

to proclaim,

to invite,

to beckon.

Yet of all the eyes that turned their gaze toward star-lit heavens that night,

it was but three kings who saw 

the sparkle, 

the glimmer, 

of hope. 

And of all the ears that heard the whisper of the wind, 

it was but a handful of shepherds who heard 

the sonorous melody,

the lilting refrain, 

of a promise fulfilled.

How many others looked at that same night sky

but were blind to the rising of a star?

How many others heard that same evening breeze 

but were deaf to the song of angels?

Advent is our yearly journey to the stable of Bethlehem:

our chance to follow a star;

our chance to be summoned by an angel;

our chance to trace the familiar footsteps of the shepherds and kings.

It is a time when we must ask ourselves

if our eyes have become too distracted to search the skies for guiding stars,

if our ears have become too complacent to be attuned to angel-song.

Shepherds and Kings,

They are you.

They are me.

Like them, some are poor

others rich.

Some are beckoned by the song of an angel;

others summoned by the brilliance of a star.

Some stumble through the darkness to the stable;

others walk a star-lit path. 

And like them, each one of us is called 

to see, 

to hear, 

and to follow.

To travel, 

to find, 

and to offer praise.

To kneel,

to present our gifts, 

and to glorify God for all we have seen and heard.

Shepherds and Kings,

They are you.

They are me.

For like them

it is only when we listen to the whispers of angels 

that we can be filled with joy and wonder.

It is only when we follow the star 

that we can become wise.

So this Advent, 

like the shepherds, let us listen to the promptings of angels. 

Like the Kings, let us be beckoned by a star;

And with them, 

let us find our place

at the stable of Bethlehem.

Advent Reflection II

A Star, an Angel, and a Donkey

A Star dances in the Eastern sky

and beckons, “Come follow me.”

And three who are wise leave behind

palace and power, 

kinsmen and kingdom,

in search of the King of Kings,

in search of the One whose kingdom is not of this world.

The song of an angel shatters the quiet of a winter night

and proclaims, “Come follow me.”

And those who tend their sheep in open fields leave behind

field and flock,

fatigue and fear,

in search of the Lamb of God,

in search of the One who would call himself the Good Shepherd.

The bray of a donkey interrupts a serene country village

and volunteers, “Come follow me.”

And a virgin mounts

and a carpenters walks beside.

The two leave behind

family and familiarity,

gossip and glances,

to honor a decree,

to fulfill a prophesy.

A star, an angel, and a donkey.

All three share a common mission:

they beckon; they summon; and they point.

They announce; they direct; and they rejoice.

They lead; they guide; and they carry

all those who are Bethlehem bound.

All three come to rest at the stable

so that others may find their way there.

Advent is our time to shine.

Our time to sing.

Our time to carry.

It is our time to be a star

and to light the way for those who live in darkness and give them hope.

It is our time to be an angel

and to rejoice and proclaim glad tidings of great joy.

It is our time to be a beast of burden 

and to bear upon our backs those for whom the journey is too burdensome or too far.

We have all had the opportunity of being a shepherd;
all had the privilege of being a king.
We have all struggled on our own personal pilgrimage to the stable.
And having found our way there,
we kneel and adore;
we offer our gifts
and become transformed.

For once we have encountered the Light of the World,
then it is our glow that must illumine darkened pathways.
For once we have experienced the Word Made Flesh,
then it is our voice that must proclaim Good News.
For once we have experienced Him who bore our sins,
then it is our strength that must bear the burdens of others.

This Advent
may we become
the instrument of the beckoning,
the source of the guiding,
and the strength for the journey
for all those who seek
a Child
in a stable
in Bethlehem.

Advent Reflection I

The Stable

Two lone figures travel narrow Bethlehem streets searching.

Searching for a place of welcome;

searching for a place of warmth;

searching for a birthing place.

But the doors remain shuttered and the welcome is never offered. 

And the long neglected place usually reserved for animals becomes their safe haven.

Yet what is deemed by others to be God-forsaken becomes God-chosen.

For Christmas eyes are transforming eyes;

they see what others choose not to see:

They see promise in what others view as folly;

They see possibilities in what others view as foreboding;

They see potential in what others view as forlorn.

A stable lies waiting in the Judean hill country.

Lonely. Dark. Cold.

Yet of all the unlikely places in the world

it is here that angels sing and a star comes to rest.

It is here that shepherds come to worship and kings offer their gifts.

Yes, a stable stands in wait in Bethlehem.

Lonely. Dark. Cold.

But on a night so long ago

that lonely stable was transformed into the palace of a king;

the darkness was shattered by the Light of the World;

the cold of winter was warmed by the fire of love.

O God-chosen stable. O holiest of temples.

You who were abandoned by men have been embraced by God!

In you heaven reaches down to touch earth.

In you miracles take place.

In you God becomes one with us.

Two lone figures travel narrow Bethlehem streets searching.

And each Advent that search continues . . . 

for once again a place is needed;

once again a place is sought.

In each heart lies a Bethlehem.

Some hearts are inns - 

places that still offer no welcome;

places where there still is no room;

places whose doors remain locked

and access is denied.

But some hearts are stables -

places that, despite of their imperfection, 

offer welcome;

places that allow themselves to be taken over;

places that allow themselves to be transformed;

places that are open to allowing Christmas miracles to take place.

And so, this Advent, come to the stable.

The journey is not burdensome,

nor is it far.

This Advent, come to the Stable.

It is as close to you as your heart.

The Angels gave Him their song,

The Shepherds their worship,

the Kings their gifts.

What can you give Him?

A place, 

a stable, 

a heart 

in which to be born again and again.

SOLEMNITY OF CHRIST THE KING (Cycle A)

IS GOD LIKE WARNER WOLF?

Ezekiel 34: 11-12, 15-17; 1 Corinthians 15:20-26, 28 Matthew 25: 31-46

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“I confess to almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have greatly sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do.”

Let me ask you a question. Don’t worry. I won’t ask for you to raise your hand or shout out an answer. It’s a rhetorical question: What do you think is the greatest sin? Murder? Rape? Abortion? Adultery? Stealing? Pornography? Destroying the reputation of a person? Physical, emotional, psychological, or sexual abuse? All serious sins, right? Very serious. Extremely serious. Mortal Sins. But what’s the worst? The Church lists seven sins as “deadly.” They’re called the Seven Capitol or Cardinal sins: pride, covetousness (also known as avarice or greed), lust, anger, gluttony, envy, and sloth. Is it one of those?

It’s interesting, if you look through the gospels, no one ever posed that question to Jesus. They asked him what the greatest commandment was. And we know he didn’t choose one of the ten. He said, the bottom line is this: Love God above all things, and love your neighbor as you love yourself. Those are the two greatest commandments. But he never addressed which sin was the worst. Or did he?

In our gospel today, we heard the Parable of Final Judgment. In it, Jesus says that those who will enter the kingdom prepared for them by our Heavenly Father are those who both see those who are in need: the hungry, the thirsty, the naked, the foreigner, the sick, the imprisoned, AND responds to them. Why? Because they see HIM in THEM. But those who fail to be moved with compassion or who fail to transform their compassion into service to address the need, the want, the hurt, the plight of others are condemned for all eternity. Why? Because in THEM they did not see HIM.

And so it seems, at least it seems to me, that Jesus is saying that as horrible as some of the things we do to others and we do to ourselves can be, the worst sin we can commit is to be blasé, indifferent, insensitive, uncaring, unmoved; to fail to respond to the needs of others. The times when we could have affected a good, could have righted a wrong, could have made a difference, but didn’t. Sins of Omission. 

Why are Sins of Omission the greatest sin? Because clearly they violate what Jesus taught were the two greatest commandments. For if we don’t reach out to those who are in need, we do not love our neighbor. If we fail to see the crucified Jesus in THEM, we fail to recognize HIM. And if we fail to recognize Jesus, how can we love Him? 

Several Lents ago, in meditating on the passion of Jesus, I wondered what I would have done if I was in Jerusalem 2000 years ago. If I was a member of the Sanhedrin, would I have stood up, risked it all and defended Jesus? Or would I have sat silently as others condemned an innocent man? Would I have been one who shouted for his release outside the Fortress Antonia, or would I have lent my voice to the mob and shouted, “Crucify him?” If I stood along the road as he carried his cross to the place of execution, would I be like the women, compassionate enough to weep for him? Would I be like Veronica, brave enough to do a simple thing, like wipe the spit, sweat and blood from his face, or like Simon of Cyrene, strong enough to lend my brawn to lift the burden of the cross from Jesus’ shoulders if only for a short time? Or would I stand silent on the road and do nothing, or worse: jeer, mock, shout obscenities at this condemned man? Perhaps you’ve wondered the same thing. 

As I reflected on this, I hoped I would be one who had enough faith in Jesus and love for Jesus to act with compassion as he endured the agony, the pain, the sense of rejection he experienced. But I shrugged my shoulders that there is no way to really know. But then I realized there is. And here’s the litmus test: how well do I respond to his tortured and crucified self in the person of those who suffer NOW? How well do I respond to his need TODAY? If I meet the needs of those who are suffering today, then I would have responded to Jesus in his need. But if my heart isn’t moved into action today, then plain and simple, it would not have been for Jesus two thousand years ago. 

We’re very good, in our country of affluence, at writing out checks, aren’t we? We’re very good at responding to causes. We dig in our pockets and respond financially when we’re asked to contribute to the victims of hurricanes and earthquakes, disease and starvation, illiteracy and indigence. And thank God for that! But what about the times the need goes beyond dollars and cents, and the solution requires our time, or a kind word, or an ear to listen, or getting our hands dirty, or simply being there? What about the times when the need transcends the physical and is rooted in the emotional, the psychological, the social, or the spiritual? What about the times when the one in need isn’t comfortably faraway, but unnervingly close: a friend, a neighbor, a co-worker, a classmate, a member of our own family, the one you’re sitting next to in your pew? 

The “Holy Masquerade.” At mass, Jesus wears the disguise of bread and wine. Outside the walls of this church, what is the disguise Jesus is wearing? The one who is hungry for attention? The one who is thirsty for a compliment? The naked one stripped of his reputation because of gossip, false allegations or the “sins” of his or her past? The stranger, the one who is always around but we fail to pay attention to them because they’re quiet, or awkward, deemed a loser, or have a difficult time fitting in? The one who is sick, sick and tired of today being no different than the day before and the day before that, and they live without hope? The imprisoned, the one who is not so much locked in, but locked out: out of our lives, out of our circle of friends because their “different”: different interests, different personality, different economic status, different race, different religion, different ethnicity, different sexual orientation? 

Sins of omission. You would think that our government would get it right. You would think that our Church would do better, our diocese, our parish. You would think we would do better. Do we see the needs of others? Do we see the hurt behind forced smiles? Do we hear the cries in wordy silence? Or are we oblivious to it: too busy, too self-centered, too much tunnel vision? Sins of omission. 

When we die and stand before God in judgment, what will it be like? Is God like Warner Wolf and will he say, “Let’s go to the video tape?” And if he does, what will we see? A highlights reel of our successes? A blooper reel of our sins? Or will it merely be a blank screen . . . times we should have said the kind, loving or compassionate thing, but the words never found our voice? Times we could have gone out of our way for someone, but the good remained undone? Times we were meant to stand up against a wrong or an injustice, and evil continued to flourish and the wrong was never redressed? “I confess to almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have greatly sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do.” In what I have failed to do. Sins of Omission. That’s what we call them. 

God give me ears to hear crying hearts, eyes that recognize poverty of spirit, and legs that stand tall for those who are made to feel small.

Thirty-Third Sunday in Ordinary Time (Cycle A)

Reluctant Servants

Proverbs 31:10-13, 19-20, 30-31; 1 Thessalonians 5:1-6; Matthew 25: 14-30

What is it like to be November? It is to be cold and dark and heavy. It is to be night. November, unlike any other month, is a taste of perpetual night. It is so cold, so empty, so bleak. November is a thief of color. It moves across the land, draining red, yellows, oranges, greens from trees, bushes, grass, from yards, fields, hillsides. In its wake, browns, blacks and endless grays stretch to everywhere, bringing shivering, withdrawing, shrinking-back-and-into cold. Even on those days when the sun shines, it is a distant gauze-filtered sun which does not penetrate the night-like cold of November.

To be November is to be the end of things: the end of summer, the end of warmth, the end of running about freely, unburdened by coats, scarves, clump-along boots, and the endless array of mittens. November speaks the end of the year more than does December. This eleventh month brings before us the stark brown dirt of death. November is a somber and dark creature.

"November creatures we are not!" shouts St. Paul. We may walk in the dark of November, BUT we are not Novembers! We may, at times, feel dark and devoid of light, cold and wintry. We are Aprils and Mays and Junes because we are the Beloved of God. We are the people God walks with and claims as God's own. We are the ones on whom God has set His heart. Aprils and Mays and Junes whom God has called into the great adventure of life.

November Sundays in our liturgy are the prime time for sorting through our lives in light of the last things. More precisely, THE last thing: the coming of our magnificently loving God. But this focusing on the end time has much more to do with the present than with the future. The future of our lives is always being realized in our present. God is ever breaking into our lives NOW in order that our future be secured. For the future will be no more and no less than what we are making of our lives now.

The slave of the buried talent in today’s gospel is a walking November, devoid of the color of life. "You who have nothing, even the little you have will be taken away." His loss is not God's fault, not God's doing. November people, afraid to risk, who will not jump into life with a sense of adventure, are faced with a built-in penalty. The enemy is within. Their talent, their personality suffocates. Unable or unwilling to dare, they become more and more isolated and impoverished. They play it safe, hedge their bets, take no chances! And become dull, drab, dreary persons unable to bear life-in fact, shrinking from life.

God doesn't play it safe! God looks the impossible in the face and challenges us to do the same. God lavishly scatters the seeds of talent and grace everywhere, throwing them broadcast, inviting us join in the same game. God, as we have learned from the parables of the past few Sundays, is wildly generous. Generous to being spendthrift. Spendthrift are we to be as well.

Like the slaves in this parable, God has given each one of us his love and many different gifts of grace. He wants us to invest them wisely; he wants us to take risks; he wants us to use the gifts, the talents he has given us - whatever they may be. As we see from the parable, if we fail to live in a loving relationship with God; if we fail to take risks for God and his realm; if we don't use the gifts he gives us, we shall certainly lose them.

I heard a true story recently about a man named Luigi Tarisio who, when he died, was found to possess 246 violins. They represented a lifetime of collecting. They were found stored everywhere throughout his house ~ in the attic, in closets, even in dresser drawers. But none were ever played; they were simply collected. His passionate devotion to the violin had robbed the world of all the music those instruments could have produced."

God does not want his gift of talents to be idle and useless, producing no return. Each of us has some God-given purpose in life with its accompanying ability. Each one of us has to be sure our talent is making music in the great orchestra of daily life. 

Joe Garagiola, former major league baseball catcher and TV personality, tells about a time when Stan Musial came to the plate in a critical game. Musial was one of the most talented batters of all time and was at the peak of his career at the time of this particular game. Meanwhile, the pitcher opposing him that day was young and very nervous. Garagiola called for a fastball, but the pitcher shook his head. So Garagiola signaled for a curve, and again, the pitcher shook him off. He then asked for one of the pitcher's specialties, and still the pitcher hesitated. At that point, Garagiola went out to the mound to have a conference with the pitcher. He said, "I've called for every pitch in the book; what do you want to throw?" "Nothing," the pitcher replied in a shaky voice. "I just want to hold on to the ball as long as I can." 

That, in essence, is the story of the third servant in the parable Jesus told about the talents. That servant was entrusted with an incredible treasure and his first reaction was to panic and hold onto that which he had been given.

What fears in our lives cause us to horde and hide that which God has given us? Would we rather play it safe and not use our talents than take risks and use them in the service of our Lord and one another? Often we discover, when we're willing to take risks, that our fears prevent us from doing things that we really enjoy doing, once we actually do them. This is true in many areas of our lives.

God does not want extraordinary people who do extraordinary things nearly so much as He wants ordinary people who do ordinary things extraordinarily well. And the challenge that is presented to us in today’s gospel is to ask ourselves how each one of us can use our resources of time and talent and treasure for God. What is that special thing which each of us can do that nobody else in the world can do in quite the same way? Is it to laugh, to smile and share your sense of humor? Is it an ability to encourage and inspire? Is it an ability to pray? Is it a loving tone people hear in your voice? Is it skill in music or art or teaching or managing or any number of other talents? The possibilities are almost limitless. What are those things the Owner of all things has entrusted to you? How have you responded to that trust? How are you doing as a steward of Jesus Christ?"

As we progress through another November in our lives, and as we we approach Thanksgiving, we think in terms of gifts and gratitude and this is good and proper. But do not forget yourself. Take an honest inventory of what God has given you – hard or easy, good or bad – and how industrious you are with it. Don’t look around or away but look within. The kingdom of God is in need of people who are willing to work and live. Faithful in tasks small and large, they become the tools of holiness. Picking up the groceries, paying bills, or calling a friend – these are what God has trusted us with doing. May the Sacrament of the Eucharist – the work of human and Divine hands – give us the strength and peace to gratefully and energetically live as good and faithful servants.

And remember the humorous slogan of God’s workers: "The pay may not great but the pension is out of this world!"

Twenty-Ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Cycle A)

IMAGE IS EVERYTHING

Isaiah 45:1, 4-6; 1 Thessalonians 1:1-5B; Matthew 22:15-21 

Looking at ourselves in the mirror—it’s something most of us spend a lot of time doing. And when we take a good hard look, what do we see? Who’s shining back at us from the mirror? Depending on our mood, and how we feel, we may see aspects of ourselves we hadn’t ever noticed before. 

Our image. We spend the first half of our lives trying to figure out exactly who we are. We gaze into mirrors and carefully craft the face we want the world to see. When I was a teenager and I thought I was alone, I practiced who I wanted to be. I smiled. I frowned. I quirked my eyebrow. I flexed my muscles. I tried on a humble smirk for my victories and practiced a sneer for my defeats. And when I looked in the mirror, sometimes I swore I could see my favorite celluloid Adonis or my ripped gridiron idol. When you’re 15, image is everything.

We usually spend the second half of our lives avoiding mirrors and trying hard to forget what we look like. Catching an unexpected glimpse of an overweight or balding stranger in a revolving door, and realizing that it is you, can be one of the defining moments of middle age. Our faces become carved by paths taken and shadowed by journeys not taken. And eventually, it becomes safer to just look away. When I look in the mirror now, I swear sometimes it’s my father staring back at me. Even in your 50's, image is something.

Surprisingly enough, Jesus is trying to tell the Pharisees, that very same thing—Image is important. In fact, Jesus would say that image is everything.

It was a loaded question the Pharisees and Herodians asked Jesus. Oh, it was carefully packaged in schmooze, flattery, and even a little warm lather of praise, but it was one of those questions you’d expect to hear at a televised presidential debate—“Are you for or against taxes?” “Jesus, should we pay taxes to Rome whose army occupies our country; to a government whose soldiers press their feet on the back of our necks, bringing us down and crushing our windpipes?” And Jesus asks for a coin. On it was imprinted the image of Caesar inscribed with the words, “Divine One, and “Greatest Priest.” “It has his image — give it back to him.” And then he looks directly at them and tells them, “And repay to God what is God’s!” There wasn’t a person in the crowd who didn’t immediately think of Genesis and creation—“God created man in his image; in the divine image he created them.”

Today, Jesus is inviting us to examine the coin and then examine ourselves. Whose image does the coin bear? Whose image do we bear? While Caesar is in the business of minting coins, God is in the business of minting souls. Caesar gets his own image returned to him in taxes and tribute, but because our souls bear the diving image of God, our lives, our hearts and our talents should be “repaid” to God. For Jesus, the question isn’t “How much do you owe?”, but rather, “Who do you look like?”

What do you see when you look in the mirror? Maybe you see an image of yourself you present to the outside world. Your work or school face—one that’s cheerful, hard-working, efficient, and knowledgeable. An image that’s meant to impress and inspire confidence. Maybe it’s your party face; the jovial, witty, and welcoming image that everyone likes. Or maybe it’s your church face, the reverent, prayerful, dignified, and charitable image, one that others look up to. Or do you see your real face, the one without disguise, the one without a mask, the weary, vulnerable image you alone see whenever you come home and put aside all the other images you present to the world? What do you see when you look in the mirror? Do you ever see God staring back at you? Is any resemblance of God being reflected in the mirror? Do you look anything like God? Does His image shine back at you?

We are created in the image of the One who anoints us, gives us a title, and calls us “beloved”. We are created in the image of the One who is always with us, and we are deceived if we can look in a mirror, and see only our own face staring back. As St. Paul says in the Second Letter to the Corinthians, “Beholding, as in a mirror, the glory of the Lord, we are being transformed into the same image. FROM glory TO glory.” (2 Corinthians 3:18).

This morning Jesus holds our lives in his hand and asks, “Whose coin is this? Whose image does it bear?” And the answer is, this is God’s coin cast in God’s image. Jesus tells us then, to give that which is God’s to God. Yes, respect the state and the order it brings, be informed about community and state affairs, vote in elections, pay our taxes, obey national and local laws, support policies that help the poor and downtrodden, defend the country when outside forces threaten it. But give to God your worship, your prayers, your service and your love. Not all that you HAVE. But all that you ARE.

So the next time you look in the mirror, or catch your image reflected in a store window, remember who you look like.

Image can be everything.

Twenty-Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Cycle A)

Invited and All Decked Out

Isaiah 25:6-10a; Philippians 4:12-14, 19-20; Matthew 22:1-14

There are seventeen parables in the Gospel of Matthew. If you had to choose one that was the hardest to interpret, this week's Parable of the Wedding Banquet is a good candidate. It reads somewhat like a combination of a soap opera, an episode of Joan Rivers’ “Fashion Police” and somebody's bad dream. 

Are you confused by it? Perhaps even disturbed? If so, you’re not alone. You’re in good company with those who heard Jesus speak this parable two thousand years ago. And you know what? That’s not by accident, but by design. Because with every parable, Jesus intended the hearer at some point to be jolted or shocked. The parable is meant to provoke and to incite - to arouse conversation, as well as introspection. Ultimately it should lead to action. A parable weaves together a story which is relatively believable and familiar in terms of details and customs; yet also contains within it the unbelievable - the startling. Rome didn't execute Jesus for telling feel good stories, so we shouldn't be surprised by a parable that shocks.

So in our Gospel today, we hear about a king who prepared a royal banquet for his son's wedding. This is no backyard barbecue. It’s not even like the wedding that was just held a few weeks ago in Venice between the world’s most eligible bachelor, George Clooney and Amal Alamuddin. It's the royal wedding of the king's son, akin to the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. It was THE event of the season!

The hall is decorated. The finest meats are roasted. The most delightful vegetables are prepared to perfection. The wine has been properly aged. And the host begins pacing as the appointed hour approaches. He sends his servants out to tell the invited guests that the time has come, the feast is ready, come to his table and share in his joy, his generosity, his friendship.

Who in their right mind would turn down such an imperial invitation? But some did. Some people "refused to come." Others "paid no attention." Another group even killed the king's messengers. 

After a second round of messengers, a B-list of guests accepts the king's invitation. If the privileged people refused his generosity, then he would extend it to "all the people his servants could find." So at long last the banquet hall was full. But one guest stood out like a sore thumb. He was a wedding crasher who dressed like a slob — to the wedding party of the king's son! In the royal palace! What was he thinking?! How could anyone be so cavalier? 

So, the first part of this parable describes the rejection of an invitation, and the last part an expulsion because of presumption. The people who refused the king's invitation didn't deserve to come. The guest who showed up inappropriately dressed didn't deserve to stay. Both scenarios end badly. To those who refused his invitation, the king "sent his army and burned their city." The one who dressed inappropriately was "tied hand and foot, and thrown outside into the darkness." 

But I’m sure you’ve guessed, this story isn’t about clothes and banquets; it’s a story about seriousness and faithfulness in responding to the grace of God. It is a story not about kings and slaves and prophets and Jews. It’s a story about us, and about God’s invitation to us, and about our response to God’s gracious invitations and promises. This is a story about taking God and God’s Kingdom seriously, about not presuming upon the grace of God to the extent that we assume that God must forgive and accept us no matter what we do. It’s a story about the paradox and mystery of God’s love.

The Gospels walk a very narrow path between two large ditches. On the one side is legalism, which sets out a series of things we must do to be saved. We fall into this ditch when we insist that in order to make God love and accept us we must hold a certain form of theology or follow a particular type of worship, or practice a strict code of morality. The other ditch is antinomianism, which is theological jargon for “anything goes,” an attitude that says that no matter what we do God, being God, has to love and accept us anyway. It’s the sense of entitlement some feel simply because they have received the invitation. 

But this parable seeks to point us down the middle path between the ditches: 

INVITED! You have been invited to the Wedding Banquet of the Son of God.

INVITED! Everyone without exception has received a free invitation to the Kingdom of Heaven. It is a banquet of excess and extravagance. 

INVITED! This invitation is extended to each of us not based on who we know, what we’ve done, what our status is, or what financial success we’ve achieved.

INVITED! No legalism, no prior requirements, no price of admission.

INVITED! This invitation is extended simply out of the love, generosity and graciousness of our God. BUT - it doesn't come cheap. It asks us for everything.

INVITED! Once the invitation has been accepted, it’s expected that ones' life will be changed in response to God’s gracious gift of love.

The challenge that today’s Gospel presents us with is twofold: to watch the mail and to watch the mirror: What’s our RSVP to our King’s invitation? Are we excited about this invitation or have we delayed in our response? Do we put it off - trying to live the “good life” while we can and perhaps get more serious about this “salvation stuff” when it’s more apparent that the “good life” has run its course and the end is in sight? Or have we rejected it – brooding over past hurts, things that haven’t gone right in our lives that we’ve blamed God for; or angry at the Church over its teachings, or the behavior of some of its clergy?

Today’s gospel also challenges us to look in the mirror. What’s our wardrobe like? Do we wear a garment of grace? The fabric of faith? The cloak of compassion? The robe of righteousness? The vestments of virtue? Are we decked out in love and mercy? Do we wear the ensemble of charity, service and justice? Or do we wear the soiled and tattered rags of anger, bitterness, hatred, revenge, self-righteousness, and indifference? 

Food! Banquets! Rejoicing together! It's the stuff of a royal wedding. It’s also the stuff of the Kingdom of Heaven. In the Kingdom of Heaven, the wedding banquet is greater than we can imagine. The mystery is deeper than we can understand. The invitations go out to more people than we realize. The invitations have been written in blood, sent and delivered. The table is set. The food has been prepared. The wedding singers have rehearsed. All that’s needed is the guests. 

The favor of a reply is requested.

TWENTY-FIFTH SUNDAY IN ORDINARY TIME (Cycle A)

IT JUST ISN'T FAIR!

Isaiah 55:6-9; Philippians 1:20c-24, 27a; Matthew 20:1-16a 

Arguably, the greatest composer in the history of the world is the classical music virtuoso, Mozart. It’s ironic that such a great and prolific composer of over six hundred compositions, including twenty-one stage and opera works, fifteen masses, over fifty symphonies, twenty-five piano concertos, twelve violin concertos, twenty-seven concert arias, seventeen piano sonatas, twenty-six string quartets, and many other works, is known to the world and throughout history by a single, two-syllable name, simply: MOZART. But interestingly, the 1984 Academy Award winning film based on his life derives its title, not from that simple two-syllable name that is synonymous with musical genius, but rather his middle name, AMADEUS, a name which translates “loved by God” or “favored by God.” The movie portrays Mozart as an eccentric, almost schizophrenic genius. Another composer, the devout Antonio Salieri, despised Mozart and considered him immature, flippant, arrogant and obnoxious. He became obsessed with why Mozart should be so favored by God as such a brilliant musician and composer when he didn't deserve it. After all, Salieri was the Lord's servant, faithful in obedience to God. Why shouldn't God bestow this gift on him instead of Mozart? He was a better person and he deserved it more. In a moment of despair, feeling that the Lord he has been so faithful to has forsaken him, he removes the crucifix from his wall and burns it. Salieri couldn’t live with God's love and grace. He wanted fairness and justice; he wanted from God what he thought he had worked for, earned and deserved.

How many times have you said, "It just isn’t fair!"

• The time that, despite all your expertise and experience, someone less qualified got the job you wanted and deserved.
• The times when you give all you’ve got to your son or daughter - your time, your energy, your attention, and they can’t lift a finger to help you or even say “thank you.”
• The times you loved so deeply and put so much into a relationship, and the one that you focused all that love on and was so devoted to, was unfaithful and preferred someone else’s love.
• The times you worked so hard for something to be a success, and someone else took the credit.
• The times you prayed, and prayed, and prayed, and God seemed to have turned a deaf ear to you, and your prayer wasn’t answered.

The Bible, too, is full of examples of seemingly unfair situations. Just in the New Testament we hear about:

• The humble poor widow who drops two small coins in the offering bowl, and Jesus praises her gift as more valuable than the wealthy who made a show of their substantial contribution to the Temple treasury.
• A shepherd who leaves the flock of ninety-nine behind to search for the one lost sheep.
• The disgraced runaway son who is forgiven by his father and his return home celebrated even after wasting all his inheritance. Yet nothing is given and no fuss made over his faithful, hardworking and devoted brother. 
• The thief on the cross alongside Jesus, who after a life of wickedness, makes a last minute confession and Jesus promises that he will be saved. 
• And today’s Gospel: a farmer pays the same wage to the laborers who have sweated twelve long hours in his vineyard as those who have only put in nine hours, as those who put in six hours, as those who put in three hours, as those who put in only one hour. It just doesn’t seem fair. 

My guess is that this is not on the list of your ten favorite bible stories. This story offends our sense of fairness. You and I have been taught all of our lives that hard work pays off, that good behavior brings rewards, an hour's work deserves an hour's pay, and that those who have worked the longest deserve special honor. We believe in merit, want to live by it, and reap its rewards in everything from our places of employment, to our households, to our religious lives. But Jesus comes along and tells this story which is not only bad business, faulty economic policy, and poor religious practice, but plainly unfair. On the other hand, whoever said that God was fair? At least in the ways we judge fairness.

In our way of reckoning, one plus one equals two – always and only two. But God's math is completely different: Two small coins are worth more than a heap of money, one sheep is of equal value as ninety-nine sheep, a son who runs away and blows all his cash, is loved as much as the son who has always done the right thing, and whether a person works one hour or twelve hours, it makes no difference to a landowner who treats everyone alike. For God’s ways are not our ways. And our thoughts are not God’s thoughts.

I think, maybe, in order to get a better handle on what God is trying to tell us in this parable, we've got to look at what it's not about. It's not about economics, or a just wage, or labor-management relationships or, and perhaps most of all, it's not about fairness. This parable is about generosity and mercy. Not about the fairness of God, but about the lavishness of God.

So, let me ask you this: Would you rather God judge you with fairness, or would you prefer that He judge you with mercy? The reason I ask is, if we want the latter, we've got to get beyond some traditional American ideas that run along the lines of: “You get what you deserve.” “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.” “You want something? Work for it.” “If you don't catch a break . . . tough.”

Instead of these attitudes, God tells us that He doesn't want us even trying to earn our way into heaven because none of us can do it. Not St. Anthony the Hermit who served God faithfully for 105 years. Not St. Agnes of Rome who was martyred at age 13. Not St. Therese of Lisieux, our patron saint, who spent eight years in prayer in a cloistered monastery. Not Mother Teresa, who spent fifty-five years on the streets serving the poorest of the poor. Not me. Not you.

This is why God is so great.! He doesn't want people exclaiming, "Look at all that I've done for God!” He wants us to boast, “Look at all God has done for me!” God's kingdom is His free gift to us. All we’re asked to do is love and trust. Love God and our neighbor and trust that He will give us all the graces that we will ever need toward our salvation, all the graces to die in His arms and in His love. But that’s God - generous and compassionate in His love for us.

Perhaps the best way to look at how this parable relates to us is this: All that is good in us is ours, not by right but as a free gift of God. To be sure, there is much that we have earned: our salary, our home, the cars that we drive. . . But, all this is possible only because so much has been given to us: eyes to see, ears to hear, hands to touch, a good mind, a heart to beat with love, life itself. All of these things and so much more are pure gifts, not rewards. Each of us is incredibly dear to our Lord. But, none of us are able to do anything to have either earned it or demanded it. This runs counter-cultural to what our American society reinforces, but isn’t it nice to know that our individual worth isn’t based on what we do and how much we earn and how much we’ve succeeded, but simply on the fact that we are children of a loving, compassionate, merciful, generous God?

So where are you in your faith journey? Are you like the workers who showed up at dawn, a lifelong person of faith? Are you like the workers that were hired at the ninth, or twelfth, or the three or five o’clock hour and the importance of your faith came to you just recently, perhaps through the example of a friend, a passage from the Bible you read, a homily you heard, a retreat experience, or a tragedy you’ve had to deal with? Or are you someone who has just been going through the motions, and you becoming a person of faith is still yet to come? Today’s gospel tells us that it doesn’t matter when you arrive in the vineyard, but that you arrive. And whether you’ve been a person of faith all your life, at the end of your life, or sometime in-between, you are welcomed, loved, and blessed by our Father in heaven. And yes, we can all understand the grumbling of the workers in today’s gospel because we’ve all been there. But let’s remember that God's ways are not our ways and God's thoughts are not our thoughts. And most of all, let’s remember to let God be God: generous . . . merciful . . . lavish.

The Exultation Of The Cross

For God So Loved The World

Numbers 21:4b-9; Philippians 2:6-11; John 3:13-17

The words we just heard in the gospel contain what is probably the most quoted line in all of Scripture. As a matter of fact, whenever you turn on a football game, you’re sure to see someone in the stands holding up a sign for all to see book chapter and verse: John: 3:16. And on this Sunday, that the Church celebrates the Feast of the Exultation of the Cross (and sports fans across our country celebrate the second Sunday of the football season!) John 3:16 is once again held up for all to see, to hear to take notice of, to never forget: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life.

But it’s funny, isn’t it, on a day that the Church focuses our attention on the cross that, other than a veiled reference to the Son of Man being “lifted up”, there is no specific reference to the cross in our gospel. No, it doesn't mention the cross. Not here. Not yet. Nothing about the cost. Nothing about the price of it all. Just the gift. Only that "God so loved the world, that he sent his only Son" so that we may have eternal life.

Being loved is always a surprise. The very fact that someone chooses to love us is exciting. It supports us in what we do. It gives us new insight into our value as a human. Even when we recognize our self worth, being loved is still a startling experience. "Are we worthy of such devotion?" we wonder. "Will it last?"

It is no wonder then, that being loved by God comes as a great surprise to us. "For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but have eternal life." That is amazing love! The ultimate example of love! It is the pattern and model of the kind of love that we, as Christians, are called to show in our lives. And it is offered to every one of us.

This amazing love of God is not something we have earned. It is not something we deserve. It is a love totally unmerited by us! It is grace, freely given. Yet love offered is not necessarily love accepted. The suitor can be spurned. We can say yes or no. And yes, free though it may be, it is not without cost. Loving always comes at a cost to self. And opening ourselves to the gift of God’s love means that we cannot avoid the experience of the cross. Opening ourselves to the gift of God’s love means opening ourselves to the possibility of suffering, as well as to the probability of great joy.

The cross, for a a Christian, is a sign of contradiction. What was once a sign of infamy and disgrace becomes a sign of vulnerability and love. But it was only through sacrifice, through the sufferings of Jesus, that this contradiction was made possible. And so, the ideal is set before us: that as followers of Jesus, as people with a personal relationship with the Lord who loves each of us, we have to be willing to sacrifice everything we have to fill the world with the Father's love. Our daily turmoil, our problems, our pains all take on an infinite value when we trust them to Jesus, when we unite our cross to his cross.

We need to look upon the cross today and recognize its power to save. We need to explore the depths of John 3:16 and not just simply flaunt it on a banner at a football stadium! The more firmly we embrace the cross, the more self-emptying we accomplish, and God is able to fill us to our depths with a love we never dreamed possible.

For the love so freely given to us and so underserved by us, calls us in turn, to come into relationship, not only with that loving God, but also to reach out in love to our neighbor. Not the neighbor I choose to love, mind you. Not the one whose culture and race match mine, but the one God calls me to serve. My neighbor is the addicted, the perverted, the selfish, the corrupted. My neighbor is the one of another faith. My neighbor is the one person in the parish that I just cannot stand. Our great God who gave us such amazing love, now calls us to extend that love to others. Friends. Enemies. Neighbors. Strangers. Old. Young. Men. Women. Gay. Straight. Democrat. Republican. Christian, Jewish, Muslim. American. Iraqi. No exceptions. “For God so loved the world” and as those who have been filled with that love, we are called to do the same.

And so, on this day on which we celebrate the Exultation of the Cross, we acknowledge that the realization that we are truly and freely and totally and undeservedly loved by God is difficult for us to grasp. Yet the signs of God's love are all around us. And the humanity of Christ is God's fullest sign of love for us. That Christ should live and die as one of us is truly an amazing sign. For we have a God who has reached out to embrace us with outstretched arms from a cross of wood. If we believe that, then the symbol of the cross should support, thrill, excite, and re-create us. For we are truly loved.

Twenty-Second Sunday of Ordinary Time (Cycle A)

Take Up Your Cross and Follow Me

Jeremiah 20-7-9; Romans 12:1-2; Matthew 16:21-27

It was in last week’s Gospel that Jesus asked His disciples, “Who do you say that I am?”, and it was Peter who said, “You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God.” By the grace and knowledge of God, Peter was right. Before him stood Jesus, the Son of God in human flesh. Imagine the thoughts and reactions of the disciples: their Teacher has gotten off to a humble start, what with this walking from town-to-town and teaching. Nevertheless, He’s the long-awaited Christ. Things are going to get better…aren’t they? He’s only going to grow in popularity and power, and gather the love of the many…right? It’s only a matter of time until He sits on a throne and begins to rule…isn’t it? And how wonderful for the disciples, to be in this on the ground floor and going along for the ride. All of this must appeal greatly to the disciples’ human minds and thoughts.

Today’s gospel is a continuation of last week’s, but the mood changes dramatically. Matthew tells us that “From that time Jesus began to show to His disciples that He must go to Jerusalem, and suffer many things from the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and be raised the third day.” Jesus is going to Jerusalem to suffer and be killed? How can that be? How could the Son of God allow Himself to die? Why would He? This doesn’t fit in with the disciples’ preconceived notions. 

Ever the spokesman, it’s Peter who pulls Jesus aside. “God forbid, Lord; no such thing shall ever happen to You!” We can’t read the mind of Peter or know his emotions, though we guess at a mixture of shock and incredulity, fear and concern for his Lord. But no matter how sincere his motives, Jesus still turns to him and says, “Get behind Me, Satan! You are an offense to me, for you are not thinking as God does, but as human beings do.” 

Peter’s head must have been spinning! One moment Jesus calls him the “rock,” the one on which he will build his Church, and the very next moment he calls him “Satan,” one acting against God’s plan. Why? Because Peter’s got the Lord’s life all planned out, and crucifixion isn’t part of the plan. He knows exactly who he wants Jesus to be. But that’s the problem: rather than listen to Jesus and submit to His Word, Peter wants to make Him into something different. He tempts Jesus to be someone different than who he is and to do something less than he came into the world to accomplish. Peter is tempting Jesus to abandon the cross and our salvation in exchange for the popular notion at the time for the messiah to be a great and glorious warrior-king; one who would defeat Israel’s enemies and usher in an age of peace and prosperity.

Peter’s thinking the things of men: the Lord can’t go to the cross and die, because that’s just not right. This goes along well with Satan’s agenda: the last thing the devil wants is for Jesus to redeem the world from sin. But no matter who Peter wants Jesus to be, Jesus is Jesus. He is the Christ, the Son of the living God.

And then, to make things worse, Jesus defines for Peter, for the Apostles, and for us, exactly what it will mean to follow him, to be his disciple. If he is the type of messiah that will be rejected, will suffer greatly, and be put to death, then it necessarily follows that we must deny ourselves, take up our crosses, and surrender our lives.

What Jesus is saying here is so radical and different to our usual way of thinking and acting. We are so used to ‘looking out for number one’ and the attitude that ‘my needs are more important than anyone else’s’ that Jesus’ words fly in the face of the self-seeking and self-importance that is so common in our world. 

Jesus commands us to deny ourselves – that’s even radical for Christians because we know just how difficult this is. These are difficult words - "forget yourself, your needs, your ideas, your plans, your need to impress, your fears, your need to be highly regarded in the sight of others, your whatever, and be my disciple". 

Now we could do what we usually do with anything that is too hard - ignore it, or water it down, somehow make it a bit easier to swallow. Or we could do just as it says, that is, to follow his example of letting go of being so "me" focussed, and put God and his kingdom first. 

This means that nothing, no matter how sacred, is permitted to come between ourselves and God. We place ourselves at his disposal. His plans are our plans, his will is our will, his ways are our ways. In our lives we are committed to only one thing – focused on being Christ-like in our relationships with others, dedicated to being truly his disciples, committed to following God's way and not those of the world, faithful to God's will that love would be our guide in every circumstance. Make no mistake about it, Jesus is saying to his followers, ‘Becoming a disciple is a radical step and being a disciple demands your commitment to forget yourself, as crazy as this might seem to everyone else’.

And then, Jesus goes on to give the formula for the ultimate loser. ‘Take up your cross’, not his cross, but your own cross. 

The words, "Take up your cross" can rightly be understood in the narrower fashion. This includes the sense of accepting the "cross" of poor health, grief, loneliness, job loss and so on in the same way that Jesus was able to endure the suffering and pain of the cross with the knowledge that he had a loving heavenly Father who could be counted on. 

However, this phrase "take up your cross" seems to have the broader and even more positive meaning of sharing with Christ in the work of showing love and compassion. Jesus has placed the burden on all of our shoulders: to care as he cared, forgive as he forgave, heal as he healed, comfort as he comforted, encourage as he encouraged, accept others as he accepted others, follow God's ways as he did, suffer as he suffered, and give sacrificially as he gave sacrificially. Each of us must take up our cross and follow him. 

It doesn’t sound all that attractive does it? Noble…maybe. Valiant…perhaps. But attractive? Not when society tells us to take up the way of the world and follow after ambition, and wealth, and pleasure. And we’re told that if we follow after these things, the stories of our lives will end with success, with happiness, and with a sense of accomplishment. 

But following Jesus? Where will carrying our cross lead us? How will our stories end? In suffering? Rejection? Failure? Death? 

But I know how this story ends (pointing to the cross): 

Suffering is conquered by joy. 

Death is conquered by life. 

Darkness is conquered by light. 

Crucifixion is conquered by resurrection. 

Our faith tells us that despite our suffering and sacrifices our stories will all end the same way, if we but pick up our own crosses and follow Him.

Twenty-First Sunday in Ordinary Time (Cycle A)

The Rock & Custodian of the Keys 

Isaiah 22:19-23; Romans 11:33-36; Matthew 16:13-20

Keys have power. They open doors, and beyond those doors are things that provide us with comfort, convenience, happiness and security. Without our house keys, we wouldn’t be able to get into our homes and see our families. Without our car keys, we wouldn’t get anywhere. Without the keys to our safe, we wouldn’t be able to get the important things we’ve kept hidden.

In literature, keys represent knowledge, mystery, initiation and curiosity. Mystery comes in the form of secrets hidden behind locked chests, or locked doors. Knowledge can be in the form of a secret learned, wisdom unlocked through discovery. Keys can also mean initiation into a new way of life. Teenagers are given car keys which represent the maturity and responsibility that go hand-in-hand with the rite of passage into adulthood.

More importantly, keys can be a symbol of power. When the mayor hands the keys to the city to a hero, it means that the hero has risen from a mere citizen to an influential and important part of the community. And keys to a prison represent an ultimate power over someone’s life, to lock them in or to lock them out of society.

In today's gospel passage, Jesus has asks the disciples who people say that he is - Jesus wants to know what people are saying about him. And they tell him, "Some say John the Baptist." Now, if you'll remember John the Baptist had recently been beheaded by Herod and people thought Jesus was John the Baptist come back to life - even Herod himself in Mark 6 was confused by Jesus' appearance and wondered if Jesus was John the Baptist raised from the dead. Some thought Jesus was Elijah or Jeremiah, prophets from the Old Testament, whom the Jews believed would appear before the Messiah came.

Then Jesus says to them, "But who do YOU say that I am?" And from the awkward silence that falls upon the Apostles, Peter blurts out, "You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God." Here for a moment Peter gets it right - Jesus is more than a teacher, more than a prophet, more than a great moral leader, more than an example for us to follow. Jesus was not only the longed for Messiah, he was the Son of the Living God - the very mind and heart of God in the flesh! And because of Simon Peter's climactic confession, Jesus blesses him, changes his name from Simon to Peter, giving him a new identity as "the Rock," and then tosses him the keys to God's kingdom. It was an amazing gesture. You don't give powerful keys to just anyone!

At first glance, Peter seems an unlikely choice on which to bestow such a monumental responsibility. He stumbled, he fell, he denied and denied and denied. He struggled to understand. And even in his understanding, there was often some slight hesitation — some mistake, some fear

I’ll walk on water, Lord . . . Oops, help, I’m drowning!

I’ll never let them take you Lord, give me that Sword . . . Jesus? Never heard of him.

Lord, I’ll stand by you forever . . . Well, Jesus is dead, I’m going fishing.

It’s easy – maybe even a little comforting — to see ourselves as Peter. To identify with him. To see in his mis-steps, an echo of our own. After all, if Peter could finally “get it”, so can we. If Peter could stumble through his own difficult journey of faith maybe we can make it, too. Peter’s image of endearing cluelessness may be at times reassuring — encouraging — even heartwarming but I wonder if that image ultimately serves us well, or truly reflects the Rock, the Custodian of the Keys, on which Jesus so clearly relied.Peter may have stumbled at times, but he was also bold, daring, honest, filled with zeal and completely dedicated to our Lord:

• He put down his nets without hesitation to follow a man he didn’t know into a future he couldn’t see.
• He left everything he loved, trusting that his father, his wife, his children, his business, would be safe, even if he was not.
• He set out into the deep, knowing that whatever he needed would be taught to him. And if those lessons came at a terrible price, well, then, he would simply have to pay.
• When the crowds deserted Jesus after he told them he was the Bread of Life, and he asked the Twelve if they, too, wanted to leave him, Peter’s answer came immediately: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of everlasting life.”
• It was Peter who preached to the masses in Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost and then defended the inclusion of Gentiles into the Church at the Council in Jerusalem.
• Imprisoned, chained, abused and eventually martyred for his faith,Simon Peter lived up to his nickname, becoming a Rock for all who came behind him.

Yes, it’s easy, maybe even a little comforting to see ourselves in Peter. In fact, it’s hard not to, since his challenges and trials are like a mirror held up to our own lives. We grow hot and cold in our enthusiasm for God; we are often confused about our faith, about what it means to be a follower of Jesus; we continually stumble on our journey of life. But equally, his triumphs should echo in our lives as well. We may stumble with Peter, but we should also join him in boldness and zeal. We may occasionally deny Christ, but we should also stand firm in the face of persecution. We may sometimes misunderstand, but we should be willing to cast our nets into the deep, and take our chances on faith, even when the future seems unclear.

There are TWO great confessions of faith in today’s Gospel. One is Peter’s faith is Jesus: “You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God.” The other is Jesus’ faith in Peter: “You are Rock and on this Rock I will build my church.” We are all here today because we, like Peter, profess our faith that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the Living God. But also like Peter, Jesus professes his faith in us and tosses us our own set of keys. A different set than those he gave to Peter, but nonetheless, important ones: Keys that can unlock the mysteries of faith to our children, to nonbelievers, to those of questioning faith. Keys to unlock hearts, to love the unloved and the unlovable. Keys that unleash care and compassion on those who are in need. And keys that unlock doors of prejudice and exclusion to the outcasts and those who live on the margins of our lives and in our community.

Peter: the Apostle, the first pope, the martyr, the Rock, the Custodian of the Keys. His life shouldn’t confirm us in our weakness, but rather inspire us to seek greatness. If we are listening, Peter’s story can teach us to be loyal, to be brave, to be filled with the power of faith and hope.

Lord, grant us more Peters - more men and women who are willing to wear their heart on their sleeves, who are willing to make mistakes for the sake of love of Christ, who are willing to give up being safe, for the sake of following their Lord, people who follow their Lord with all their heart, and strength, and mind.