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!"