NOTHING IS LACKING

WHERE EVERYTHING IS GIVEN

A Homily for the Vigil of Sister Theresa Chiappa

August 23, 2021

Wisdom 3: 1-7, 9; Psalm 63; 2 Timothy 4: 1-8; Mark 10: 17-21

“Nothing is lacking where everything is given.”

I somehow stumbled upon that quote last week. It was written by the great 12th Century abbot, writer, reformer and mystic, St. Bernard of Clairvaux. And although not intended by him to be so, I think it’s probably the best one sentence definition of what it means to be a saint. I also think that it’s the statement that best summarizes the life of Sister Theresa.

“Nothing is lacking where everything is given.”

We can look at this quote in two ways and both apply to Theresa. First, “Nothing is lacking where everything is given” because God multiplies his blessings and gives us everything that is needed to live a life of holiness, to live a life of service, to live a life formed by the gospels, to live a Christ-centered life, to live a life of true happiness when we give everything over to Him – when we freely empty ourselves completely of all that the world tries to convince us is important, the things that it promises will bring success and happiness but ultimately don’t – and when we, instead, allow ourselves to become an empty vessel to be filled by and with Christ. Second, because of all of that, everything has now been given to Theresa – eternal life, unspeakably joy, immeasurable peace, total and complete healing from the pain that she endured so triumphantly in this life.

“Nothing is lacking where everything is given.”

I had a difficult time choosing the readings for this vigil service, especially the gospel because when your life so mirrors the gospels, as Theresa’s did, all of them seem to apply to her and speak of her faith.

So, should I have chosen Jesus’ invitation to the Apostles to “Come follow me” for, at an early age, Theresa heard and accepted his invitation?

Should I have chosen the passage where Jesus said, “If anyone comes to me without hating his father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple,” in recognition of the sacrifice of family she made when choosing her vocation as a sister? Or perhaps, “Whoever does not carry his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple,” acknowledging the heavy cross of pain that Theresa bore.

Or how about the Great Commandment, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind . . . and love your neighbor as you love yourself.” Or Jesus’ words to the Canaanite woman, “O woman, great is your faith.” Or the gospel of the talents where the landowner praises his industrious servant, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.”

Maybe proclaiming the Beatitudes would have been appropriate for tonight’s service because Sister Theresa modeled all of them: poor in spirit – God was the only riches she ever desired; mourning – her voice was raised to weep with those who wept, and rejoice with those that rejoiced; meek – she was never weak but ever strong in patience and tolerance; hungering and thirsting for righteousness - she, like Mary, became the handmaid of the Lord and her constant “yes” to God made her holy . . . a living saint . . . and now a saint in glory; merciful – what was forgiven was also forgotten; pure of heart – she was constantly aware that she was in the holy presence of God and saw Him in everything and everyone; a peacemaker – she diffused situations of anger and hurt, and brought others together in reconciliation; and persecuted for the sake of righteousness – she united her own pain and suffering with the cross of Christ and became a suffering soul for the good of others and the salvation of the world.

The gospel that I did choose for this evening might seem to be an odd choice and is one, in all honesty, that is not usually proclaimed at a wake service or funeral mass – the story of the rich young man who came to Jesus, in sincerity, to ask what was necessary for him to have eternal life. “Follow the commandments,” Jesus tells him. “But more than that, sell everything you have and come follow me.” We know from hearing that passage over and over again, that he went away downcast, perhaps even brokenhearted, for he savored the riches of this world and couldn’t part with them. Theresa could and did.

Tomorrow, in the preface for the funeral mass, we will hear, “Lord, for your faithful people, life is changed, not ended.” Sister Theresa truly believed that - and so do we. And in spite of the tears of the past several days and the tears still to come as we miss our beloved Theresa, we rejoice. We rejoice with her and for her, for we know in our hearts, and through our faith, that her life has not ended, but merely changed. That her life is now like the gold tested by fire that we heard about in our First Reading from the Book of Wisdom. Her life, emptied of the desire for fortune or fame, for wealth and success, her only wish was to know, love and serve our Lord. Like St. Paul, in our Second Reading from the Second Letter to Timothy, she competed well; she fought the good fight, she finished the race, and now the crown of righteousness awaits her.

“Nothing is lacking where everything is given.”

Some of you might be familiar with a poem entitled, “The Beautiful Hands of a Priest.” But did you ever notice Sister Theresa’s hands?

Hers were the hands that offered her whole life to Jesus on her Profession Day.

Hers were the hands that, joined with the hands of other Sisters, created a bond of love and support in community so strong that all the Church now seeks to emulate it.

Hers were the hands that Christ chose to use to bless us and our world for the past eighty-three years.

Hers were the hands, fingerprints outlined in chalk dust, that formed and taught our little children and gave them their formal knowledge of their precious faith.

Hers were the hands that gathered our teenagers and taught them to believe in themselves - sometimes with discipline, sometimes with humor, sometimes holding them as they poured out their frustrations.

Hers were the hands that lifted up the depressed and deprived and fed the hungry . . . food for their bodies and food for their souls.

Hers were the hands that comforted the elderly and gave hope to the lonely.

Hers were the hands that healed the sick and restored the abused to sanity and to the belief in the goodness of others again.

Hers were the hands that squeezed the hands of children in the last moments of their lives and placed their hands into the hand of God.

Hers were the hands pumped up to cheer our success (and the occasional victory of the Mets); hands that held tightly to ours to give us strength; hands that dried our tears of sadness and grief.

Hers were the hands folded for hours in prayer, hands where countless beads slipped through her fingers, that our burdens might be lifted.

Hers were the hands that she placed into the nail-scarred hands of Jesus to unite the pain that wretched her body to His pain for the salvation of the world.

And today, her hands touch the face of the God she loved so much, the God she served so well, the God she gave her whole life to.

Today our hands dry the tears from our eyes . . . but tomorrow will reach out and bless the world with compassion and love, healing and mercy . . . Because her hands touched our hands.

Theresa, "May the angels lead you into paradise; may the martyrs receive you at your arrival and lead you to the holy city Jerusalem. May choirs of angels receive you and with Lazarus, once poor, may you have eternal rest."

The Nineteenth Sunday of Ordinary Time (Year B)

THE BREAD OF LIFE COME DOWN FROM HEAVEN

The Nineteenth Sunday of Ordinary Time (Year B)

1 Kings 19: 4-8; Ephesians 4: 30-5:2; John 6: 41-51

Do you ever watch soap operas? My mom did. And although she would occasionally tune in to watch such soaps as “Days of Our Lives” and “The Guiding Light,” there was one that was her favorite that she would never miss – “As the World Turns.” As you know, soap operas air five days a week so, at least back then, if an actor was ill or off shooting a movie, and the storyline needed to go on without them, another actor would be hired to temporarily replace them. The announcer for “As the World Turns” was named Dan Region, and I remember his smooth, calm voice informing the viewers that “Today the role of Lisa Miller, Hughes, Eldridge, Shea, Colman, McColl, Mitchell, Chedwyn, Grimaldi” (that’s how many times she was married!) “usually portrayed by Eileen Fulton, will be played by Betty von Furstenberg.”

I thought of “As the World Turns” this week as I was preparing my homily. And I imagined the silky voice of Dan Region emanating from the speakers here in church announcing, “The role of the evangelist, usually performed this year by Mark will today be played by John.” Yes, Mark has been given a five-week vacation by the liturgists of the Church, and in his place, the Apostle John has been brought in to share with us a key portion of his Gospel.

Because John isn’t afforded a full year dedicated to the proclamation of his Gospel the way Matthew, Mark and Luke are, it might lead some to believe that John’s Gospel isn’t as important as the other three. That couldn’t be further from the truth. And, rather than being relegated to the role of a pinch hitter, John’s Gospel is more like a bottle of fine wine that we sip in moderation and savor over the course of three years.

In fact, so important is his Gospel that, since he is writing much later than the other Evangelists, John provides us with events, miracles, teachings and dialogue not included in the other Gospels. And to that, he is able to provide one more crucial element: a theological perspective gleaned over decades of prayerful reflection on his personal relationship with Jesus and his eyewitness of the three years of Jesus’ public ministry.

For example, it might surprise you to know that, in recalling the events of the Last Supper, John doesn’t include an account of the institution of the Eucharist. Instead, John addresses the Eucharist in a different way. He does it in Chapter 6 of his Gospel, the passage that we’ve been listening to the past three weeks – the “Bread of Life Discourse.” John doesn’t recall the event of the institution of the Eucharist at the Last Supper. He doesn’t have to. That’s already been covered by the other three Evangelists. Instead, John chooses to recall Jesus’ words in the synagogue at Capernaum which undeniably and emphatically, clearly, strongly, bluntly and, yes perhaps disturbingly, reveal to the crowds, and to us, the undeniable truth about his divinity and his divine presence in the Eucharist.

Two weeks ago, we heard how the people who had eaten of the loaves and fish that Jesus multiplied were so astounded by that miracle that they were convinced he was the Prophet, the promised Messiah. And realizing that they would carry him off and declare him their king, Jesus slipped off secretly to the opposite side of the Sea of Galilee.

Last week, undaunted, the people find him in Capernaum and Jesus chides them for being more concerned about the food which is a temporary fix for the hunger in their bellies than they are with the bread he offers – the bread of eternal life.

Which brings us to today’s Gospel. In Jesus’ time, bread was a staple, something that people just could not do without, literally could not live without. But to people of the Jewish faith, bread meant even more - bread was laden with symbolic and theological meaning that made it, not just vital for physical needs, but an intricate part of their faith identity. The crowds asked Jesus for a sign, mentioning that their ancestors had been given manna - bread from heaven - when they were wandering in the wilderness. But Jesus, declares that HE is the bread from heaven. He will not show them signs - he is the sign. The crowds become upset. They know Jesus isn’t from heaven – after all, they know his parents; they know where he is from. To compare himself to something that is so important in their faith histories is insulting and heretical. "Is not this Jesus, the son of Joseph," they ask? "How can he now say, 'I have come down from heaven'?" The appearances confound them. How can it be? He is familiar. How is it possible? He is commonplace. How can he be from heaven? He is flesh and blood like us.

"Don't murmur about my answers," he chastises them. "I am the bread of life. Your ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread that comes down from heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die. I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh." His language is precise. What he says is not cushioned in a parable or metaphor whose meaning might be subject to interpretation. He is the bread of life, and those who take this gift of grace receive that gift of bread into themselves and receive the gift of life itself. A mighty claim! God himself will be our food, our ultimate provision. God wants to inhabit our flesh. God wants to make us tabernacles.

SPOILER ALERT!!! In part four of the Bread of Life Discourse, Jesus pushes the envelope even further. He tells the people, in words which sound cannibalistic, that unless they eat his flesh and drink his blood, they cannot have life within them. But that’s the cleaned up English translation we use. The more literal version from the original Greek is, “Unless you gnaw on my flesh and guzzle my blood, you cannot have life within you.” How offensive to the ears of the Jews whose dietary laws forbade them to eat the flesh of certain animals and to drink of its blood.

The discourse will conclude with the people grumbling, “This saying is hard; who can accept it?” And they walk away. The very people who the day before wanted to carry Jesus off and crown him king, now desert him. And Jesus lets them. He doesn’t call them back. He doesn’t try to better explain. He doesn’t excuse his words by telling the people that they misunderstood and that his words were merely symbolic, only a metaphor. No, he lets them walk. Because there has been no misunderstanding. What he said was what he meant to say. What he said is the truth. He IS the bread from heaven who must be consumed to have eternal life. He then turns to the Apostles and asks, “Do you also want to leave?” Simon Peter answered him, “Master, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and are convinced that you are the Holy One of God.”

For two thousand years there are those who have echoed the words of the crowd, “This saying is hard; who can accept it?” And have walked away. Many Christian groups since the time of the Protestant Reformation see in Communion, only bread and wine – only a sign, a symbol, only a representation, only blessed bread. What’s more, sadly, polls indicate that 70% of those who, like us, call themselves Catholic, believe that the Eucharist is only a symbol of Christ’s body and blood.

And then, there is us, who take Jesus at his word. That he IS the Bread of Life and that his flesh and his blood give us eternal life. That when we stand before the priest, the deacon or a Eucharistic Minister we know that what we receive is more than mere bread and wine. What we receive and take into ourselves is the fullness of Christ – his body, his blood, his soul, his divinity.

And so today, when Fr. Vidal, or I, or one of our Eucharistic Ministers holds the host before your eyes saying, “the Body of Christ,” let your “Amen” resound the words of Peter, “Yes Lord, truly, surely, certainly, I have come to believe and am convinced that you are the Holy One of God.”