The First Sunday of Advent (Cycle A)

CHILD OF HOPE

Isaiah 2:1-5; Romans 13: 11-14; Matthew 24: 37-44 

The vestments are violet, the wreath has been blessed and the first candle lit. We’ve sung “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” and we’ve just heard familiar themes in our Scripture readings. Time has changed, a new liturgical year has begun, and, once again, we celebrate the season of Advent. We're beginning to prepare for Christmas. And outside the walls of this church, the world has been splashed in red and green, silver and gold. Santa has left the North Pole and came to town as the finale of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Holiday music and movies stream non-stop, and shoppers and stoves work overtime preparing delights for both the young and the young at heart. Yes, time has changed, a new season is upon us. We’re beginning to prepare for Christmas. 

There’s something about this time of year that puts us in a different frame of mind, a different kind of disposition. After the leaves have all fallen and the world has become more desolate and cold; after life has taken on a dreary cast and we, too, feel somewhat dreary after struggling through another year - suddenly there’s this season that's full of hope for a new beginning, for new life - a promise that life can be different, that there are new possibilities for life and for living. Not like the renewal of spring, when that which seems dead suddenly springs back to life - but a whole new world that comes into being, a magical world full of flying reindeer, elves, snowmen and Santa Claus. A world full of new possibilities, a place of great magic, a place where it seems anything could happen. We hear it in the carols, the poems, traditions and stories that surround the season.

And we see the babe of Bethlehem in that same light too - as the One who is our hope for this world and the next . . . the one who offers us new life, not in a place of magic and fantasy, but in the reality of his kingdom. Isn't that the stuff of which Christmas is really made? And Advent, this season we celebrate now, is its sign-post, pointing the way to Christmas, and to hope, to this new kingdom, this new world of possibility, this peaceable kingdom. This is a time of preparation and anticipation. Shopping, candy ribbons and Advent calendars, the special services and the lighting of the Advent wreath - all help us to prepare, all point us toward the hope of the Christmas child.

The readings today alert us to something great about to begin. The language is emphatic. Night is ending. Dawn is at hand. “Stay awake.” Put on “the armor of light.” And “let us go rejoicing to the house of the Lord.” There’s a sense of anticipation – the kind we celebrate at every Eucharist, when we pray that we “wait in joyful hope for the coming of our savior, Jesus Christ.” Advent is that waiting, that moment of joyful hope, lived out across four weeks.

We symbolize that, and ritualize it, with the Advent wreath. We sing it in the haunting refrain, “O come, O come, Emanuel, and ransom captive Israel…” We are captives awaiting freedom, prisoners held in dungeons of despair. But light is coming. Freedom is coming. Jesus is coming. But until he comes, we wait, and watch, and wonder, and pray.

We shouldn’t rush it. Advent is the time for taking stock, and making plans – a season of great expectations. We are like parents today, who are expecting a new baby. We keep a light touch on this season's belly, feeling every movement of the hope about to be born to us. All the preparations are like the preparations of a parent awaiting their new child - the decorating, the parties, the checking off of the days on the calendar - so that we can feel the infant as it kicks and squirms, anticipating the day of its arrival among us.

God has sent us a Child of Hope. He has sent him to be our "Emmanuel," "God with us." It’s a wonderful and miraculous thing God has done. We need to be sure the incidentals don't crowd him out. The shopping, the baking, the carols and decorating - all of those things can be great ways of celebrating the miracle - but they are just the window-dressing on the season. If they become the focus, we will get to the end of the season, and wonder what happened - what happened to our hope? What happened to our Christmas child?

Jesus is coming soon. Our child of hope. The signs of his coming are already all around us. Not in the tinsel and glitter and merrymaking. Not in the lovely carols or beautifully-decorated houses. Not in any of these things at all. But in the very things that, Jesus says, seem to deny his coming and the hope of the season.

It will be as in the days of Noah, Jesus says. When things are "business as usual." Where some are partying and having a good time in the midst of those who are poor, hungry, desperate. When you see that happen, then you know the kingdom is near. When you see cruelty, disruption, discord, hatred and strife - then you know that Christmas is just around the corner. When people are hurting, lonely - when life seems out of control, when hope is denied - then you can be sure it is time for Christmas to appear. It's time for the kingdom to come. It's time for the promise to be given birth.

Because it is precisely at these times when the Child of Hope is most needed. In times and in places where hope is longed for, where his healing touch is most needed, where new possibilities need to be opened up for us. It's then that our hearts are open to receive him. It's then that we are ready to entertain new possibilities. It is then that we know that faith is the only way, and God is the only one who can change things. It is then that hope is born, and Christmas comes at last; just as it did two thousand years ago, when the world seemed dark and hopeless.

The promise and hope of Christmas comes when it is most needed. That’s why every moment of life - even when we feel furthest from Jesus - is a moment of hope and possibility - any moment he may come to us, if we are open, like Mary, and Joseph, and the shepherds, to receiving him.

The kingdom is waiting to break into your world this morning. The signs of it are everywhere. Be prepared. Be ready. Not just when the carols are playing. Not just when you feel Christmasy. But also, and especially, when the world seems dark to you and you feel far from your Father's home.

Jesus is coming soon - our Child of Hope. He will come on clouds of angels, to take us home. But he is already present now as well, and his kingdom is near to you. He wants to be born into this tired old world through the entry-way of your heart. Be waiting, be watchful, be ready for his arrival. This is not just another Sunday, another Season, and another day. Are you ready to encounter Jesus? Are you ready for the unexpected to change your life, alter your plans, and disrupt your direction? Let’s look forward to a Merry Christmas. But let’s also use this opportunity, as well, and prepare to receive him this season of Advent. Be still. Be aware. Be ready.

Thanksgiving

Lord, how quickly the pages of the calendar have turned and another Thanksgiving Day is upon us. And so, as I pause and reflect, a mind full of memories rush to find expression as a heart full of gratitude wells up within me:

Thank you, Lord, for the splendor of your creation, for the beauty of the world around me . . . for green pastures and still waters and for tall trees that bow their heads prayerfully in the wind. I thank you for the colors with which you paint the seasons and for the passing of those seasons that has brought us to this day . . . for the snow glistened winter and the dogwood spring, for the watermelon summer and the russet and gold autumn.

Thank you, Lord, for this great land, for its bounty and its liberty, for the privilege of democracy and the gift of peace. Thank you for the goodness of our people and for the spirit of justice that fills this nation. I thank you today for the brave people of our land who are more interested in being right than in being popular, and for those who are willing to support a good cause publicly even though they know that cause may not succeed.

I offer you my thanks today for the gift of family . . . for all those who will gather around my Thanksgiving table, and for those who break bread at other tables this year. I thank you too for those who share with you in the heavenly banquet, those whom you have called home and into your embrace. Thank you for relieving their pain and suffering and thank you for all the memories that keep them alive in my mind and in my heart. 

I’m grateful, Lord, for friends who continue to be friends even after they have known me well . . . for those whose nods, winks, and smiles celebrated my joys and triumphs, and whose broad shoulders bore my burdens and lifted me with their compassion. Thank you for all those who have come into my life this year . . . for older people who have shared with me the wisdom of their yesterdays, and for the young whose enthusiasm and zest for life give me hope for tomorrow.

I’m thankful for the talents of others and for those who share them so generously with us, and for advances in technology and medicine that promise us a better day in the future. And I thank you for work which challenges the talents with which I have been blessed, and for weekends and holidays and holy days which refresh my spirit. For days of pomp and pageantry and parade, and for moments of quiet solitude, I thank you.

I give thanks to you today for the wonder of life, the mystery of love, and the gift of faith . . . for the sound of music that fills my soul, for the sound of laughter that lifts my spirit, and for the sound of crying that moves my heart with compassion.

I thank you for cloudy days which help me appreciate the sunshine; for tears which help me appreciate laughter; for pain which helps me appreciate health; for weakness through which I’ve discovered my strength; for sorrow, hurt, and loss through which I have discovered the depth of my own heart; and for failure which has led me to discover my dependence on you. 

I thank you for the Church, for its teaching which informs me, and for its saints that inspire me . . . for the priests, deacons, brothers and sisters who proclaim the gospel, not merely by word but through their tireless dedication to you and your people, and for my fellow parishioners who fold their hands in prayer on Sunday morning and who extend their hands in service and generosity throughout the week. 

But most of all Lord, I thank you for you! I thank you for simply being God and for loving me with a Father’s love . . . for sending your Son to us - for the example of his life and for the redemption that his death and resurrection has won . . . and for the gift of your Spirit, who guides me along the path which I pray someday will lead me home to you. 

For all of this Lord, I offer my thanks to you on this Thanksgiving Day.

Thirty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time (Cycle C)

AND THE WALLS CAME TUMBLING DOWN

Wisdom 11:22-12:2; 2 Thessalonians 1:11-2:2; Luke 19:1-10 

Joshua fought the battle of Jericho,

Jericho, Jericho,

Joshua fought the battle of Jericho,

And the walls came tumbling down!

Do you remember that song? Many of you, like me, probably learned it as a child attending Sunday School or Vacation Bible Camp. It relates musically in simple fashion the story of Joshua, the one God chose, after the death of Moses, to be the leader of the Israelite people. Under Yahweh’s guidance, Joshua and the Israelites set out to conquer the land of Canaan. But the city of Jericho stood as an obstacle between the people of Israel and them claiming all that God had promised them. Before they could go deeper into the land of Canaan, Jericho had to first fall. The ancient city of Jericho was a great walled city. History tells us that it was surrounded by two massive stone walls. The outer wall was six feet thick and twenty feet high. The inner wall was twelve feet thick and thirty feet high. There was a fifteen foot guarded walkway between these two walls. From a military standpoint, it was virtually impenetrable. A messenger from God appeared to Joshua and gave him special (and very unusual) instructions on how to conquer Jericho. The priests were to carry the Ark of the Covenant with them as they marched around the city walls of Jericho. Soldiers marched in front of the priests and behind them. The priests blew trumpets and marched around the city once each day for six days. On the seventh day they marched around the city seven times. After the seventh time, when the priests blew the trumpets, the people shouted . . . 

And the walls came tumbling down.

About fourteen hundred years later, another man named Joshua (we know him better by the Greek translation of his name: Jesus) entered the city of Jericho and he too made “the walls come tumbling down.” Not walls of stone and mortar that surround a city named Jericho, but walls of injustice and greed that surrounded the heart of a man named Zacchaeus. 

Zacchaeus was a Roman tax collector in the region of Jericho. He had two distinguishing characteristics that are pointed out in Luke’s gospel. He was short . . . and he was rich! Since he was the “chief” tax collector, and since Jericho could have been the richest city in Judea, he was probably very rich. The other thing we also know was that he was hated.

The Romans had devised a clever system for collecting taxes from regions they had conquered and occupied. Instead of the Romans themselves acting as tax collectors, they sold franchises to “businessmen” from the conquered territory. These men then had the freedom to extort as much as they could from their fellow countrymen. As a result, many became rich, and all were viewed as traitors. 

So here comes Jesus through Jericho. And Zacchaeus wants desperately to see him. Maybe he just wanted to catch a glimpse of the one who people said made the blind see, the deaf hear, lepers clean and the lame walk. Or perhaps word had spread that this was a Rabbi who was a friend to “tax collectors and sinners.” Unable to see over the crowd, Zacchaeus climbed a tree to get a look. He could not have imagined that Jesus would stop under the tree, call him by name, and invite himself over for dinner . . . 

And the walls came tumbling down.

We’re not told what Jesus and Zacchaeus talked about over the meal, but we see a changed Zacchaeus. The walls that Zacchaeus had built around his heart, walls of ego, of arrogance, of affluence, of greed, of power, of status came tumbling down, not with the blare of trumpets and the shouts of an army, but simply by the warmth and gentleness of a single voice, “Today, salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham.” And amidst the ruins of those walls, Zacchaeus stands up and makes a monumental commitment: “Lord, here and now I give half my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anyone, I will repay them four times the amount.” It was the response of a man whose walls were smashed and whose heart was set free. A man whose life had been radically impacted by Jesus. 

Luke doesn’t tell us what happened to Zacchaeus after Jesus left, but second and third century sources say his name was changed to Matthias, and he was picked in the Upper Room to replace Judas. Another early source goes on to say he became the first leader of the church in the Roman capital of Judea, Caesarea by the Sea.

Walls. Walls that surround a city. Walls that surround the human heart. Our Gospel today challenges us to look at ourselves and recognize the walls in our own lives. But here’s the thing about walls: Some walls won’t let you in and some walls won’t let you out. When we build walls around us we deceive ourselves into thinking that we’re protected. But nothing could be further from the truth. When we surround ourselves with walls we not only block out everything outside of us, but we trap everything inside us too. What type of wall do you have? Do you have a wall like Jericho that makes you impregnable? A wall that leaves your heart untouched by the words and example of Jesus? Unpenetrated by the needs of others? Hardened to those who seek your forgiveness? Rigid to those who need your love? Or is your wall like that which surrounded Zacchaeus? A wall that lock you in schedules and time commitments that keep you from prayer and a deeper relationship with God? Is it a wall that holds you prisoner – a prisoner to the mores and attitudes of mainstream society rather than Gospel values? Is it a wall that holds you hostage by the all-consuming need for success, status, wealth and the material comforts of life? Or is it a wall that inhibits you emotionally and renders you incapable of expressing your feelings for fear it will make you vulnerable. There’s only one power strong enough to topple those walls. It’s the same power that created the universe, parted the Red Sea, and made the walls of Jericho come tumbling down. The power of God. 

Today, Jesus says to us as he did to Zacchaeus, “Today I must stay at your house.” Jesus wants to come home with you. He doesn’t want it to be just a once a week Sunday encounter. He wants to stay with you. He wants to be in on every conversation you have, every decision you make, every relationship you have. He desires to knock down any walls that need to be demolished in your life by the power of his love and mercy. But if you notice in today’s Gospel, Jesus didn’t break into Zacchaeus’ house. And he won’t break into yours as well. It’s always God standing at the doorway, seeking but never forcing entry. It’s God always wishing to come in, but never crossing a threshold uninvited. It’s always up to us to welcome God in as he waits patiently for us. So what do you say? Maybe it’s time for us to be like Zacchaeus and climb a tree, go out on a limb, and receive him with joy.

Jesus fought the battle for Zacchaeus’ heart

It was just the start, Zacchaeus’s heart.

Jesus fights the battle for your very heart.

Let the walls come tumbling down.

The Twenty-seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time (Cycle C)

A LITTLE CHURCH

Habakkuk 1:2-3, 2:2-4; 2 Timothy 1:6-8, 13-14; Luke 17: 5-10 

i am a little church (no great cathedral)

far from the splendour and squalor of hurrying cities

– i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest

i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;

my prayers are prayers of the earth’s own clumsily striving

(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children

whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around them surges a miracle of unceasing

birth and glory in death and resurrection:

over my sleeping self float flaming symbols

of hope, and I wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church (far from the frantic

world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature

– i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;

i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring, i lift my diminutive spire to

merciful Him Whose only now is forever:

standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence

(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)

This past week, as I struggled to make sense of mustard seeds and mulberry trees, I thought of that poem by E.E. Cummings. It’s always been a favorite of mine. I’m not sure what exactly E.E. Cummings intended to convey through it, but I know the meaning it has for me. You see, for me, the poem speaks of how I view who I am and the faith I possess. 

I’m not a great Cathedral. I’m no Padre Pio, Mother Teresa or Pope Francis. I’m not a doer of great deeds, a performer of miracles. I don’t bear stigmata. I’ve never moved mountains or uprooted a mulberry tree on command. If Jesus was physically present in our midst this morning, I doubt very much that he would praise me as he did the Canaanite Woman (“Oh great is your faith!”), nor point to me as an example for others, as he did the Roman Centurion (“In no one in Israel have I seen such faith!”). But hopefully, he would say . . . “Bruce, you did that best that you could with what I gave you. Well done, my good and faithful servant!” I am not a great cathedral.

But I am a small church. Perhaps the light of faith doesn’t radiate from me like a magnificent stained glass window, but I hope that some light does shine through the small windows of my soul . . . windows that often could use a good cleaning with Windex. And whereas I haven’t lived out my faith in heroic ways and haven’t demonstrated my faith through miraculous acts, and haven’t experienced dramatic supernatural encounters with God . . . I do remind myself constantly throughout the day that I am in the holy presence of God. I speak to God regularly in prayer and struggle to hear his whispers back to me. I constantly seek to discern his will, to travel the twists and turns of the road along which he leads me. I try to let go and let God and to place my life in his hands. And I strive, as best as I can, to live in his way, the way of truth that has been revealed through his Word and in the teaching of the Church. I am a little church. I am not a great cathedral. And you know what? I don’t have to be. God doesn’t expect me to be. And he doesn’t have that expectation of you either. 

None of us is called to be a Pope Francis or a Mother Theresa. None of us! If we think that’s what God requires of us, we will throw up our hands in despair. You aren’t called to be Pope Francis or Mother Theresa – you are called to be you – to be the unique person God created when he made you. Nothing more. And nothing less. You are called to live in a unique relationship with God, composed of a string of moments of faithfulness – of his faithfulness to you, and yours in response. If you keep holding out for "great faith," you’ll never have it. Great faith is composed only of small moments of faithfulness, just as the greatest diamond is composed only of small atoms of carbon.

Many want "great faith," so that they can be spiritual giants. But that’s not what we need – it’s certainly not what I need. Do you know what I need? I need a faith that gets me up in the morning, believing that God has some promise in store for me today. I need a faith that enables me to believe that when I walk into my office or classroom, that his Spirit, working through this broken-down over-weight deacon, can make a positive difference in someone’s life. I need a faith that enables me to believe that when I minister to someone who is hurting, that God is present with his healing power. I need a faith that enables me to stand at this pulpit on Sunday mornings and say, "thus says the Lord." It's not a faith to brag about, it’s probably not the kind of faith that’s going to get me canonized, but it is what’s required of me.

That’s what you need too. A mother needs enough faith to place her child on the bus for school, trusting that greater hands hold her child for that day. That’s all the faith she needs, and nothing more - nothing worth bragging about, just enough for her to live out her responsibilities as a mom. A child needs enough faith to believe that God holds them in his loving hand – not their whole future, not for eternity (even though he does) – but just for today – that today is his. That’s enough. A person who is hurting or ill needs enough faith to believe that, in both health and illness, God is caring for them, ministering to them, holding them, loving them. That’s all the faith they need – just faith for one moment, one minute, one hour – faith to get through whatever may be happening in their life. That’s all that they need. It’s all any of us need. It’s not the kind of faith that will earn us a chapter in Butler’s Lives of the Saints. But it is enough to do what needs to be done. A life of faith is composed of small acts of faithfulness.

I think the Apostles in today’s Gospel got it wrong. I think they asked for the wrong thing. Rather than, “Increase our faith,” maybe instead their request should have been, “Lord, STRENGTHEN our faith.” And that should be our desire as well. But just the desire for a strengthen faith isn’t enough. Faith is both a gift and a response. The gift comes from God. The response must come from us. And so too must the strengthening. Just as all the good intentions in the world aren’t going to give us a fit body, bolstering our faith doesn’t come from mere passive religious sentiment. It takes work. And the same three principles that we use to develop and maintain a fit body, also apply to a fit faith: We need to take into ourselves that which is nutritious, take precaution from illness, and exercise. And so we need a steady diet of truth and goodness and love and mercy. We need to take into ourselves God’s Word to instruct and inspire us, and the Eucharist to nourish our souls. We need to take precaution from illness – spiritual illness – sin. We need to watch what we say, watch what we do, watch where our minds wander. We need to stay away from the unhealthy people, unhealthy moral lifestyles, and unhealthy places, both physical and virtual, that put us in harm’s way and lead us to the near occasion of sin. And we need to exercise, to practice the faith that we do have in word and in deed because practice does make perfect. 

I am a little church, no great cathedral. And just maybe, so are you. And although our faith may not rise toward heaven like a great steeple for others to take notice of and admire, it is great enough for us to see the invisible, to believe the incredible, and to receive the impossible.

The Twenty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time (Cycle C)

LET GO AND LET GOD

Wisdom 9: 13-18B; Philemon 1: 9-10, 12-17; Luke 14: 25-33 

On an August day in 1997, I sat in the waiting area of Sloan Kettering Hospital in New York, my mother having been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer the previous month. I sat in that waiting area anxious but also filled with hope. You see, a CT scan indicated that the tumor was small and restricted to the tail of the pancreas and her doctor was optimistic that it could be surgically removed. However, her surgeon cautioned us that often CT Scans underestimate the extent of cancer’s presence in the body and that the full extent of my mom’s condition would only be revealed through a laparoscopic procedure, where a small camera, inserted through an incision, would assess the full extent of the situation. If it revealed that the tumor was as the CT scan had indicated, he would proceed with the surgery. But if the laparoscope showed that the tumor was larger or if it revealed other tumors elsewhere, he would not perform the surgery. To do so, would be fruitless. The doctor told us the operation would take five hours. But if we saw him in an hour and a half, it would mean that the news was not good and that the cancer was too far advanced to be removed.

So off to the waiting area my father and I went to keep vigil. Along with my hope, I was armed with my rosary beads, and every prayer card and prayer book that I owned. But I found it difficult to pray, being drawn into the lives of the others who were there waiting . . . into their joy as they found out the surgery was successful or the tumor was benign . . . into their deepest sorrow as the news they received defied their prayers and their deepest hopes.

I had also brought a book with me and thought I might have better luck with that. The book was called, “The Gift of Peace,” by Cardinal Joseph Bernardin, who was the Archbishop of Chicago, and had died the year before, ironically of the same type of cancer that my mom had. I came to a point in the book where Cardinal Bernardin described his own fight with the disease and that, spiritually, the greatest but hardest lesson he had to learn was to “let go and let God.” “Let Go and Let God!” I had never heard that before and the thought touched me. I closed my eyes and repeated the phrase to myself to allow it to sink in: let go and let God . . . let go and let God . . . let go and let God.” When I opened my eyes, the very first thing I saw was the surgeon walking toward me, an hour and a half after the surgery began. And I, like some of the others that I had seen earlier in the waiting area, heard words addressed to me like: “malignant,” “terminal,” “quality of life,” and “keeping her comfortable.” Let go and Let God: it was a difficult lesson for me to learn that last year of my mother’s life. It still is a difficult lesson. 

“Let Go and Let God.” I think that’s what Jesus is telling us to do when in today’s gospel he says, “Anyone of you who does not renounce all his possessions cannot be my disciple.” We’re hoarders, aren’t we? We hold on to things we don’t need, shouldn’t be holding onto, or have been carrying way longer than we should be: possessions and problems, resentment and regrets, worries and fears, negativity and hurt, the dreams we hope for and the nightmares that sometimes become our reality. We’re control freaks. We convince ourselves that everything is under our control, even when it’s not, and that we don’t need anyone’s help, even when we do. But in today’s gospel, I think Jesus is telling us: “Clean out! Throw out! Get rid of it! You don’t need it! The only thing you need is me.” He’s telling us to let go of anything, physical or nonphysical, that gets in the way of giving ourselves over totally to him. 

Getting rid of our physical baggage is kind of self-evident. So let’s focus on the other less obvious things that we have a difficult time letting go of. So what does this entail? It means following God's lead without knowing where he's sending you. It means waiting for God's timing without knowing when it will come; It means expecting a miracle without knowing how God will accomplish it; It means trusting God's purpose without understanding the circumstances. It means giving up what's beyond your control to embrace what you cannot change. It means giving everything over to God: that which we possess and that which possesses us. 

Why is it difficult to let go? Because letting go equals surrender. The definition of surrender is to yield to the power, control, or possession of another. In other words, you stop fighting a battle you can’t win and turn it over to the One who can. You yield to God’s power and control, and stop attempting those things by yourself. But surrendering to God, making that act of abandonment into the hands of God, isn’t easy. It means facing the unknown. And the unknown scares us. 

Letting go means releasing your dream or your problem, your it, into God’s hands. He longs to take it from you and make something good of it. But he isn’t going to play tug of war. He’s too much of a gentleman to snatch it away from you. You have to let go. And you have to let Him hold it by Himself, to mold and shape and create something beautiful from the ashes you’re attempting to cling to but in reality are slipping right through your fingers. We need God’s help; He doesn't need ours! In fact, oftentimes there is nothing he can do in a situation until we release it completely. As long as we keep trying to fix it ourselves, he will sit back and let us wear ourselves out. And that's exactly what we do, isn't it? We wear ourselves out, trying to do something we were never able to do to begin with. The thing is, God cannot give himself to us unless our hands are empty to receive him.

Letting go and letting God involves trust - trusting that God is in the midst of every situation, and all is well. The sooner you let go and let God handle a challenge or problem, the sooner you'll feel lighter, unburdened, free, and happy. He's making all things in your life good. No matter what it is, it can be reborn, revised, renewed, rebuilt, renovated, redeemed, and restored. You know you've let go to God when you rely on God to work things out instead of trying to manipulate others, force your agenda, and control the situation. You let go and let God work. You don't have to be "in charge." Instead of trying harder, you trust more.

So let it go. Hand it over. God can handle those jagged, broken pieces of your life a lot more safely than you can. And He can hold your hand in His nail-scarred hand even while He creates a masterpiece. We need to trust God to work things out, in his own perfect time, in his own perfect way. As Psalm 37 says, “Surrender yourself to the Lord, and wait patiently for him.” (Psalm 37:7) Surrender isn’t giving up; it’s “giving over.” It’s giving over to God, putting into his hands, what we can’t accomplish with our own hands, desires, plans or worries. Surrender is not defeat. Surrender can bring about victory. If you have any doubts about that, just look at the cross.

“Anyone of you who does not renounce all his possessions cannot be my disciple.” 

What are you holding on to?

The Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Cycle C)

WORTH THE WAIT

Wisdom 18: 6-9; Hebrews 11: 1-2, 8-12; Luke 12: 32-48

How do you feel about waiting? Do you enjoy a nice, long wait? I don’t. I don’t like it when I have to stand in line at the supermarket, bank or the post office. I don’t like being at a stoplight sitting behind an accelerator-challenged driver when the light turns green. I don’t like it when I pull into a gas station and all the pumps are occupied, and I have to wait for somebody to pull away. How good are you at waiting?

Our gospel today is about waiting and watching. It’s about preparing and being vigilant. Jesus tells us that we must be like servants preparing, watching and waiting for their master’s return. Now I guarantee you that ninety-nine and nine-tenths of all the homilies preached today will be about our need to embrace vigilance and expectation for our Lord’s coming at the end of THE world or at the end of OUR world (the end of our lives). And they would be correct. That’s what Jesus is asking us to do. But this morning I’d like to be part of that one-tenth of one percent who offers a slightly different take on today’s gospel. 

To do so, I’d like to go back to the passage from Luke that we heard two weeks ago. You all remember that, right? . . . Maybe not . . . In that gospel, Jesus infers four different dispositions that we should have when we pray. First, we need to have faith. He tells us, “Ask and you will receive, seek and you will find, knock and the door will be open. For whoever asks, receives, whoever seeks finds, and to the one who knocks, the door will be open.” Sounds great doesn’t it? Could we possibly ever be offered a better deal? I suppose if we really believed that to the extent we should, we’d never be off our knees praying. We need to have the faith that God is attentive to our needs and can answer our prayers. And later when he says, “What father among you would hand his son a snake when he asks for a fish? Or hand him a scorpion when he asks for an egg? If you then, who are wicked, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him?" through our faith in him we become reassured that only good comes as the result of our prayers. 

Secondly in that passage, he gives us a short parable of the man who bangs on the door of his neighbor in the middle of the night asking for bread for a visiting friend. Jesus concludes the parable by saying, “I tell you, if he does not get up to give the visitor the loaves because of their friendship, he will get up to give him whatever he needs because of his persistence.” And so we need to embrace the spirit of persistence in our prayers. Sometimes when I was a kid and really wanted something, I would be so relentless in asking for it that my mother would say, “Would you stop being such a nudge!” You’ll never get that complaint from God. Persistence in prayer actually honors God because it demonstrates our dependence on Him. He wants us to storm the gates of heaven with our needs. God loves for us to pester him 

Finally in that passage two weeks ago, at the behest of the apostles, Jesus gives us the “Lord’s Prayer” as a model of prayer, and in doing that, he teaches us the importance of having a humble and contrite heart in prayer - humble, when we acknowledge that it’s God’s will, not ours that we pray to be accomplished, and contrite when we ask him to forgive us as we have forgiven others.

All of that brings us to today’s gospel. And when Jesus says, “Blessed are those servants whom the master finds vigilant on his arrival. Amen, I say to you, he will gird himself, have them recline at table, and proceed to wait on them,” yes, it addresses the need for us to prepare and wait for God’s coming at the end of the world or the end of our lives, but it also challenges us to wait and watch for God coming into our lives now. It speaks of the hope and trust that we need to have when we wait upon God to act in our lives in response to our prayers; a hope and trust that tells us that he not only CAN answer our prayers, but WILL answer our prayers. Hope is the sacred insanity that believes there is meaning in the madness of our lives. And waiting is the hardest work of hope. Through hope we trust that God is not just the God of the past. He isn’t just the God of the future. God is the God of the here and now.

Today, most people’s lives are characterized by speed, impatience, noise, and all manner of activities. Occasionally, just to spice things up, we even throw in a little panic. We’re always in a rush to get to the next place or the next thing. Although waiting is a part of life, waiting isn’t something we like to do. And this mindset often carries over into our spiritual lives, especially with regard to answers to prayer. Often we want God’s resources, but we don’t want his timing.

The Bible is full of stories of people having to wait on God: He kept Moses in a desert for 40 years. Joseph in a prison cell for 10 years. Abraham without a child for 100 years. David on the run for 15 years. God could have answered their prayers and met their needs much quicker, but he didn’t. He made them wait instead. And he often makes us do the same. He makes us wait for healing to come after we’ve been praying for years and there’s no sign of recovery. He makes us wait to fulfill his call in our lives after he puts the desire and passion in our hearts to serve him in a certain way. He makes us wait to give us the desires of our hearts, whether it’s a spouse, a baby, or a new job. He makes us wait for direction when we’re stuck at a dead end and we don’t know where to go or what to do. He could answer that same prayer that you’ve been praying for years every night in a millisecond . . . that same prayer that has been bringing you to tears, that same prayer that the longer that it goes unanswered, the more it makes you question whether He even hears it. 

Why do we often wait so long on God? Maybe because God is waiting on us. Maybe he’s keeping you right where you’re at for the same reason he kept our biblical heroes waiting for so many years: to build your faith. To build your dependence on him when you’re barren and empty to see if he’s truly all you desire and all you need. To see how well you will trust and serve him when you’re still stuck in the background somewhere, doing seemingly nothing too significant for him. To build your trust in him when the storms in life keep raging, the battles keep going and breakthrough and victory don't seem near.

What are you waiting for today? What longing do you have that seems so far from ever being fulfilled? What prayer do you keep on praying that seems to never reach God’s ears? I want to remind you that God is not deaf to your prayers. He’s not blind to your constant tears, to your desires, and to your needs. If he is making you wait, there is a very good reason for it. If he is telling you “no” today, maybe it’s because he has a better “yes” waiting for you tomorrow. If he’s keeping you in the same place you’ve always been today, maybe it’s because he’s helping build your faith before you enter your Promised Land tomorrow. If he’s not healing you or bringing you victory today, maybe it’s because you will have greater health, success, happiness, and faith when he waits to help you be an overcomer tomorrow.

Wherever you’re at today, know that God is right beside you and that there is a purpose for you, even if that purpose is to wait. Don’t give up just because you don’t see anything happening today. Maybe there’s nothing physically happening that your eyes can see but there is definitely something happening in the spiritual realm as you learn to rely on Christ. Don’t allow your waiting period to make you hopeless about what tomorrow will bring. Instead, let it build your faith and give you even greater hope for what God has prepared for you. He made some of the greatest men of faith wait. Don’t be discouraged if he makes you wait as well. He will come through for you, just like he came through for them. We need to remember that a delay is not a denial from God, that God has his own sense of timing and it’s perfect timing. He's never in a hurry, but he's always on time. And he’s always worth the wait. Good things come for those who wait . . . GREAT things come to those who wait on God!

Nails . . . Three Nails

Nails

Nails . . . Three nails

Instruments that connected flesh to wood . . . 

hands and feet to a cross.

Nails . . . Three nails 

Instruments that brought about sadness . . . pain . . . destruction . . . death.

Nails . . . three nails

The holes they left have become the identifying characteristic of the man who bore them so long ago.

But that’s not the way it always was.

It’s not the way it was meant to be.

Nails were the instruments of that same man’s livelihood.

Nails allowed him to participate in the creative work of his Heavenly Father.

Nails connected one piece of wood to another to transform the wood into something that was useful and beneficial . . . a work of art . . . 

Something that brought joy both to the carpenter 

and to the recipient of the carpenter’s handiwork.

Nails . . . the same instruments, along with hammers, saws, drills, paint brushes and science books that those participating in this year’s mission trip will be using,

not in a carpenter shop in a small town called Nazareth 

but wherever they’re needed in a small town called Dunlow. 

Nails . . . Three nails.

That’s what the cross that those who will be journeying 587 miles tomorrow morning from the hills of Northwestern New Jersey to the mountains of West Virginia will receive tonight to be worn during their Appalachian mission trip. The cross is simply made of

Nails . . . Three Nails.

We pray that it be a meaningful reminder for them 

and a rich symbol to all those who gaze upon it. 

Not of death . . . but of life.

Not of destruction . . . but of construction.

Not of a means of pain and sadness . . . but of joy.

May those who wear it see those nails . . . those three nails

As instruments that not only connect one piece of wood with another,

But them to us . . . 

Them to each other . . . 

Them to the community they serve . . . 

And them to the self-sacrificing love of 

The one who bore the marks of 

Nails . . . Three Nails.

The Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Cycle C)

THE JERICHO ROAD

The Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Cycle C)

Deuteronomy 30:10-14; Colossians 1:15-20; Luke 10:25-37

One of the best known figures in the New Testament isn’t a historical person, but a character in a story told by Jesus. Jesus doesn’t give this character a name, but refers to him as a member of a particular ethnic group. The character is identified simply as "a Samaritan." 

The people who heard Jesus tell this story were shocked by the identity of its hero. They viewed a good Samaritan, a compassionate Samaritan, as a contradiction in terms. The Jewish contemporaries of Jesus regarded themselves as the good guys and Samaritans as the bad guys. They detested Samaritans, and Samaritans detest them. This hatred between Samaritan and Jew was already many generations old when Jesus told his story. It is, in fact, a vast family squabble, because Jews and Samaritans are related peoples, quarreling cousins. Jesus shocks his fellow Jews when the hero of his story, this Samaritan, is a model of compassion, one who cares for an injured stranger, who cares for — get this — an injured stranger who is likely to be one of their own, a Jew beaten by robbers on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. 

This parable, along with the Prodigal Son, stands as one of the most beautiful and enduring stories in the gospel. We know it so well, it’s a part of our language. “The Good Samaritan” is synonymous with charity and mercy. Countless hospitals are known by that name. Google the phrase “Good Samaritan” and you’ll get nearly four million entries. It’s so familiar to us, we may feel like we know this parable by heart along with its overriding moral: the call to compassion and kindness, and solidarity with all those who suffer. And we all know the characters involved, too: the helpless, bloodied victim by the side of the road, the Levite and the priest, and of course, the Samaritan whose generous heart earns him the title of “Good.” 

But I’d like to propose another way of approaching this parable. For as much as the parable of the “Good Samaritan” is about different characters and types, it’s also about something else. It’s also about the road. It’s about traveling a dangerous and difficult route, through sometimes unfamiliar territory. It’s about the pain we encounter, and the suffering we endure. It’s about the unexpected – what happens to us, and to those we meet. 

Ultimately, I think, “The Good Samaritan” is about a journey and the choices we make along the way. You see, this story is a parable not just about thoughtfulness and compassion. “The Good Samaritan” is also a parable about life, and how we live it. Here is the human adventure, the human experience, along a twisting road from Jerusalem to Jericho. We may not realize it, but it’s a road all of us travel at one time or another. We’re all on that journey. In the parable, the places of departure and arrival aren’t that important – significantly, we’re never told if the characters actually reach their final destination. What matters, instead, is the journey. 

The parable takes place on the Jericho Road. The Jericho Road is the seventeen mile road that connects Jerusalem to Jericho. That road drops 3600 feet in those seventeen miles. It’s a steep, winding, descending, remote road that for centuries, and even to this day, has been a place of robberies. The Jericho Road: it’s the seventeen miles of violence and oppression. It is the strip of suffering. But the Jericho Road is also a symbol. It’s a symbol of suffering in the world. 

The Jericho Road? It’s is the seventeen rooms of the corridor of the nursing home where our grandmother or grandfather, mother or father, husband or wife, brother or sister lives who has Alzheimer’s . . . The Jericho Road? It’s a seventeen floor tenement building in New York or Newark . . . The Jericho Road? It’s the seventeen mile border between warring nations, between Nicaragua and El Salvador, Namibia and Angola, or Israel and Palestine, where thousands upon thousands of people have been killed . . . The Jericho Road? It’s the seventeen miles that goes right through the heart of Calcutta . . . The Jericho Road? It’s the seventeen years that a widow or widower has lived without the love of their life . . the seventeen years a parent has mourned a child . . . the seventeen years someone has struggled with alcoholism or drug addiction . . . the seventeen years someone has battled depression . . . the seventeen days or months since a cancer diagnosis . . . You see, the Jericho Road is any place where there is violence; it is any place where there is oppression; it is any place where there is misery. It is any place where people are robbed of their dignity and robbed of their love and robbed on their food and robbed of their freedom. It is any place where people are robbed of their health, robbed of their peace, robbed of their happiness. The Jericho Road is always with us. The Jericho Road. 

And what matters on the journey – our journey — down that road is those we encounter along the way. How do we treat them? Do we notice them? Do we avoid them? Do we act like they don’t exist? Or: do we see them, with all their wounds and scars, and see a neighbor in need? Do we, perhaps, even see ourselves? Because we all have wounds. And we all need shelter. That place might be an inn. It might be a church. It might be the sheltering arms of friendship, or family. Or it might not be a place at all. Sometimes the sturdiest walls are made of mercy, and the strongest roof is constructed of love. That’s the most beautiful shelter of all. 

Those stopping places, those shelters, are also part of the journey. And so are the choices we make along the way. A choice to stand on the sidelines — or to get involved. A choice to stay in our comfort zones – or take a risk. A choice to keep on going – or to stop, bend down, and bandage the wounds of another. 

At the end of today’s gospel, after the scribe reluctantly, but correctly, identifies the one who treated the robber’s victim with compassion as being neighbor in the parable, Jesus challenges him and us: Go and do likewise. He's telling us to go and be merciful. Go and care. Go and burden yourself with the problems of anyone who is a neighbor: a stranger, a parishioner, a friend, a family member. But go. Follow the unpredictable road that is life. Risk encountering what you don’t want to see. Leave your comfort zone. Dare to engage yourself in the struggles of another. Dare to love . . . to love as he loves. And how does God love? God loves without condition. God loves indiscriminately, wildly, with abandon, abundantly, without consideration of merit. For God, everyone is neighbor – every race, every color, every persuasion, Samaritans and Jews, Democrats and Republicans, heterosexual and homosexual, blue collar, white collar, no collar; God’s love cannot be limited by careful, legal definitions. 

That’s a lot! How can we possibly love in this way? The truth is, we can’t. At least we can’t by our own power. We need the help of Christ. If we want to love this way, we must seek him every day of our lives. We must ask for his help in the morning; he must be our pillow at night. We must read his word and reflect on his life. We must take him in through his body and blood. We must associate with him in those who are hurting, those who are in need. If we do this, he will enable us to love fully. That’s it . . . End of story . . . There is no other way. 

The last words of the parable, Go and do likewise, are Christ’s instructions to a world that is often too timid, too indifferent, too cautious, or too frightened. Get over all that, Jesus says. Begin the journey. Leave your own Jerusalem, and journey to Jericho, with a heart that can be moved to compassion. The Samaritan did that, and saved a life – and very likely saved his own soul. Go, Jesus says. Go and do likewise. The test of the Christian’s love of neighbor isn’t found in grand pilgrimages or reading Catholic classics. It’s found in what we do with the person at the side of the road, the need that crosses our path. That need may be for money, for our time, our compassion, our advice, for our help to get back on the road. The principles of holiness and of eternal life are universal and ageless. The way to holiness, the road to eternal life is local. It runs right through the place where we live.

Eleventh Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year C)

PARDON & PEACE

Eleventh Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year C)

2 Samuel 12:7-10, 13; Galatians 2:16, 19-21; Luke 7:36-8:3

Today’s gospel passage from St Luke contains a story that is one of the world’s most touching and infinitely tender. It is the story of Jesus’ forgiveness of a “bad” woman. A Pharisee named Simon had invited Jesus to dinner. Why, we don’t know. Likely as not, it was simply because Simon had heard of Jesus, thought it might be interesting to have a celebrity in his house, and asked him to come, and Jesus accepted the invitation.

A sinful woman in the city heard of the dinner and invited herself. Her crashing the party was easy, in view of the custom that when a rabbi was at a meal as a guest, anyone was free to come and listen to him. What could she have looked like? Well, they say that an artist can look at a beautiful girl and see the woman she will become. A better artist can look at an old woman and see the beautiful girl she used to be. A great artist can look at an old woman, portray her exactly as she is and force the viewer to see the beautiful girl she used to be, proving that the lovely young girl is still alive, imprisoned inside the old woman’s ruined body. In today’s gospel, Jesus demonstrates he was that kind of artist, a great one.

The woman was attracted to come either because she had had some contact with Jesus in his wanderings, or simply because she liked what she had heard of him. In writing of her, Luke is very delicate. He mentions neither her name nor what her sins were. Most people, however, suspect that this woman’s sins were of the sort that we are embarrassed to admit in confession, but love to read in the “tell all” autobiographies of media stars. She had going against her not only the prohibition against close female contact with men outside the home; she had the added handicap of being known as a sinner. So, although she had been brave enough to come, she stood behind Jesus at his feet as he reclined at table, where he couldn’t see her right away.

Like other Jewish woman, she wore around her neck an expensive vial of perfume. She intended to anoint his feet with it. As she stooped to do so, she was so overcome with emotion that she unexpectedly burst into tears. She hadn’t foreseen this outburst, and she spontaneously loosened her hair and wipe and kissed his feet repeatedly, and then anointed his feet.

Simon the Pharisee said under his breath, “If this man were a prophet, he would know who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him, that she is a sinner.” The fact is that Jesus did know what sort of woman this was — a woman who was both repentant and grateful—a woman whose need for forgiveness drove her to her knees and brought her to her senses. He knew and was pleased to receive her goodness. He accepted her. In response to Simon’s unspoken thoughts, Jesus presents a parable about two men who owed money, one a great deal and the other less. The creditor wrote off both debts. When Jesus asked Simon which of them will love the creditor more, one can almost feel the insolent coldness in Simon’s answer: “The one, I suppose, whose larger debt was forgiven”.

Jesus then turned to Simon the Pharisee and somewhat rebuked him. He told him when he entered his house, he did not offer him a kiss of greeting. water for his feet, nor did he anoint his head. Jesus’ words about expected courtesy beautifully portrayed the Oriental etiquette of the time. When a guest entered a house, he could expect the host to show certain marks of respect. The host was to place his hands on his guest’s shoulder and wish him shalom, the most-prized gift of peace. Another duty of hospitality was to cleanse and comfort the guest’s feet with cool water after the dust of the dirt roads had penetrated his sandals. And the host could be expected to place a few drops of attar of roses on the guest’s head. But Simon offers none of the customary hospitality to Jesus. 

The woman made up for it. She worships at the feet of Jesus. Her worship was simple, contrite, sincere . . . without words . . . but with tears and perfume instead. She understood that being present with Jesus calls for an extravagant response. She had been transformed, and she knew that the only appropriate response was to throw herself at the feet of the Lord. Jesus looked into her heart, and knew that she was truly repentant. And the friend of sinners then said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace”. 

We never even know her name . . . this woman with the unbound hair who made such a scene at Simon’s house. But she is our model and our guide. Her actions show us what our response should be to the incredible gift we have been given. The forgiveness she experienced is also offered to us through the Sacrament of Reconciliation. This involves a radical reorientation of our whole life and a conversion to God with our whole heart. We need to throw ourselves at the feet of Jesus, wash our sins with the tears of our responsibility, and beg forgiveness. We too must put away our pride and set aside our fear. And then. after our heartfelt, sincere, faith-filled, undistracted, contrite, humble, worship at the feet of our Lord, we too will be dismissed to “Go in peace.”

Graduation Homily for the Class of 2016

REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE

A Graduation Homily for the Class of 2016

St. Therese School, Succasunna, NJ

June 8th, 2016

Sirach 51: 13-19; Philippians 1: 3-11; John 17:11b, 17-24b 

Let me begin my homily by first expressing my congratulations to our graduates, St. Therese’s Class of 2016. Congratulations, as well, to your parents, to Mrs. Gargin, and the rest of of the faculty, to Mrs. Hirschfeld, all who got you to this point in your life! Each of you has labored hard, each in your own way, to reach this milestone in your lives which we now seek to commemorate in a fitting way in this liturgy.

He lives in you

He lives in me

He watches over

Everything we see

Into the water

Into the truth

In your reflection

He lives in you

Graduates, do you remember those words. You should. You heard them four weeks ago during your class trip to see the Broadway production of THE LION KING. The words are sung immediately after Rafiki tells Simba:

"I know your father.”

"My father is dead," answers Simba.

"Nope! He's alive. I'll show him to you." The baboon then leads Simba to a pool of clear water. "Look down there."

“That's not my father. That's just my reflection,” Simba says. 

Rifiki bids him, “No. Look harder.”

And when Simba looks harder, he sees not his own face staring back at him, but the reflection of Mufasa, his father.

“You see, he lives in you!" says Rafiki.

Simba then hears a familiar voice call his name. He looks up. His father's image appears among the stars.

“You have forgotten who you are . . . Look inside yourself . . . You are more than what you have become" says the apparition . . . "You must take your place in the circle of life. Remember who you are!" 

The Gospel that I chose for your graduation mass this morning is from the Last Super Discourses in John’s Gospel. It’s part of Jesus’ farewell address to his Apostles . . . the last things he wanted to tell them . . . the things he wanted them to remember . . . the things he never wanted them to forget. And, in a sense, like Rafiki, Jesus bids them to look at their reflection, to look beyond appearances to see truth. And in his prayer to his Father, he reveals that truth to them: that as his Father is one with him, he is one with them. “YOU IN ME. I IN THEM.”

Graduates, when you look at your reflection, who do you see? All too often we see just ourselves, our physical features, our natural abilities. Sometimes the mirror we look into is like a carnival mirror and what’s reflected back is a false and distorted image of who we are, one that magnifies our inadequacies and our deficiencies. But Jesus tells us that when we look at into the mirror, we, like his Apostles, should see HIM. 

• “You in Me. I in Them.” - This is Jesus’ message of good news for us today. 
• “You in Me. I in Them.” - You are the reflection of God’s love, his mercy, his goodness, his faithfulness, his purity, his selflessness, his generosity, his kindness, his gentleness. 
• “You in Me. I in Them.” - You are the beloved child of God, blessed and called to be the person that you already are in the mind of the One who created you.
• “You in Me. I in Them.” - You are made in the image of God. You were made to be God’s sons and daughters, and when you act from that identity, you act in accord with who you were made to be.
• “You in Me. I in Them.” - You are a child of God and that relationship is primary, secure, unbreakable, and eternal.

What is it for Jesus to be IN us? We can get some idea of it from a popular phrase we use today. We speak of people really "getting into" something, “into” a job, “into” a sport, “into” trouble. To get into something is to make it your own, to intertwine your deepest self with it. With the Father being “in” Jesus and Jesus being “in” us, Jesus promises us that kind of closeness with God. Think of it - God "getting into" you! We're not just talking about a vague influence. We're not speaking about some hazy inspirational strength that one would gain from the memory of Christ and his example on earth. It’s far deeper, far closer, far more mysterious, far more intimate than that.

God is alive in each one of us but sometimes we can be so worried about what the world thinks that we forget that God made us beautiful, in his image, just the way we are meant to be. Sometimes we let the world define us, we let it tell us who we are, who we should be, what we need to have to be happy, and what we need to do to be a success. Sometimes, amid the stresses and busyness of life we forget who we are and therefore we don’t realize what we can be. It’s very hard to be yourself when you have forgotten who you are, and like Simba, sometimes we need to be reminded. Just as Simba was encouraged to take another look to see his father in him, you need to take another look and see the greater one in you - Christ! With Christ living in you, with his ability on your ability, with his wisdom and guidance, you have everything you need to fulfill the plans he has for you. God will be glorified not by what you bring to the table but by what he can do through you.

Most graduation speeches encourage graduates to follow their dreams, their desires, their passions; to go out and make the world the place they want it to be. But today, I challenge you instead to something different – to follow Jesus. Make the world the place he has designed it to be. Follow his dreams, desires, and Passion for you. Make the world a place where Jesus is present and welcomed. Follow Jesus in all things and in all ways and you might just discover a world that can be pretty great, a world that reaches beyond the dreams and desires of what you want, a world that is more than just efficient, creative, technologically advanced, and highly educated. You might just find the world that God and everybody wants - a world filled with Love, Justice, Mercy and Peace.

Isa, Tyler, Dana, Katie, Lucas, Brian, Madison, Albert, Patryk, Sebastian, Michael, Matt, Michael, Skyler, Will, Madeline, Robert, Natalia, and Ethan, you have heard me say that you are my favorite class, and indeed you are. You have heard me say that I love you, and indeed I do. I see your potential . . . I see hope . . . I can see what I see because I KNOW who you are: God’s beloved sons and daughters. Never forget your inherent dignity, your greatness. I see all the things with which God has blessed your life: your personality, your intelligence, your talents, your goodness, your compassion, your faith, your values. Never forget your responsibility to now take all of that to Morris Catholic, Pope John, Seton Hall Prep, and Roxbury, Mount Olive, Morris Hills, and Lenape Valley High Schools. And through your love and compassion, your mercy and generosity, your hope and sincerity, demonstrate WHO you are and WHOSE you are. You never have to feel afraid. Never have to feel lonely. Never have to feel like you go it alone. Never have to feel that you’re not good enough. Never have to feel that you can’t get past your mistakes and failures. For the One who created you, loves you, inspires you and empowers you is within you. He’s as close to you as your mind, your heart, and your soul. Your life as a student of St. Therese’s School is ending, but your lives in Christ continue. Today we send you into the world. May you bless it with your goodness, respect it with your kindness, serve it with your heart, and care for it with your compassion. 

He lives in you

He lives in me

He watches over

Everything we see

Into the water

Into the truth

In your reflection

He lives in you

Class of 2016, REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE!

Pentecost Sunday (Cycle ABC)

Empowered & Sent

Acts 2:1-11; Romans 8:8-17; John 20:19-23 

On July 4, 1776, the members of the Continental Congress meeting in Philadelphia signed the Declaration of Independence. With this action, the American Revolution was launched and a new nation was born. It’s ironic that on that very day George III, King of England, made this entry in his diary: "Nothing of any importance happened today." 

On the day of Pentecost, in the year A.D. 33, 120 followers of a man named Jesus were gathered together in Jerusalem. Suddenly the Spirit of God filled each one of them and marked them with tongues of fire. On that day the Church was born. But no historian of the time saw anything significant in that event. Perhaps they, and maybe even some of us, might echo what the King said on the day the Declaration of Independence was signed, "nothing of any importance happened today." But in actuality, what we celebrate today is so critical for the life of the church, for your life and mine.

Those 120 disciples gathered in that room in Jerusalem were just a handful of rather ordinary men and women, a few fishermen, a couple of housewives, a former tax collector, a few farmers and some servant girls. Yet through these ordinary people God built a Church which has lasted now for over 2,000 years. In less than 300 years, that small, insignificant Jewish sect became the official religion of the entire Roman Empire and today the Church of Jesus Christ circles the globe and numbers some one billion members. 

What was it that was going through their minds as they gathered in the house? It had been only ten days since Jesus had ascended to his Father, but when you're waiting for something, ten days is a long time. All of a sudden, a strong wind hits, shaking the house to its base, and moving into their hearts to the depths. No longer fearful of the enemies of Jesus, no longer timid about how to speak or what to say, no longer concerned about what others might think of them, the disciples go forth with a power not of their own making, and do what fifty days ago seemed like nothing more than a dashed dream. They announce that God has indeed visited His people, and now remains with us through the action of the Holy Spirit. They announce that death no longer reigns supreme, and sin has no power to shackle people in slavery. They go forth to transform every human heart and mind. They go forth to invite everyone, Jew or Gentile, to drink of the one Spirit so that all may be one family in Christ.

What happened to those 120 followers in the year 33 A.D.? Those 120 followers received the Holy Spirit, the “Paraclette,” the “Counselor”, the “Advocate” - the same presence that was moving over the face of the earth when God created the world, the same presence that took the form of a baby born in a manager in Bethlehem, the same spirit of God that walked the earth for 33 years, teaching, healing, proclaiming the love of God for all people.

And today, it is that same spirit that is with us. It is God's spirit alive and well on this earth, working through his people. It is the one who calls, gathers, enlightens, sanctifies and empowers the Church to bring his love into the brokenness of the world. Today we are gathered in one place, as diverse a group as the disciples in that upper room, bringing with us our own challenges, fears and joys. And the same Spirit still acts in that same dramatic and profound way as he did on that first Pentecost morning. 

The Holy Spirit still breathes upon us. The Holy Spirit is here revamping and rearranging our lives, just as Jesus promised, inspiring us to do what we cannot do on our own—taking risks we thought we didn’t have the courage to take; speaking up when we couldn't find the right words to say; stepping forward to minister and help convinced our gifts were inadequate and our capabilities insufficient; reaching out to help when it would be so much easier just to take care of our own problems; trusting that if we turn it over to the Holy Spirit that we’ll get what we need and what we’re asking for.

Sometime today, because of Pentecost, because of the flame that has settled over each of us, every person in this room will be called upon to exercise divine power. Every one of us will be called upon, in our own way, to bring the power of the Holy Spirit to bear upon the task of building and nurturing the people of God. When that happens, it may not be very dramatic. Almost surely it will not be. It may not seem at all miraculous, but most surely it will be. It will be God's work, and if we do not do it, it will be God's work left undone.

We may be given the chance to calm someone’s fears. We may be given the chance to clear up someone’s doubt or misunderstanding. We may be given the insight that someone around us is in trouble, needs an ear. We may be given the chance to reassure someone in whatever his or her own role in life may be. We may be given the chance to laugh, to help make someone else’s experience of life more pleasant, more enjoyable. 

A thousand and one opportunities will be given today, and tomorrow, every day, to further the growth of God’s people, in their search of faith, of truth, of peace, of beauty, of joy. Those are the marks of the Holy Spirit. Those are the signs of His power. 

Today, on the rush of the wind of the Holy Spirit, we Christians are energized and empowered as we reach the climax of our special celebration of Christ’s resurrection. It’s Pentecost, the day God gives us the wind of the Spirit in our sails and also the fire of the Spirit in our hearts—the fire of divine presence—to proclaim and serve the Risen Christ! For on Pentecost, amidst wind and tumbling tongues of fire, the Church, as the people of Christ, was born and continues regularly to be reborn! Through Baptism and Confirmation, the Spirit lives in your LIFE, the Spirit lives in your WORK, in your MISSION. You have GIFTS -- In fact, you ARE gifts! -- Your very LIFE is God's gift! Even when you do not know what to do with your life. (And even when nobody else knows what to do with YOU!) You are God's gift. You have CALLINGS, REASONS FOR BEING, for being just EXACTLY the person you are! You have a DIFFERENCE to make -- a CONTRIBUTION to add to the good of the whole. We have been chosen by God, filled by Him with a holy fire, and sealed with a sacred mission. We are a creature of great power and dignity! 

Come, Holy Spirit, Creator blest,

And in our hearts take up Thy rest;

Come with Thy grace and heav'nly aid,

To fill the hearts which Thou hast made;

To fill the hearts which Thou hast made.

The Fourth Sunday of Easter (Cycle C)

THE VOICE OF THE SHEPHERD

Acts 13:14, 43-52; Rev 7:9,14b-17; John 10:27-30 

There is a story told of an old man and his grandson who were walking down a business street in a downtown district. As they walked along, the grandfather suddenly stopped, turned his head slightly, and tweaked his ear. After a moment he said to his grandson, “Follow me.”

They slowly moved from where they were standing to a small planter box next to a sidewalk café. The planter was filled with various seasonal plants, but as the old man gently pushed back the flowers, behind them revealed a small bird’s nest filled with baby chicks; their chirping almost indistinguishable from the din of lunchtime dinners and people on the sidewalk.

No one seemed to pay any attention to the old man, his grandson or the little nest, but the grandson was amazed. After watching for a few minutes and then moving away the little boy looked up at his grandfather. “Grandpa, how did you hear the birds? There is so much noise, so much happening, how could you hear?”

Without saying a word the old man took several coins from his pocket and tossed them on the ground. With the tinkling of the coins on the sidewalk it seemed everything came to a stop. People turned around. Diners stopped eating to look their way. Several almost seemed to want to reach down and pick up the dropped coins. Then as quickly as it had happened – everything went back to the way it was. That’s when the old man spoke, “It’s all in what you are listening for, my child, it’s all in what you are listening for.”

Sometimes I think we are much like the crowd walking down the street. We fail to hear the most important things in life. We’ve filled our lives with so much noise that it’s difficult to hear anything anymore. And when we do hear, we often mistake what we are hearing for what we want to hear instead of what we should be hearing.

On this Fourth Sunday of Easter, we encounter the Good Shepherd, a noble shepherd who knows his flock intimately. In all three liturgical cycles, the Fourth Sunday of Easter presents a passage from John’s Gospel about the Good Shepherd. Today’s gospel reading from John is the shortest passage from scripture that the Church gives for our reflection at mass in our three year cycle of readings. Yet, although only three verses long, it probably is the most consoling and the most reassuring words in all of Sacred Scripture. We hear Jesus speak words that tell us that he is a Good Shepherd who cares for his flock. Sheep survive, largely because of the care of their shepherd. The shepherd calls them away from danger, and towards safety and health. The shepherd seeks out pastures that can feed and nourish them. The shepherd keeps an eye out for predators, and calls the sheep into areas where they can rest in safety. In the midst of a howling wind, or the chaos of a marketplace, the sheep recognize and instinctively follow the voice of their own shepherd, and they survive — even thrive — because they follow that voice. 

Jesus speaks to us of the Shepherd's voice today. It is a voice of promise. It is a voice that promises stubborn protection and care. It is the voice the flock hears and knows and follows. It is the voice which is especially precious in times of tragedy or struggle and pain. And it is one we sometimes have to work hard to hear when other voices especially seem to drown it out. And yet even when those other voices overwhelm, yes even when we don't pause to listen, it is always there, inviting and comforting and urging us on. 

The other voices that compete with God’s, are voices that are pleasing to the ear. They tell us what we want to hear. They don’t challenge, they seduce. They promise us pleasure, power, possessions, position and prestige. And they promise it NOW. Often it’s not so much that they try to drown out the voice of God, they do something more subtle and conniving: they try to convince us that their voice IS the voice of God. Whose are those voices? Satan’s and our own. 

It is of course very important to be able to tell the difference. It’s important for us to understand what the voice of God sounds like: 

• God speaks deep within my spirit and speaks to what is lasting. - The voices not from God speak to my mind and to my desires and to what is temporary. 
• God’s voice is gentle and persuasive, patient, free from pressure – Voices not from God are loud and clamoring, always demanding an immediate response.
• God’s voice produces peace and a sense that everything is under control. It is the voice of hope. - Ungodly voices speak of despair, hopelessness and loss. 
• God’s voice is always clear and distinctive, giving us clear direction in which to go. - Our own voice and that of Satan perplex, causes confusion and loss of direction.
• God tends to speak when I am seeking and listening for him. – Voices not of God break into our thoughts uninvited. 
• God’s voice calls us to that which is good, pure, loving, selfless, forgiving, simple and humble. - Ungodly voices call us to compromise, to harbor grudges, to look out only for Number One. 

But here’s the greatest test to discern if the voice you hear is the voice of God: First and foremost, Does it agree with the Bible? God never says anything that contradicts Scripture. God has spoken to us through the Bible--this is His word. He would never say anything that would contradict what He has already said in the Bible. And second, is it consistent with the teachings of the Church? Jesus told us that he will not leave us orphans; that he will send his Spirit to be with his Church and that this paraclete, this helper, is the Spirit of Wisdom and the Spirit of Truth. 

Whose voice are you listening to? The voice of God is the word of wisdom in our human folly, the word of meaning in our human vanity, the word of reason in our human confusion, the word of ongoing promise in our human frailty. Do you hear it . . . or something else? As the old man told his grandson, “It’s all in what you are listening for, my child, it’s all in what you are listening for.”