Seventh Sunday of Easter (Cycle C)

Jesus' Dream

Acts 7:55-60; Rev. 22: 12-14, 16-17, 20; John 17: 20-26

I'd like to wish all of you who are mothers a very happy Mother's Day! I guess it's only natural that this past week, as the days drew closer to today's celebration, so many beautiful memories of my own mother rushed to remembrance. As I refected on today's gospel and began preparing my homily, a certain memory of her came to mind:

It’s Sunday morning, and Mom and I walk into the church of my childhood. I was only about six or seven at the time, but I was old enough to know what awaited me. Namely, an hour of staring, squirming, and daydreaming, and just waiting for that hour to pass in order for freedom to return. And so the question naturally sprung into mind. "Mom," I asked, "why do we have to come here?" Without batting an eye she responded, "Because God lives here." (Moms have built-in catechisms that are made for situations like this.) Her response didn’t exactly thrill me, but it did make me content - after all, it’s hard to argue about coming to see God. So we enter the side-door of the church, where I begin another hour-long session of staring, squirming, and daydreaming. Perhaps your experience was the same as mine when you were a child. Maybe you still stare and squirm and daydream!

Turns out, though, we’re not the only ones who daydream in church. God’s pretty good at it too! There in that Upper Room, that first church where the Eucharist was celebrated; there with his first congregation - the Apostles, Jesus dreams. And what a beautiful dream it is. And the best part about it is, it’s about us!

His dream finds expression, as sometimes our dreams do, expressed in a prayer. First Jesus prays for those who will come to believe through the preaching of the apostles and their successors. That means us. We are those who inherit the faith of the apostles, the fruits of their preaching. He is praying for us.

Then Jesus says the most remarkable thing: "Father may they be one in us, as you are in me and I am in you" Could the dream get any better than that? Jesus is praying that the very love which the Father shares with the Son may be part of the life of Christian people. We are swept up into that loving relationship which is at the heart of eternity. Indeed, Jesus goes on to pray "that the love with which you loved me may be in them".

But, as we look at the history of Christianity, it is pretty clear that we have failed to live out that dream that Jesus has for us. “That they may all be one?” In the United States alone, there are more than one thousand Christian denominations. In the two thousand years of Church history, Christians have argued about everything from the authority of the Pope, indulgences, the role of Mary, to how to baptize (to immerse or just pour water over someone). Even within the Catholic Church itself, we often divide people into categories: conservative, liberal, orthodox, traditional, progressive. Somehow I don’t think this was part of Jesus’ dream.

In one of my favorite Peanuts cartoons, Lucy demands that Linus change TV channels and then threatens him with her fist if he doesn't. “What makes you think you can walk right in here and take over?” asks Linus. “These five fingers,” says Lucy. “Individually they're nothing, but when I curl them together like this into a single unit, they form a weapon that is terrible to behold.'' Which channel do you want?' asks Linus. Turning away, he looks at his fingers and says, “Why can't you guys get organized like that?”

And I think Jesus might say the same thing to us. “Why can’t you guys get organized like that?” Because, like Lucy observed, individually we are nothing, but just like there is power in a hand that curls its fingers together in a fist, there is power when people join together and put aside their arguments and petty differences, and come together in Christ’s name. It is nothing less than the power to transform the world: to build the Kingdom of God. To change hatred into love, and war and violence into peace. It is the power of forgiveness. It is the power of compassion. It is the power to feed the hungry and give drink to the thirsty. The power to clothe the naked, shelter the homeless, and minister to the sick.

God’s dream is no eight-hour snooze. It’s a living reality. As a people of faith, we are called to do our daydreaming wide-awake. It’s the dream God shares with us, and for good reason. We need this dream. We see headlines about war and terror, about sickness and scandal. We wonder if we’re living more in a nightmare than a daydream. But God is faithful to us, and he has given us everything we need to fulfill this dream.

Next week, we celebrate the Feast of Pentecost, the “birthday of the Church,” the day on which, in that very upper room where Jesus dreamed his dream, he gives his disciples the means of accomplishing that dream – the Holy Spirit. And it is through the gifts of the Holy Spirit that we receive at Confirmation (the gift of Wisdom, Understanding, Counsel, Fortitude, Knowledge, Piety, and Fear of the Lord) that we can create a world in which the fruits of the Spirit are evident: love, joy, peace, patience, goodness, friendliness, gentleness, and self-control. In essence, through the Holy Spirit, we have the power to transform our world into a holy place, a sanctuary, a church without walls.

And so, we await the fulfillment of the dream. We yearn for the day when church capacity will match city capacity, and today’s headlines will melt into tomorrow’s footnotes. And someday, when a little boy asks, “Why do we have to go to church?” we will say that we don’t. One day we won’t have to go to church. We’ll already be there.

If only my Mom could have told me that!

In Memory of Doug Smith

Doug Smith

July 1, 1955 - May 7, 2013

Hey, old friend

Are you okay, old friend?

What do you say, old friend

Are we or are we unique?

Time goes by, everything else keeps changing

You and I we get continued next week.

Most friends fade

Or they don't make the grade

New ones are quickly made

And in a pinch, sure, they'll do

But us old friend what's to discuss old friend?

Here's to us,

Who's like us?

Damn few.

Those lyrics were written by Steven Sondheim for a musical called, "Merrily We Roll Along." Somehow, I've always felt that they were the theme song of Doug's and my friendship.

There are no pictures of Doug and I from our days at Pius. Times were different then. There were no cell phones with cameras to chronicle our lives. But you know what? We didn't need them. I have a million beautiful images in my mind of our friendship: painting scenery with Schwang, sitting together in chapel everyday for mass, Fiddler and Dolly, our mutual love for Martin & Lewis, strange words like "Whooha" that we made up and how we would laugh hysterically when either one of us said them, how Doug wrote down every "diddle deedle diddle do" in "If I Were a Rich Man" from the cast album of "Fiddler on the Roof" just so I would get it right. Pictures? Who needs them? I've got memories! I know that many years went by between high school and when Doug and I reconnected on Facebook. But I think we were always in each others hearts, at least Doug was in mine, so those years really just seemed like days instead. Doug was my best friend and my brother. With Doug's passing, I feel that something inside of me has died. I will never forget you, my brother. Pictures can fade but those beautiful images of you will live in my heart forever!

So, old friend

Fill me in slow, old friend

Start from hello, old friend,

I want the when, where and how.

Old friends do

Tend to become old habit 

Never knew

How much I missed you till now.

Most friends fade

Or they don't make the grade.

New ones are quickly made,

Some of them worth something, too.

But us, old friend 

What's to discuss, old friend?

Here's to us,

Who's like us?

Damn few.

Ordination Homily

Today is the twelfth anniversary of my ordination to the permanent diaconate. Rather than posting a homily for the Sixth Sunday of Easter, I thought I'd share with you my homily for my first mass. In reading over my own words, I only hope and pray that I've lived up to the great privilege and responsibility that God called me to. I still struggle to hear his whispers. And I still delight in discerning another clause in the incomplete sentences of his will for my life. 

Whispers and Incomplete Sentences 

A Homily for My First Mass 

May 6, 2001 

1 Samuel 3:1-10; 2 Corinthians 4:1-2, 5-7; John 13:1-15 

I’d like to begin my homily today by telling you a story about our pastor. For those of you who are not parishioners of St. Therese, a little bit of explanation on the history of our parish might be in order. As you walked into our church this morning, you might have noticed that, as the cornerstone of our church indicates, it was built in 1985. In 1986, Fr. Davis became pastor. And in 1987 . . . the roof of the church collapsed! Now, if there is any connection between those events, I’ll leave that for you to decide!

Of course, when the roof collapsed, Fr. Davis not only oversaw the necessary repairs to the church, but also made sure that the entire structure was safe and secure so that the same thing wouldn’t happen again. And so, scaffolding was erected all over the church to install crossbeams to brace the existing beams that support the roof of our church. Now, Fr. Davis, wanted to make sure the job was done and done correctly. So frequently, after the workers had finished for the day, he would climb up the scaffolds to inspect their work.

One day while he was up there, he heard the church door open, and into the church walked one of our parishioners, Anna DePasquale, a short, rather rotund, elderly Italian woman. Fr. Davis heard the clicking of her heals as she made her way down the center aisle of the church, clutching her over-sized handbag in one hand and a shopping bag in the other, completely oblivious to Fr. Davis being up on the scaffolding. As she reached her favorite pew here in the front of the church, Anna knelt down, took out her rosaries and started to pray. Well, Fr Davis couldn’t resist the temptation to have some fun with his parishioner, so he laid face down on the scaffolding, cupped his hands around his mouth and quietly said, “Anna DePasquale, this is Jesus!” But, much to his chagrin, Anna gave no reaction. And even though perched high above her, he could see her still mouthing the words to the “Hail Mary” and the beads of her rosary slipping through her fingers.

Thinking that perhaps Anna didn’t hear him, Fr. Davis tried it again, only this time a bit louder: “Anna Depasquale, this is Jesus!” But, once again, no reaction. And like the first time, he looked down, and saw Anna intensely mouthing “Hail Mary, Mother of God” fingering the beads as she did.

Fr. Davis couldn’t understand why Anna still didn't respond, so he tried a third time. Only this time, he shouted: “ANNA DePASQUALE, THIS IS JESUS!” Well, this time Anna gave a sharp glance above her, shook the hand that held her rosary beads, and responded in her thick Italian accent: “Jesus, would you stop interrupting! Can’t you see I’m talking with your mother!”

Would that it was as easy as Anna DePasquale thought to hear the voice of our Lord calling out our name. Our first reading today from the First Book of Samuel, should be one that gives us great joy, because it speaks of a God who knows who we are, knows our name . . . speaks it, calls it out to us. At the heart of Christian revelation is the conviction that God speaks to His people, reveals Himself and His designs for our lives. A powerful notion! But how much more powerful is this revelation when God speaks, and He calls us by name; not as anonymous members of a multitude, but rather to each one of us, as individuals, individuals who are unique: uniquely known, uniquely loved. How awesome! In a society in which we are often de-personalized and de-humanized and become only a number on a driver’s license, a social security card,  credit card, library card, insurance card, the Creator of the Universe knows us by name and calls it out to us.

The Good News is that we are, each one of us, completely known to Christ. All the virtues, the strengths, the temptations resisted, the challenges met, the good deeds done that somehow seem to go unnoticed and un-respected by the people around us, are seen and named and known by Christ. And yes, the weaknesses too, all the things we try to keep hidden because we are afraid they will destroy our dignity, our loveableness. They too are known. But the great truth is that Christ calls by name weak and foolish and fearful people. Christ has no disdain, or contempt, or even impatience with our faults. He knows us all too well for that.

But the fact of the matter is, our God is a God who whispers. His voice must be discerned amidst the noise of a world which is hostile to his values, the noise we make out of our own self-importance and self-seeking, and worst of all, the indifference which can make us deaf to his call. He is also a God who speaks in incomplete sentences, reveals part of His will, only to move us to a point where we will be more receptive to His overall plan for our lives.

So how, or where, do we hear His voice calling us by name? We recognize Him in His own Word, the Bible, when we receive insights into the meaning of the texts and when we try to answer the questions posed by the Lord; questions like: “Who do people say that I am?” “What profit is there for one to gain the who world but lose his life in the process?” “Who by worrying can add a measure to his life?” We need to hear the constant urging of the psalmist: “Oh that today you would hear his voice: Harden not your hearts” (Ps 95[94]:7-8).

We also hear the voice of Jesus in the affirmation of others who are significant in our lives: a parent, spouse, child, colleague, close friend. Someone whom we love, admire or respect has the capability of uplifting us and helping us find self-worth. And sometimes even honest criticism is the voice of the Lord, helping us to discover our failings and shortcomings.

Finally, we hear the voice of Jesus in prayer when we receive the inspiration to make peace and reconcile ourselves with others whom we dislike, to begin some worthy project, to follow a good resolution or to turn away from sin.

Today, I stand among you as one who has heard my voice being called and has heard a whisper beckoning me to serve.

I stand in your presence as someone who is totally humbled that the God of the Universe knows my name and finds something of worth in me. But, as our Second Reading pointed out, it’s really not all about me, is it? It’s all about HIM, for I do not preach myself, but Christ Jesus as Lord. And despite my faults and my shortcomings, “I can do all things through him who strengthens me.”

I come before you this afternoon as one who has received a challenge to live in Christ’s example of service. As I frequently tell my students, one of the great things about Christ is that he never asks us to do anything more or anything other than what he himself did. Could that be any more clear than in today’s gospel: “You call me Master and Teacher and rightly so, for indeed I am. If I, therefore, the Master and Teacher have washed your feet, you ought to wash each other’s feet. I have given you an example to follow, that as I have done, so must you do.”

And finally, I stand in your midst as one who is overwhelmingly honored to have been chosen by God to do something that human pride and ego would normally find repulsive and reprehensible: to be used . . . to be utilized . . . to be a mere instrument through which He will act. And so, to you: my family, my fellow parishioners, my friends, my colleagues and my students, I say to you: I am His and I am yours. I am in your midst as one who serves. May I be His eyes that looks compassion on you, His heart that pulsates love for you, His arms stretched out in service to you, and His feet which guides you on your way toward Him.

And to the God who whispers and speaks in incomplete sentences, I humbly say: “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening . . . Here I am, Lord, I come to do your will.”


I chose this song as the meditation song for my first mass as a deacon. It beautifully said all that I wanted to be and all that I wanted to do. Hopefully I'm somewhere on the path to becoming that deacon.

Fifth Sunday of Easter (Cycle C)

Loving as Jesus Loved 

Acts 14: 21-27; Rev. 21:1-5a; John 13: 31-33a, 31-35 

Sometimes, as we get older and look back on our life, we tend to do so through rose-colored glasses. We often look back and see events as we wish they had happened and not as they actually did, and we view ourselves, not necessarily as the person we were, but as the person we would like to have been. That being said, when I look back at my younger self, I think I can honestly say I was a good kid. I loved my parents, had lots of acquaintances and a few really good friends. I did relatively well in school,  respected my teachers and had a good relationship with all of them. That is, until my freshman year in college.

For some reason which defies logic, after taking four years of Latin and three years of French in high school, I decided to now take up the challenge to tackle Spanish. My professor was an elderly Italian priest by the name of Fr. Minelli. Fr. Minelli hated me, and, as hard as I tried, nothing I did could please him or change his opinion of me. You see, I had the misfortune of sitting next to Pete Cavanaugh in class. Pete didn’t pay attention, constantly talked, and made fun of Fr. Minelli’s accent, the gimp when he walked, and his right eye, which seemed it might be searching the skies for enemy aircraft as his left eyes stared directly at you. It was a case of guilt by association. Because Pete sat next to me, Fr. Minelli assumed that I was in on it, and in his eyes (or at least the one that wasn’t focused skyward) I was just as guilty as Pete. He even had a name for us – “The Collaborators.”

One day, the class was assigned a particularly difficult and lengthy passage to translate for homework. I spent hours preparing it because I knew . . . I just knew that I was going to be the “chosen one” who would have the misfortune of being singled out to read and translate it in front of everyone during the next class. Sure enough, my worst nightmare became reality. But despite all my preparation, I delivered, shall I say, a less than stellar performance. And after struggling, stammering and shuffling for what seemed like an eternity, Fr. Minelli had this assessment of my performance: “Senor Olsen, your grammar is not good; your pronunciation is not good; your translation is not good; you are not a good student. I hope you are a good lover!”

That was my last day in Spanish class. A knowledge of Spanish might not have sunk in, but common sense had, and I realized I was in a no win situation with Fr. Minelli. And so, I decided to return to "parlez vous-ing my Francais."

But Fr. Minelli’s humiliating words to me that day in class are Jesus prayer for each one us: “I hope you are a good lover.”

Many times the last thing a person says before he or she is dying takes on a very special significance. It is as if the very essence of that individual is somehow summed up and compacted into a single message. I imagine this is how the earliest disciples felt about the words that are in our gospel today. They were all at table with Jesus, and the impending crisis that would take his life loomed ahead of them inescapably. And then came those final, poignant words, his last will and testament, "A new commandment I give to you; love one another. As I have loved you, you are to love one another." This will become your unique signature in the world, the way people will sense your true identity, your essence. This will be your ultimate reason for being.

There is actually nothing original or brand new in these words. The commandment to love one another goes back much, much further than Jesus himself. It is one of the themes that is cited again and again all through the Old Testament. And Jesus had certainly repeated those words again and again as he walked the ways of the earth during the days of his flesh. What, then, was the unique nuance that made this final mandate so special and so memorable, as it is, right down to this very moment?

I believe that it was the fact that when Jesus gave his last will and testament, he gave it as a commandment. He didn’t say, “This is my suggestion; here is an idea that you may want to consider; here’s something to think about.” No, he said, “Here is my new commandment.” And he goes one step further. He qualifies it. Jesus will be dead in less than 24 hours and he proclaims, “Love one another as I have loved you.” There’s the remarkable difference—loving like he loves; as he will love; as he loved.

In other words, the unique way that Jesus had incarnated that ancient ideal was to become the pattern of how the disciples, and that includes us, were to love one another. Here is one of those places where the famous imitation of Christ's ideal got its origin, and it raises the seminal question, "Exactly how did this one, who became what we are so we could understand more fully who God is, actually and realistically love?"

St. Augustine has given us two clues to answer this question. He once observed that Jesus loved each one he had ever met as if there were none other in all the world to love. In other words, Jesus radically individualized the affection he acted out toward others. He didn’t just love everyone, but loved every ONE. Instead of never seeing the trees for the forest, as the old adage goes, Jesus reversed that process and never failed to focus on the particular and the unique in each human being. This represents an extraordinary commitment and discipline, especially because, even in Jesus' day, he came in contact with so many people and, therefore, must have found it tempting to lump people together into categories, into classes, and to allow the forest mentality to blind him to the genuine uniqueness of each human being. And even though such an ideal to individualize our loving energies is difficult, it is within the possibility of each and every one of us. Let’s never forget that we're made in the image of that extraordinary love. And doing what Jesus did in loving each one he ever met as if there were none other in all the world is the ideal toward which we can reach. Jesus would not have given us this new commandment if it had not been possible.

The second clue St. Augustine offers is that Jesus loved all as he loved each. The way he loved was not only individualized, but it was also incredibly universal. He didn’t play favorites. His love wasn’t just extended to the priests, and the Pharisees, and the rich. It was all-inclusive and was extended in the same measure to tax collectors, lepers, prostitutes, and the poor. His love was unconditional. His love, his mercy, his concern, his compassion was extended to saint and sinner alike. Those eyes out of which he looked when he lived upon this earth were never filled with contempt or disdain. Even when the words Jesus spoke assumed a note of harshness, it was because of a concern that he felt for those whom he addressed. They were never words of hatred. We must never forget that the opposite of love is not anger or hostility but indifference. There is not one example in all of the gospels of Jesus ever turning away from another as if what happened to that one made no difference to him. I find St. Augustine's words to be a wonderful description of that unique way that Jesus loved and invites us now to love also. He loved each one he ever met as if there were none other in all the world to love, and he loved all as he loved each. I don’t know which of these qualities is more amazing, but, once again, Augustine’s description remains true to the memories that we're given of Jesus in all four of the gospels.

“Love you.” It’s a phrase which seems commonplace and overused in our society. It can mean everything and mean little. It can roll-off our tongues effortlessly—“love ya.” It’s the last thing we say to someone when we part company; it’s how we end a phone call; it’s the way we sign-off a letter or an email. It can be void of all meaning when we tell someone we love them when we barely know them. Sometimes it just seems like the only thing to say. “Love you."

But Jesus’ command to love is radical. He is demanding that the love we have for those closest to us—our spouses, our children, our grandchildren, our dearest and closest friends—that love is what we are to have for everyone. For sinners, for people we hardly know, for those we’ll never meet, for those we cannot stomach, even for those we despise and hate, for those who are our enemies, and for all of those unworthy of love. Just as he loved us, “while we were still sinners,” we also are to love others. This is his last will and testament. This is what he really wants us to do. Nothing could be clearer; nothing more challenging. To love as Jesus has loved us is the most difficult demand of Christianity. But it is the easiest path to human perfection.

How do we measure up? Can we ever hope to love like that? Today, when we receive Jesus in the Eucharist, perhaps we can tell him that we accept his bequest; that we promise to try and love better; that we will go back to those we have failed to love; that we will heal what has been hurt and broken; that we will let go of anger and hate, and that we will strive to love as he loves.

“I hope you are a good lover.” And if we’re not, we only have to look at the example of how Jesus loved to become one.

Fourth Sunday of Easter (Cycle C)

I Know My Sheep 

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

How often are you identified with a number? At the bank you have account numbers, PIN numbers to access your accounts, and credit card numbers. The IRS identifies you by your social security number. When you enquire about your power or phone bill the first thing you are asked is, "What is your customer number?" When you go to the deli department at ShopRite you’re required to pick up a number and will be served when your number is called. On internet sites you need usernames and passwords. And we could go on.

Numbers are so impersonal. Isn’t it nice when someone remembers your name, or when you’re known by name rather than by a customer account number? Isn’t it refreshing in today’s society to be personally known, recognized, appreciated, as an individual, for the person we are?

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. And how fitting that we hear them this Sunday, after such a disturbing week in our nation. We hear Jesus speak words that tell us that he is a Good Shepherd who cares for us, is interested in what is happening in our lives, who empathizes and encourages us. It assures us of the care, guidance, and presence of a loving God.

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. Jesus says, "My sheep know my voice, and I know them. They follow me, and I give them eternal life, so that they will never be lost. No one can snatch them out of my hand. My Father gave them to me, and he is greater than all others. No one can snatch them from his hands, and I am one with the Father" (John 10:27-30).

Artists have taken up this theme and pictured Jesus holding a lamb, or carrying a lamb on his shoulders, or watching over sheep. Jesus is the one who cares, the one who saves the lost, and rescues from trouble. He is the one who is intimately and individually concerned about each one of his sheep. He provides his sheep with everything they need. He is the one whose staff and rod defend the sheep if any danger should come their way. We are led to think of what would have happened to a lost lamb if Jesus did not rescue it. Even if that lamb was wild and independent of all help, the shepherd doesn’t give up. The image of the Good Shepherd is one of love, care, protection, intimacy and closeness.

The sheep depended on the shepherd. They gladly followed him because they knew he could be trusted because he lived among his sheep, slept among them, walked with them, fed them, guided, directed and protected them, knew each sheep by name. All this builds up a mental image of someone with an intense love for our total well-being at every turn of our life. This is a description of how Jesus feels about each one of us. Big business thinks of us as a number. Jesus knows us by name.

By using this shepherd imagery Jesus is connecting himself to the Old Testament imagery that we read of in Psalm 23. The writer refers to the Lord as my shepherd. There nothing else I need. I will not be afraid be. You are close beside me.

No doubt there are times when it seems that Jesus is a million miles away. We have prayed for help in times of sickness and the pain is as intense as ever. We have asked him to guide us through some difficult decisions but we have blundered on making one mistake after another. We have wanted him to watch over our loved ones, but they have still been caught up in trouble and bad decisions. But the fact is Jesus hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s right here with us. He knows what is happening in our lives. He knows what is going through our minds and how restless and anxious we are - he will use his power to help and support us. Jesus’ promise is good even when we are doubting and despairing. Jesus says, "My sheep hear my voice." And that voice is never far off or distant from us. It is heard in the preaching and teaching of the Church, in the scriptures, in prayer, through the witness of faithful Christians, and in the events of human life,

Even though we are down and almost out, we are assured that we are in the arms of the everlasting shepherd who lovingly supports and strengthens us in our weakest and most painful moments. Like the lamb that is often pictured in Jesus’ arms, we can be at peace and feel safe in the arms of our loving shepherd.

This reminds me of a passage from the prophet Isaiah in the Old Testament where the people are in trouble and ask, "Has God forgotten us"? God answers, "Never! Can a mother forget her nursing child? Can she feel no love for a child she has borne? But even if that were possible, I would not forget you! See, I have written your name on my hand" Isaiah 49:15-16). Those words are just as applicable to us today as they were three thousand years ago. God feels the same way about us as he did back then. He even gave his life for the sheep.

This Fourth Sunday of Easter is called “Good Shepherd Sunday.” Today, as we reflect on Jesus in his role as the Good Shepherd, we think about the need for Good Shepherds for the local communities scattered throughout the world in towns and villages. We think about our need for priests, good priests, priests who will lead us and serve us and bring us the sacraments. But this passage about the Good Shepherd has implications for all of us who are followers of Jesus. We are challenged to share his concern for those who are in trouble, for those who suffer injustice, for the sick and for the poor. It is not good enough for us to say to those suffering "You should trust in Jesus to make things work out for you." As his followers, we share the same concerns as he has, and show our love in very practical ways, as Jesus did. It may be inconvenient to offer assistance, it may cost us time, effort and money, but love demands that this be done.

What I am saying is that we become shepherds to one another. We are to be shepherds to one another as members of St. Therese parish. We are to be shepherds to one another in our families, to one another at work, among our friends. Just as Jesus guides and protects his sheep, mothers and fathers guide and protect the lambs he has given to us in our families. Just as Jesus shepherds us with patience and love, we shepherd those lives whom God has entrusted to us. Just as Jesus comforts and helps us, husbands and wives comfort and help one another. We are called to be shepherds to one another.

As the horrible and tragic events of this past week have shown us, we never know what tomorrow will bring, but we do know that we have a loving shepherd who walks with us through the good and bad. And one day when we must walk through the valley of darkness and death he will walk with us and lead us to the glorious new life beyond the grave. Because we have a loving shepherd, goodness and love will follow us all our lives and we will live in the house of the Lord forever.

Funeral Homily for Frank Litts

Revealed and Recognized 

A Funeral Homily for Frank Litts 

April 15, 2013 

As you know, we’re currently in the midst of the beautiful, glorious season of Easter – a time for us to reflect upon, celebrate, and rejoice over Jesus rising from the dead, conquering death and making everlasting life with him a possibility for us – a reality that Frank lived his whole life in the hope of, a reality that he now enjoys.

Over the past few Sundays in our liturgy, we’ve heard the accounts of the post-resurrection appearances of Jesus, those times after the Easter event, that he appeared to his disciples alive, proving to them the validity of his teachings, proving to them the validity of who he had claimed to be, proving to them that the hope that they (and we) had in him was not in vain. The Gospels record five such appearances, but they allude to many more.

Yesterday at mass, I was struck by that fact that in each of these appearances, Jesus revealed himself in a different way, and it was through the disciples faith that they were able to recognize the presence of the Risen Lord in their midst. Last night, as I was preparing this homily, I realized that the ways Jesus revealed himself to his disciples after his resurrection are the same ways that he makes his presence known to us today, but, just like the disciples two thousand years ago, it takes faith to be able to be able to recognize his presence in our lives. Today, we honor and celebrate a man of tremendous faith, our beloved Frank. So, for a few minutes, let’s reflect upon those five post-resurrection appearances of Jesus, the unique ways that Jesus revealed himself in them, and the similar ways that Jesus revealed himself to Frank throughout his life.

On Easter Sunday, we heard the account of how Mary Magdalene went to the tomb early in the morning to anoint the body of Jesus. But when she arrived there, she found that the stone, which sealed the tomb, had been rolled away and the tomb was empty. Distraught, she ran to someone she mistook to be a gardener and asked him, “Please sir, can you tell me where they have taken the body of Jesus?” Mary Magdalene’s eyes were blinded to the fact that the very person she was speaking to was, in fact, the person whose body she sought. And it was only when Jesus spoke her name, “Mary,” that the blinders were removed from her eyes and she realized that the person she stood in front of was her beloved Lord; and she was filled with great joy. Can you imagine the great joy with which Frank was filled last Thursday when he heard that same voice call his name, “Frank.” As we will hear in this coming Sunday’s gospel, Jesus tells us that he is the Good Shepherd and that his sheep know and recognize his voice. It’s a voice that Frank recognized. It was the still, small inaudible voice that he had heard and followed throughout his life, but on Thursday, Frank heard this voice in a new and marvelous way, calling his name, calling him to himself, calling him into the place that he had prepared for him.

Later, that first Easter Sunday, we’re told of two men who were travelling from Jerusalem to a town about seven miles away called Emmaus. Jesus, whose appearance was once again hidden from these disciples, came and accompanied them on their journey. He asked what they were talking about and what made them so sad. They answered by asking him if he were the only person in Jerusalem who hadn’t heard about what happened to Jesus of Nazareth, the one that they had hoped would be the Messiah. And that now, some in their group had claimed that he had risen from the dead. As they walked together, Jesus, in the guise of the stranger, opened up the scriptures to them, and taught them how it was necessary for the Messiah to suffer and to die. Upon arriving at Emmaus, the men invited this stranger to have supper with them. And at the meal, Jesus repeated what he had done the previous Thursday. He took bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to them. And suddenly, they knew! They knew that this “stranger” whom they had walked with those long seven miles was their resurrected Lord! Even though it was late, even though they were tired from their day’s journey, they ran back to Jerusalem to tell the Apostles that they had seen Jesus – that he revealed himself to them in the breaking of the bread. The “breaking of the bread” – that was the original way that the early Christians described what we call the Eucharist. Frank certainly recognized his Risen Lord in the Communion that he received each Sunday, in the Eucharist that he so loved to distribute as a Eucharistic minister. That truly was one of the greatest joys in Frank’s life! Whether he was assigned or not, Frank arrived at this church every Sunday wearing his Eucharistic Minister’s cross, hoping that, even if he wasn’t assigned, he would have the opportunity and privilege to serve. Nothing, not even illness, not even wearing an oxygen tank, stopped Frank from participating in this ministry that he dearly loved and serving his Lord, whose presence he, like the disciples, recognized in the breaking of the bread.

Scripture goes on to tell us about the occasion when Jesus appeared to his Apostles and revealed to them that it truly was he by showing them his hands and his side, the marks of his suffering. And I’m sure that over the past year, as his health began to decline, Frank recognized our Lord in his sufferings and recalled Jesus’ words, that to be a true disciple of his it necessitates that we, like Jesus, take up our cross daily and follow him.

Yesterday at mass, we heard the account of Jesus appearing to his disciples after his resurrection at the Sea of Tibereas. Once again, the disciples didn’t initially recognize Jesus. Even though they had been fishing all night and had caught nothing, Jesus tells them to set out again and to drop their nets. And when they do, their effort results in a catch so large that the nets were at the point of tearing. John yells to Peter, “It is the Lord!” How did John now realize that this stranger on the shore was Jesus? Because he recognized him in the memory of that same exact thing happening three years before when Jesus first called them to be his Apostles. Over the past several months, I’m sure Frank had many occasions to review his memories, but now to see them in a way he never saw them before - and to see and appreciate all the times that Jesus was present to him in the events and in the people of his life, especially in his beloved wife Hildegard, and in his children and grandchildren, in his friends, in the men with whom he served in the military, and in his co-workers at the Morris County Parks Department.

The last time Jesus revealed himself to his disciples was the day that he ascended to his Father in heaven. At that time, Jesus was revealed to them his glorified self as he was taken up in a cloud out of their sight. This is how Jesus reveals himself now and forever more to Frank! Frank now has the reward of seeing the Lord that he served so well for 84 years, as God, in all his glory, in his kingdom. Scripture tells us, “Eye has not seen nor ear has heard of the riches in store for those in the Kingdom of Heaven.” What a sight that must be! What a sight Frank now has the privilege to behold.

Yes, during this Easter season we hear the wonderful accounts of the times and ways that Jesus revealed himself to his followers after his resurrection. But it took people of faith to recognize that Jesus was in their midst. It takes a person of faith, like Frank Litts to do the same today. There is no doubt that Frank was a man of faith. So many times Frank said to me, “I just love God so much!” . . . and we could tell that he did, that those were not just words. Frank was blessed by God in so many ways. But a great man of faith is not only blessed but becomes a blessing to all those around him. And Frank demonstrated that faith and that love constantly in the joyful way he lived his life, in the optimistic way he met every situation, in the perpetual smile on his face, in the kind words that he offered to every person he met.

Hildegard, the priests and deacons, the parishioners of St. Therese, share with you the great sense of loss and grief that you are experiencing. But we also share with Frank the tremendous joy and peace he now experiences in the presence of the God he loved so much, the God he served so well.

As Frank was a blessing to us during his life, may he continue to bless us . . . through the memories that we have of him, and through his intercession to God on our behalf.

Third Sunday of Easter (Cycle C)

Déjà Vu All Over Again 

Acts 5:27b-32; Revelation 5:11-14; John 2:1-19 

After being frustrated by the rain delay that interrupted the Yankees game the other night, I decided that I’d pop into my DVD player the movie “61,” which is about the rivalry between Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris in 1961 to break the single season homerun record. As I watched the movie, I was reminded of all of the great players over the years who have worn Yankee pinstripes, from Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig, to Joe DiMaggio, Whitey Ford, Thurman Munson, Reggie Jackson, all the way to Derek Jeter today. And when I first read today’s gospel earlier in the week to prepare my homily, believe it or not, another Yankee great came to mind: Yogi Berra. Yogi, I think, is probably the only player in the history of the game who will probably be remembered, not so much for what he did on the field, but for what he said off the field: those innocent little remarks that just don’t seem to come out right. “Yogi-isms they’re affectionately called.

For example, one day while Yogi was showering in his Montclair home, his son Larry called into him: “Hey Dad, the man is here for the Venetian blind.” Yogi, thinking that the “Venetian blind” was a charitable organization to help blind people in Venice, called back, “Well, go in my pocket and give him a couple bucks for a donation and get rid of him!” Another time, Mary Lindsay, the wife of then New York Mayor John Lindsay, commented to Yogi that he looked cool despite the heat, to which Yogi replied, “Thanks . . . You don’t look so hot either.” And one day while driving with Yogi, a concerned Phil Rizzuto commented, “Hey Yogi, I think we’re lost.” Yogi answered, “Yeah, but we’re making great time!”

But the Yogi-ism that came to mind as I first read today’s gospel was: “It’s déjà vu all over again” because what struck me about today’s gospel from John, which takes place after Jesus’ resurrection, is that it is so reminiscent of a passage from Luke’s Gospel that takes place at the very beginning of Jesus’ ministry. A very similar scenario to today’s gospel: Peter is fishing in the Sea of Tiberias with no success. Jesus tells him to lower his nets one more time, and it results in a catch so large that the nets are to the point of tearing. And both gospels end with Jesus’ call: “Come follow me.” Once I recognized the similarities in these two gospels I began to wonder: why did Jesus bring Peter back to the same place, to the same set of circumstances? Why did Jesus find it necessary to renew, at this time, the same invitation to “come follow” that he gave Peter three years earlier?

I think the answer to these questions might be connected in some way to the three times Jesus asks Peter, “Do you love me?” Traditionally, it has been suggested, that these three questions are put to Peter because of the three times he denied Jesus. I don’t know if I’m really comfortable with this explanation because, it seems to me, that Peter’s denial of Jesus wasn't just limited to the three times he denied him after Jesus was arrested, but his denials are there, subtly and implicitly, throughout the gospels. And so, perhaps, Jesus requires a new commitment on the part of Peter because of all that has transpired over those three years since his first invitation to come follow him.

I’ve always found the repetition of the same question three times by Jesus baffling. But perhaps it’s not the same question at all. Maybe Jesus was asking Peter three altogether different questions. Luke's gospel provides us with what Jesus said, but it can’t address how he said it. So I wonder if the first time Jesus might have asked, “Peter, do YOU love me?” And the second time, “Peter, do you LOVE me?” And the third time, “Peter, do you love ME?”

When Jesus asks Peter, “Do YOU love me?” perhaps it’s meant to address Peter’s rejection of Jesus’ view of discipleship. So many times throughout his ministry, Jesus spelled out the conditions for discipleship: things like “Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross and follow me.” “Whoever wishes to be great among you shall be your servant; whoever wishes to be first among you shall be your slave.” And at the Last Supper, Jesus gives a final and most vivid example of what discipleship is all about when he washes the feet of his disciples. But when he comes to Peter, Peter says, “Lord you will never wash my feet.” He says this I think because he realizes, even before Jesus explains what he has done, the implication of the act: that if Jesus, the Master and teacher serves, that necessitates that Peter do the same. “Peter, do YOU love me?” is a call to discipleship, which is always a personal and individual call that demands a personal and individual response. Peter’s answer, “Yes Lord, you know that I love you” is Peter’s ultimate personal acceptance of not only Jesus’ call, but also to all that discipleship demands: a total and complete life of service to others.

And then Jesus asks, “Do you LOVE me?” Jesus taught that no greater love is there than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. And at the Last Supper, Peter brags that that is precisely the type of love he has for Jesus. “Lord, I am prepared to go to prison and to die with you,” he proclaims. But we know that same night Peter denies having any intimacy with Jesus; he denies even knowing him. And so, perhaps Jesus’ second question, “Do you LOVE me?” comes in response to Peter’s rejection of the personal, intimate relationship of love that Jesus offers. That invitation is to “love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind” . . . more than things . . . more than others . . . more than self. And so, Peter’s response, “Yes Lord, you know that I love you” is Peter’s admission that love is more than just words, and is the complete and unconditional gift of self to God.

And then finally Jesus asks, “Do you love ME?” Perhaps what prompts this third question is the time when Peter rejected Jesus’ view of his messiahship when he revealed that “the Son of Man must suffer greatly and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests and the scribes, and be killed.” We are told that after Jesus said this, Peter took Jesus aside and began to rebuke him, to which Jesus responded, “Get behind me Satan. You are thinking not as God does, but as human beings do.” It is not that Peter doesn’t know who the messiah is (he proclaimed Jesus to be the messiah just a few moments before). It’s that Peter has a misconception of what it means to be messiah and cannot accept Jesus’ vision. And so, after his resurrection, when Jesus asks Peter, “Do you love ME?” Peter’s response, “Yes Lord, you know that I love you” is an affirmation that he is now willing to accept Jesus according to Jesus’ own terms; to accept him as he is, for whom he is, for what he came to be, the Suffering Servant.

And so, in today’s gospel, Jesus brings Peter to the same place, to the same set of circumstances, to the same call to “Come follow me” as he did three years before. With Jesus’ initial call, Peter didn’t know what he was in for. His response was a pure leap of faith into the unknown. But now, the cards are on the table. This time, Peter realizes all the implications. And so the renewed call to come follow is one that will involve more than just faith. It will demand Peter’s trust and his total love. This call by Jesus is more than just a call to discipleship, it’s a call to ministry. He doesn't just call him to be a “fisher of men,” as he did three years before, but to be a shepherd, a leader of his flock. Jesus instructs him, “Feed my sheep.”

The same three questions asked of Peter, Jesus poses to us today. Are we for Christ? Are we comfortable with our discipleship of service? Do we put him and his kingdom first? Do we love him more than anything else? Do we accept Jesus for who he is, or do we distort our image of Christ into what we want him to be? Jesus asks each of us, “Do you love me? Come follow me.” And so, today, like Peter, let us renew our commitment to discipleship. Like Peter, let us realize that discipleship is more than a call to someTHING; it is a call to someONE. And like Peter, let us realize that the call to discipleship is ongoing, that it is the invitation to hear Christ’s voice and discern his will each and every day of our lives.

Because, as Yogi would say, "It ain’t over till it’s over.”

Second Sunday of Easter

Peace and Faith 

Acts 5:12-16; Revelation 1:9-11a, 12-13, 17-19; John 20:19-31 

“Peace be with you,” Jesus says to his post-Resurrection disciples. “Peace be with you,” he says to each one of us today. Peace is his gift to us. Peace is the legacy he leaves with us now that he is risen, now that he is victorious, now that he reigns with Father and Holy Spirit in eternal glory, as we remain on earth following in faith our Risen Lord. “Peace be with you.”

Are you at peace today? I’m not asking, “Are you complacent, are you numb, are you zoned out, mellow, disengaged? But rather, “Are you at peace - in balance, in touch with your Risen Lord?” Peace was defined by St. Thomas Aquinas as “the tranquility of right order.” Are you tranquil today? His victory is our victory. It’s not so much that we’ve picked a winner, but that a winner – an eternal winner, the Jesus of glory – has picked us. Therefore, be at peace. Let nothing disturb you. “Peace be with you.”

Today’s gospel puts us in the midst of that band of close disciples who huddled there in the Upper Room. He showed them his hands and his side where hours earlier there was blood, but now they see not marks of torture but badges of honor, signs of victory. He will suffer no more; he is king forever.

“Peace be with you,” he greets them again the following Sunday. And then, to the Apostle who must see before he believes, he says, “Put your finger here and see my hands, and bring your hand and put it into my side, and do not be unbelieving, but believe.’”

How often have we said, “Seeing is believing?” Most times it’s said after we’ve been let down, disappointed by someone we trusted, someone we put our faith in, after resolutions to change that never seem to happen; after an endless stream of promises that are never fulfilled. But the fact is you don’t BELIEVE what you see; you KNOW what you see. You have sensory evidence, experiential knowledge of what you see. You believe only what you cannot see. You take it to be true on the testimony of another, or something deep within your being assures you that something is true, not based on any direct sensible experience of that which is believed.

Surely we all have doubts. But faith overcomes doubt to the point that we surrender ourselves to that which is unseen, unreasonable, illogical, and defies common sense. Faith demands that we abandon the attitude that SEEING is BELIEVING, and instead embrace the conviction that BELIEVING is LOVE. What did Jesus say to Thomas? “Do not be unbelieving, but believe.” Thomas answered as each of us can answer out of the depths of our doubt, “My Lord and my God.”

Then Jesus spoke the words to him that are really intended for all of us: “Have you come to believe because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.”

That’s you! That’s me! We haven’t seen the Risen Lord and yet we believe that he did indeed rise from the dead. Even if we had seen him when he walked the earth, we, like Mary Magdalene and all his other disciples, would have to make a post-Resurrection adjustment. We would have to learn, as they did during these privileged moments when he appeared to them after rising from the tomb, that the physical contacts of the past are no longer possible. If they want to touch him now, cling to him now, follow him from now on, they would have to touch, cling, and follow with the embrace of faith. That is exactly our situation today.

Believe and peace will follow. Believe and balance will come into control. Be in touch with your Risen Lord – and remember you can touch him now only by faith – and feel a marvelous and profound peace settle into your heart.

So if you hesitated to say "yes" to my earlier inquiry about whether or not you are now at peace, or perhaps said “no” within the quiet confines of your heart, if you admitted to the absence of peace within your heart, perhaps you were actually admitting to a deficit of faith. And if that’s you, today’s gospel should give you great consolation and hope, for just look at what happened to Thomas.

“Do not be unbelieving, but believe.” Let the “Amen” you say today during Communion be a humble affirmation of your faith in our Risen Lord, whose body, blood, soul and divinity you stand before about to receive. In your heart, intend that that simple two syllable word (which is so often said without thinking) will mirror the profound affirmation of faith of the once-doubting Thomas: “My Lord and my God!”

Just say it and let the healing begin. Let the doubts diminish. For after all, if Jesus conquered death, if his Father raised him from the tomb, they together with their Holy Spirit can conquer your doubts; they alone can help you to believe that which cannot be seen; they can deepen your faith; they alone can bring you true peace.

In today’s gospel, Jesus tells the Apostles, “As the Father has sent me, so I also send you.” Yes, we too are sent . . . sent out to the members of our families, to our friends and neighbors, to our co-workers, to the world . . . to proclaim our faith in our Risen Lord by word and through example, and to share the peace which comes through belief in him and through following his way.

There is a famous prayer attributed to St. Francis of Assisi. You’ve heard it and prayed it often:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is discord, unity;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is error, truth;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is sadness, joy;
Where there is darkness, light.
     O Divine Master,
     Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;
     To be understood, as to understand;
     To be loved, as to love.
     For it is in giving that we receive.
     It is in pardoning that we are pardoned.
     It is in dying that we are born to everlasting life.

Those words are certainly the example of living that Jesus set for us. They are the way that St. Francis lived his faith. They are the challenge that another man named Francis, our new pope, has given us. Today, let’s make that prayer our own.

Peace be with you.

Fifth Sunday of Lent (C)

Go and Sin No More 

Isaiah 43: 16-2; Philippians 3: 8-14; John 8: 1-1

The usual name for the story we have just heard is “The Woman Caught in Adultery” or “The Adulterous Woman.” It is certainly understandable why it would be called this; after all, she is a major player in the story.

Yet, while she is A major player in the story, she is not THE major player in the story. Jesus is THE central player of this story, for, without him, the story would have simply been a story of a stoning.

Ultimately, it’s about Jesus, who seeks reconciliation . . .
- not judgment,
- not punishment,
- not condemnation,
- not even-ing the score,
- but one thing, and one thing only: reconciliation.

And what exactly is reconciliation? Reconciliation is where forgiveness and sorrow meet. It’s easy to confuse reconciliation with forgiveness. Forgiveness is an intrinsic part of reconciliation, but it’s not all there is to it. Reconciliation also involves true sorrow – true contrition, which is not just an emotion, but also a resolution to not offend again - never!

Reconciliation can only occur when two parties come together in self-giving . . .
- the self-giving of love outpoured in forgiving
- the self-giving of humility outpoured in apology
- and the resolution not to hurt again.

This is very important. It’s easy for us to see in today’s gospel that Jesus forgives this woman at the hands of death; and it can be easy for us to know that he forgives us the same. The danger is overlooking that what Jesus is seeking to accomplish is not just that woman know she is forgiven, but rather, that she be reconciled with God. And that reconciliation can only occur when she chooses “to sin no more.”

You see, the forgiveness of God is, in itself, not the whole story of our salvation. Because we have been made as persons with the freedom to choose, to act, God does not foist his mercy on us - God offers it to us so that we may freely respond. Yet, freedom always has consequences. And the consequence of opting out of reconciliation with God is that life here and now can continue as it has been . . .
- no interruptions in the flow of life,
- no transformation of attitudes,
- no conversion of behaviors,
- no struggles with what is good or what is evil.

Of course, the other consequences are . . .
- no growth as a human person,
- no assuming of the dignity of a child of God,
- no citizenship in heaven,
- no eternal life.

The consequence of embracing God’s forgiveness through sorrow and conversion brings with it the struggle with good and evil, the exertion to transform behaviors, and the endeavor to convert attitudes to those of Christ’s own attitudes. This is not an option for the faint of heart, but it is a choice that carries with it the realization of our human dignity as we live more fully in the image of God, the growth into full stature in Christ, and the eternal life in the presence of our Messiah, who will embrace us, saying, “Well done, good and faithful servant; come, share your Master’s joy.”

Recently, a good friend sent me this poem by Maya Angelou.  It's called "I'm A Christian" and I think it fits very well with the theme of today's gospel:

When I say... "I am a Christian"

I'm not shouting "I'm clean livin."

I'm whispering "I was lost,"

Now I'm found and forgiven.

When I say..."I am a Christian"

I don't speak of this with pride.

I'm confessing that I stumble

and need CHRIST to be my guide.

When I say... "I am a Christian"

I'm not trying to be strong.

I'm professing that I'm weak

and need HIS strength to carry on.

When I say... "I am a Christian"

I'm not bragging of success.

I'm admitting I have failed

and need God to clean my mess.

When I say... "I am a Christian"

I'm not claiming to be perfect,

My flaws are far too visible

but, God believes I am worth it.

When I say... "I am a Christian"

I still feel the sting of pain,

I have my share of heartaches

So I call upon His name.

When I say... "I am a Christian"

I'm not holier than thou,

I'm just a simple sinner

who received God's good grace, somehow.

We're nearing the end of our Lenten journey. Yet, there's still time of us, two more weeks, to examine our Lenten practices (or lack thereof). Has this journey been one of moving towards reconciliation or has it been one of just doing or not doing certain things for forty days? Has this journey been oriented towards some sort of permanent change for the better in my life, or has it been one of whiling away the time until Easter?

For most of us, we have been on this journey with its ups and downs. Once again, God offers us forgiveness; and once again, the choice is ours. All we have to do is accept that forgiveness and all it entails, and eternal life is ours. That’s what today’s passage from Scripture is all about. And, if you think about it, it’s what the reality that we will be celebrating in two weeks is all about, as well.

Fourth Sunday of Lent (Cycle C)

The Truly Prodigal One 

Joshua 5:9a, 10-12; 2 Corinthians 5:17-21; Luke 15:1-3, 11-32 

It feels as if we're dropping in on old friends in our Gospel today, doesn’t it? We have visited with them many times-this Father and his two sons. This story is considered the pearl of the parables. Charles Dickens, the great English author, has called it “the greatest story ever told.” Some hail it is the finest short story in literature. Poet, Robert Bridges, has judged it as a “flawless piece of art.” Small wonder that through the centuries, this story has inspired the artwork of Rembrandt, the music of DeBussey, and the poetry of John Masefield. One theologian has said that the story of the prodigal son captures “the essence of the Christian faith.” It is the gospel in a nutshell. If you truly understand this story…of the father, the prodigal, and the older brother, you will begin to grasp the central thrust of Jesus and the core message of the whole New Testament.

What image of God do you best relate to? Some people relate best to the God of Genesis 1 and 2 - the great creative power, full of awe, wonder and strength. Some have found God in the justice discourses of the prophets Amos, Isaiah, Jeremiah and Micah. Some have found God in the imagery and mysticism of Revelation. And I have found God in all of those places as well. But when I close my eyes and picture God, invariably, I come back to the story of the Extravagant Father that we hear about in today’s parable. This is the God I believe in. This, for me, sums up God's nature.

Even when I am most absurd or even mean-spirited, God lets me be who I am at the moment. He knows my character and he knows that I will act outside of that character when I forget that I’ve been created in his image and likeness on occasion. And his love and trust in me is so great that he will allow me to distort my character, distort his image within me, and wallow in self-centeredness.

And he waits for me. He sends little reminders now and again, but mostly he waits. He knows me well enough to know that when I get tired of my self-imposed exile from him, I'll come home. He loves me enough to let me exercise my free will even when it is opposed to his will and law. He simply waits for me to come to myself.

And when I do, he rushes out to meet me. He doesn't let me offer to be a slave. He doesn't seem to care about the long-winded speeches of apology I've prepared in my mind as a guilt offering for my disobedience. He cares about me. He rejoices, he celebrates when I come home to him. He wraps me in the robe of forgiveness. He adorns me with the jewels of his eternal presence. He feeds me with foods I could only have dreamed of while traveling distances alienated from him.

That's God, for me. He is always waiting by the door for me, me as wretched and low as I might become. He's waiting for me. And he rushes out to meet me as I make my first step toward him. Oh to feel those arms around my neck. To feel the hot and sweet breath of his kisses on my neck. Abba, Daddy. I'm home.

Have you ever placed a very young child in front of a mirror? Children enjoy seeing a face looking back at them as they enjoy seeing all faces, but they don't realize that the face they see is them. Then, all of a sudden, they begin to note the connection between their motions and the motions reflected in the mirror. And their expression changes, as if to say: "Hey, that's me!" The same thing happens to us when we hear this story. We hear it at first as an interesting tale with wonderfully drawn characters, but the more we listen the more we realize, "Hey, that's me."

We have all been the younger son. We've all forgotten who we are and whose we are. We've all distorted our characters, distorted the image of God within us, and wallowed in self centeredness. That's part of our brokenness.

And we have all been the older brother - self righteous, judgmental. We've looked at the wretched masses and turned our faces away from them. We've refused to forgive. We've placed our lives on the pedestal to be the example for all to see, not realizing that we're as distorted and broken as our brother.

And, we've all experienced the love of the Extravagant Father. Maybe in different ways. And maybe some of us are still in the process of turning, of returning to ourselves. It's not a one time deal. Our extravagant father runs out to us time and time again. He's there for us whenever we fall into sin and repent and return to the Lord.

But here's the challenge. After we've come home. After we've experienced the embrace of extravagance. After we've been robed with forgiveness. After we've tasted that roasted calf at the table of acceptance. After we've been the younger son. After we've been the older son. Can we become the Extravagant Father? After finding out what it means to be loved by God, the very essence of what it means to be an extravagant Father - can we be the image of that Extravagance here in our lives?

The image of the Father that Jesus presents to us in this parable can be a little bit unsettling. It is an image of God to whom punishment, vengeance, recrimination are empty words, a God who asks of us that we simply accept the totally unconditional, loving forgiveness he offers us, and who asks that we offer the same to one another.

That is our journey. A journey through being Prodigal children, self-righteous siblings and on into becoming the Extravagant parent. Do we love as he does? Can we rush out to meet those that have hurt us? Do we truly forgive even the mean spiritedness that the Extravagant Father forgave? He is the Abba – Daddy who rushes out, throws down his cane and dances in the streets as he sees the lost return. Can we do the same?

According to the Complete Oxford Dictionary, the word prodigal was not applied to the parable until the 15th century. But according to that dictionary, “prodigal” means "wastefully or recklessly extravagant;" "giving or yielding profusely;" "lavishly abundant." You know something, for five hundred years now, we’ve gotten it wrong! Because, in a real sense, the most “prodigal” person in the parable is the father! He not only gives his property over to his sons – he lavishes love, forgiveness and acceptance on both of his children. You and are called to do the same. You and I are called to be chips off the old block. You and I are called to be true prodigal sons and daughters of a most Extravagant Father.

Parable of the Prodigal Son - Meditation 3

The Prodigal's Brother

I don’t understand! It isn’t fair! I was there when he asked my father for his inheritance. He so much as disowned himself from us. He no longer wanted to be called son. All he cared about were the riches my father worked so hard to gain.

I saw the tears in my father’s eyes when he took those riches and started out the gate. I felt the pain in his heart as he watched him continue down the path. He never once turned and looked back! He was proud of the dishonor he bestowed upon my father’s house.

This thoughtless son humiliated our good name. The embarrassment I felt when I went back into the fields with the other workers! They knew what happened. I had to endure their stares and gossip; and I had done nothing wrong! There I would sweat under the burning sun from morning till night, listening to the workers tell me stories of my brother’s sins in faraway towns. The mockery continued until I pretended I no longer cared.

And that was hard in the beginning, because I did care. I hoped then that my brother would come to his senses and return to us. But each time I heard another story about his life of scandal, I began to care less and less. Finally, my pain turned to anger, and my anger to disgust. In my mind, he was gone forever, and no longer my brother – just as he wanted. I could bear no longer to hear the stories about him and demanded the workers keep quiet about such things. In time, my brother became a distant memory, one I had hoped to forget about once and for all.

And then today, after breaking my back in the field, my hands and fingers ingrained with the very soil this lost son had spat upon, instead of coming home to find rest, I find singing and dancing, for the sinner had returned!

I don’t understand it. He dishonored my father. He lived an adulterous life. He gave his money to gambling, and drink, and sin. I was the one who stayed behind! I did everything that was asked of me! I did what was right and noble and good! Yet my brother receives the reward. Everything has been restored to him!

There is something that I do understand, though. My father has compassion, forgiveness and love far greater than mine. And it was he who suffered the greater pain, yet he still forgives. I have respected my father for all he has taught me, and I respect him now. I will surrender my pride and bury my anger. And, while I don’t fully understand, for my father’s sake, I will show my brother compassion. For my father has taught me how to forgive, and so . . . I too will forgive.

Parable of the Prodigal Son - Meditation 2

The Forgiving Father 

What would you have done? Perhaps you think me foolish. Perhaps I am, but they say love makes fools of us all. And I do love my two sons more than anything else in the world.

A great fortune I intended to leave him. Everything that I had worked so hard for I wanted to be his so that his future would be secure. In life I shared with him all that I was; in death I wanted to share all that I had. What a legacy I had hoped to bequeath him! My fortune, yes, but more . . . a family name: honored and respected. A name that stood for something. And values . . . like kindness and generosity, a love of what is right and good and decent, and a wisdom that finds its origin more in the heart than in the mind. All this I had hoped he would be heir to. I prayed that these things would have an even greater value to him than gold and silver.

Sure I was devastated that day when he came to me and demanded his share of the inheritance. It wasn’t so much the money, but the fact that he wanted to leave, to separate himself from me . . . that’s what hurt the most. He was going to get the money eventually anyway; couldn’t he wait? It was as if he were saying that my fortune was more important to him than I was to him. Since he was going to inherit it at my death anyway, it was as if he was telling me that my life and my love did not have value to him, only my money.

I guess I could have said no. I could have refused to give him the inheritance. In my heart, I knew he wasn’t quite ready for the responsibility that comes with such great wealth. But how could I hold him back? Sometimes you just have to let go. My heart was to the point of breaking as I saw him pass from my sight as he went off to pursue his own pleasure. As he left, my prayer was with him: “May you be as rich in virtue and wisdom, my son, as you are in gold and silver. And when there is nothing else, know that you will always be rich in my love.”

Oh I heard the reports: the gambling . . . the drinking . . . the prostitutes. I heard it all. It wasn’t so much the squandering of his life’s fortune that hurt so much, it was the absolute rejection of everything I hold dear, the values that I tried to impart to him throughout his life. How could he reject everything I have stood for all my life? I was so deeply hurt, but I thought how much he must be hurting now after hitting rock bottom. How humiliating it must have been for him to be tending swine on that farm, an animal considered so low, so dirty, so despicable by my people that, under our law, we are forbidden to eat of its flesh.

What should I do, I wondered. Should I forget him as if he were dead to me? Should I perhaps go to him and force him to come home? No, I believed in him. All I could do was hope that he believed in me. I had faith in him that he would somehow see the error of his ways and would reject the sinful lifestyle that he had taken on. At the same time, I prayed that he would feel secure enough in my love for him to know that my forgiveness was his for the asking. And so, I climbed a high hill top every evening. With every sunset, I hoped to catch a glimpse of my returning son. I waited. And I waited. And I waited.

Nothing could have prepared me for our reunion. I had played the scene over and over in my mind. What would he say? What would I say? Although I had played the scene over and over, time and time again in my imagination, I never imagined I would react as I actually did. When I caught sight of him a long way off, I was so overcome with emotion that I totally lost myself and ran to him. I was moved to tears when I drew closer. Words choked in my throat and I could say nothing. The well-rehearsed speeches were gone from my mind. Nothing I could possible say to him anyway could possibly convey my joy. And so, I let my tears and my embrace do the talking for me.

Finally, he broke from my embrace and through his tears said, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. O no longer deserve to be called your son. Treat me as you would one of your servants.” How difficult it must have been for him to admit to himself he was wrong – how much harder it must have been for him to admit it to me! It must have been difficult for him to say, “I’m sorry.” How much easier for me to say, “You’re forgiven.” As my riches were his, so too my love and my forgiveness was his.

I called to one of my servants, “Sandals on his feet!” – only slaves are barefoot and he is not my slave but my son! . . . “A ring for his finger!” - a signet ring with the family seal, for he has come home and is once again a member of my family! . . . “Quickly bring the finest robe and put it on him! Take the fatted calf and slaughter it! Let us celebrate with a feast, for this son of mine was dead, and has back to life; he was lost and now he has been found!”

Perhaps you think me foolish . . . perhaps just a sentimental old man. Perhaps you think I should have reacted differently . . . with anger . . . with resentment? Should I have held back my love and forgiveness till I had made him sweat a little? Forgive, you say . . . but never forget. I am who I am, and I must be true to myself. And so, my forgiveness is not halfhearted; it is total . . . complete . . . unconditional. After all, he is my son and I love him. What else could I do? What would you do?

Parable of the Prodigal Son - Meditation 1

The Prodigal

The call me the “prodigal,” and I guess that name suits me better than any other, for indeed that’s what I am: reckless . . . wasteful. And I guess there are a few other names you could add to the list, like black sheep of the family . . . ingrate . . . drunkard . . . sinner. But there is one name, though, that I never appreciated and one I fear I’ve lost forever. That name is “son.” 

I’m not going to bore you with all the sordid details; I’m sure you're familiar with them all too well. I guess that comes with the territory when your life is as infamous as mine.

I’ll admit to you that I’ve always been headstrong. I’ve always been selfish and self-centered. That always seems to be the root of it, doesn’t it? I’ve always had to have things go my own way. I’ve always had to have what I wanted, when I wanted it, in the way I wanted it. So I guess it’s not all too surprising that I did what I did. A lot of people in my predicament would point a finger, blame others. But I have no one to blame but myself. I've been travelling a road toward self-destruction practically my whole life.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. There’s nothing much else to do while tending swine all day but think. There’s nothing like rolling around in the mud with a bunch of pigs to set your priorities right. The thing is, I had it all and now I have nothing. I've sunk about as low as one person can sink. But it’s not the money. And it’s not that I’m hungry. It’s a lot more. For you see, I didn’t just squander my inheritance, I squandered my father’s love and trust. Money somehow I can recoup; food I can always scrounge for. But my father’s love . . . I just don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get that back.

Yes, I hunger. I do long to fill my stomach with the pods on which the swine are fed. But I hunger much more for my father . . . for his love and forgiveness . . . for him to make things right again like he used to when I was young. Yet I know that I am the one that has to make things right this time.

And so, I go back to my father. Perhaps I have a chance at his forgiveness. If he won’t take me back as his son, perhaps at least he’ll have me as his servant. I know that my father is tender and compassionate. He is slow to anger and rich in kindness and faithfulness. He is known to forgive faults and transgressions and sins. Today I will test where my father’s real wealth lies. Today I will see just how rich my father truly is!

Believe me, I’m not here looking for your sympathy, but neither do I want your judgment. For look within yourselves, my friends, and perhaps you’ll find a little bit of the prodigal there too. Some of you out there, are you really so much different from me? Yes, I squandered my inheritance, but are there gifts that you too waste? Gifts misused? Gifts unused? Gifts not even recognized? Yes, I was a drunk. But are some of you perhaps inebriated with a sense of your own self-importance or with power? Yes, I went to prostitutes. But what are the false loves that you chase after? . . . Money? Possessions? Prestige? Look within yourselves, my friends, and perhaps you will find a bit of me. Perhaps the road home is a journey we both need to take.

And so, I’m off. Wish me luck. I don’t know how all of this is going to turn out. The journey is a long one. But it’s worth it when you have a father like mine!

Third Sunday of Lent (Cycle C)

Of Tragedies, Fig Trees and Vine Dressers 

Exodus 3:1-8A,13-15; 1 Corinthians 10:1-6, 10-12; Luke 13:1-9 

If you use Twitter you know there are certain hot topics and personalities about which people tweet. They send out text messages composed of 140 characters or less expressing their opinions, comments, and views. Other folks who want to say more publish online blogs filled with their thoughts and musings and with news and commentary that they want to share with the digital world.

Topics that have recently trended on Twitter and on many blogs include the Academy Awards, the resignation of Pope Benedict, and the arrest of Oscar Pistorius for murder.

If there were digital sources of news and commentary at the time of Jesus, I am sure the two incidents that Jesus speaks about in today’s Gospel would have trended to the top. The first was the killing of certain people in Galilee at the order of Pilate, the Roman Governor. Apparently, Pilate had them killed while they were offering animal sacrifices and then had their blood mingled with that of the animals. The second incident was the death of 18 people in the area of Siloam in Jerusalem. Their lives were suddenly taken as they were crushed to death by a falling tower.

Both incidents got people talking. They were the hot topics of the day. People were asking if those murdered by Pilate and those killed by the tower were in some way deserving of their fate because of their sins. You see, the Jews at the time believed that if something bad happened to someone, it was God’s Will, and that person must have sinned, and what he or she suffered was a deserved punishment from God.

The fact is, even in our contemporary world, we sometimes think the same way, don’t we? When a meteor exploded near Chelyabinsk, Russia, right after Pope Benedict XVI announced he was resigning from the papacy, immediately people start saying, “God is angry.” The same was said when Hurricane Sandy devastated the New York tri-state area. We deserved it, of course; New York City being the modern equivalent of Sodom and Gomorrah. AIDS is the punishment from God for sexual immorality. And the reason I suffer from cancer is because of the sins of my past life.

When I was growing up on Long Island and a parishioner at St. Raphael’s in East Meadow, there was an endearing elderly couple, Charlie and Grace McNally, who attended the 7:00am mass every day. Charlie and Grace were former school teachers and never had any children. One Lenten season, Grace fell down the front steps of the church one morning as she was leaving mass and broke her hip during the fall.

She had immediate surgery, but something went wrong and within a few days, she died. Our parish priest, Fr. Whelan, stood by her husband Charlie’s side during the entire wake and was amazed at what he heard as people passed by to offer their sympathy.

One person told the grieving widower, "God must have had a plan for this, so you have to simply accept it." Another said, "It was God's will and we must live by it." Still another said, "Somehow God planned this to test your faith!!" And another said, "There is a sliver lining in every cloud. You will find God's reason behind this eventually."

Clearly, these were people struggling to deal with their pain and wanting to offer the husband some sense of hope in the face of his loss, but Fr. Whelan left the funeral home filled with a very strong sense of anger at what he called the "babbling" he heard that evening.

So he went back to the rectory and rewrote the beginning of his funeral homily. Now it started with these words, "My God does not push old ladies down church steps!!!"

He then went on to explain that God is not responsible for all the brokenness of this world, adding that if God is the author of death, how can he be at the same time the author of life as shown through the resurrection? Fr. Whelan said that either God is the God of the living or the God of the dead. You can't have it both ways.

In today’s gospel, Jesus refuses to get drawn into the “blame game debate.” As to if the tragedies that concerned the people were the result of personal sinfulness, Jesus says, “You are horribly mistaken.” Or as verses 3 and 5 put it, “By no means.” Instead, he moves the conversation in another direction. He says that both incidents – one of horrible human cruelty and the other a random accident – remind us of the fragile nature of life and the uncertainty of our having a tomorrow. Since that is the case, we need to focus on our own sins and our own need for change and repentance. We need to use the time we have to turn from sin. If we do not, Jesus says, “You will all perish as they did.” Eternal death awaits the sinner.

To emphasize his point, Jesus tells the parable about a fig tree that hasn't borne any fruit for three years. The owner wants it destroyed. But the man in charge of cultivating and cutting and pruning appeals to the owner to spare the tree: "Sir, leave it one more year," he says, "and give me time to dig around it and manure it. It may bear fruit next year; if not, then you can cut it down.”

Repentance is what today’s gospel is all about. As a matter of fact, in a passage of only nine verses, Jesus says it twice: “Repent!” Do we think he was kidding? I don’t think so, because he goes on to tell us the consequences if we don’t. In the matter of repentance, it's so easy sometimes to find ways of avoiding responsibility. But, clever as we may be at covering up and rationalizing our misdeeds, the consequences are merely postponed -- never avoided. No amount of covering up can free us from the consequences of our actions.

Repentance begins deep within and turns life upside-down for us, and right side up for God. Repentance reverses our priorities, upsets our values, turns our pockets inside-out. Repentance shatters our systems of security and hangs us on the thin thread we call the "Will of God." Repentance revolts against the sin we have loved and reconciles us to God, whom we have not loved.

As dark as today’s gospel seems, there is good news in all of this. In the "Parable of the Fig Tree," Jesus seems to be assuring us that while repentance is a matter of spiritual life and death, nevertheless God is patient. We have a Father who is the Good Vine dresser. He is the God of second chances. He helps us to meet the conditions required for a return to Grace. Like the attentive vinedresser, He provides us with the nourishment we need for spiritual growth.

This Lent, the Lord grants us another opportunity to turn away from the sin and selfishness that infects our life and to bear fruit – to live as those good, generous, forgiving, compassionate people that God expects us to be and that we promised to be at our baptism.

Lent is a time to repent of our own sins, not the sins of others. Lent is a time to plow up the ground, prepare the soil, heap fertilizer onto our souls, seek the Lord's will and way, and trust in the Lord's love and forgiveness.

This is the only day, the only Lent, we have to do what God expects. The future is not certain for any of us. Just ask the victims of Pilate or those killed by the falling tower. Now that's a message worth tweeting!