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.”

Palm Sunday (Cycle C)

TWO CROWDS – ONE VOICE

Isaiah 5:4-7; Philippians 2:6-11; Luke 22:14-23:56 

One of the more remarkable aspects of the gospel we just heard is the WAY in which we heard it. This week is the only time that the gospel is proclaimed by someone besides a priest or deacon – every individual in this church takes part. It’s a great privilege. And it – literally — gives us a role in Christ’s passion. We are the CROWD. 

Palm Sunday is a tale of two crowds. One waves palm branches at the city gates and shouts “Hosannas” in welcome and homage to their prophet, their warrior, their hero. The other shakes their fists in Pilate’s courtyard and shouts, “Crucify him!” in condemnation of the one accused of being a criminal, a blasphemer, a traitor. Two crowds – one voice: OURS. We are the CROWD and how easily we turn. How quickly we pivot from faithful to faithless … from belief to doubt … from being disciples, to being betrayers. 

But we are also part of a third crowd, and that crowd is the Church, a Church who, as we journey forward this Holy Week, looks upon the cross and sees neither a criminal nor a warrior. What we do see is the self-offering love of God who eschews hatred and revenge, who knows only mercy and faithfulness, and whose only desire is to be with us in all of life. We are a Church who longs for next Sunday, when we will shout a new cry, “ALLELUIA! HE IS RISEN!” not to a prophet, warrior or hero, nor to a criminal, blasphemer or traitor. But to the one who is Savior and Lord.

Second Sunday of Lent (Cycle C)

WHEN THE ORDINARY BECOMES THE EXTRAORDINARY

Genesis 15: 5-12, 17-18; Philippians 3: 17-4:1; Luke 9:28B-36 

It was an ordinary day, an ordinary Saturday in November of 1967. It began in the normal ordinary Saturday way with hard seeded rolls, jelly donuts and crumb buns for breakfast. That ordinary Saturday was also my father’s 50th birthday. And amidst the ordinary table conversation and birthday wishes, I suddenly sat speechless and wide-eyed when my father began to cry. It was the first time in the eleven years of my life that I had ever seen my father cry. He even surprised himself, for he was not one to give in to emotion. Through the tears, his voice choked, “I don’t know why I’m crying!” I wouldn’t see my father cry again for another forty-one years, until the day my mother died. But after that, I saw him cry frequently. I remember that Saturday over forty-eight years ago, because on that day, the ordinary became extraordinary, as the strong, wise, ever-placid, seemingly dauntless, deeply loved, deservingly respected hero of mine, became even more worthy of my love and admiration and hero-worship For on that day, before my eyes, my father revealed the sensitive, emotional, sentimental man that he, up till then, kept hidden. On that day, amidst the ordinary, the extraordinary was revealed.

That memory came to mind this week as I reflected on today’s Gospel. For it had been an ordinary day two thousand years ago when Jesus took a stroll up a mountain with Peter, James and John. An ordinary occurrence – so ordinary that Scripture doesn’t even reveal what mountain it was. An ordinary day in the life of three apostles, retreating up a mountain to pray with Jesus before a busy day of ministry . . . of anxious crowds, of preaching, of healing. But on that day, the ordinary became the extraordinary for during that trek up the mountain, Jesus becomes transfigured. His appearance becomes glorified. Blinding light emanates from him. Moses and the prophet Elijah, two of the greatest figures from the Hebrew Scriptures, are there in his presence. And a voice announces, “This is my Beloved Son. Listen to him!” Yes, on that ordinary day, before the eyes of Peter, James and John, the rabbi, the healer, the prophet revealed that there was so much more to him than what met the eye. Eight days earlier he had revealed to them that he was the messiah. But today he demonstrates that he is not just messiah, but infinitely more . . . the Son of God. Amidst the ordinary, the extraordinary was revealed.

And that’s the way life is. Sometimes in the midst of the ordinary, the everyday, the common, the usual, the routine, the monotonous - the extraordinary is revealed. Christ is transfigured . . . BEFORE OUR VERY EYES . . . Do we notice it? Are we even looking for it? Sadly, we often miss it. The God-moments in our lives become lost amidst a flurry of activity, the din of noise, the responsibilities and obligations we have, the priorities we set. 

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we had a permanent awareness of God with us in our lives? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we woke up every morning and there was an angel sitting on the edge of the bed and we could see the Holy Spirit and hear God speak to us in a clear, audible voice? That really would make being a Christian much easier. But life isn’t like that, is it?

The reality is that, as the Bible tells us, we walk by faith not by sight. Moments of absolute clarity about the presence of God with us are few and far between. If you’ve been fortunate enough to experience that profound awareness of the presence of God in your life here at church, or on a retreat, or even in nature, you know that the moment fades just as quickly as it arose and all we’re left with is a warm afterglow and a beautiful memory of that special experience of God. And it leaves us longing for more. 

That’s how Peter, James and John felt. They wanted to stay atop the mountain in order to prolong the extraordinary experience that had given them peace and joy and spiritual clarity. They wanted to pitch their tents, to bottle up the spiritual high to preserve it forever. 

But while the moment of Transfiguration was an incredible moment of blessing, Jesus didn’t want his disciples to rest there. Because the reality of Christian discipleship is that we’re called not to bottle the incredible moments of deep intimacy with God. We can’t live, at least in this life, on the mountaintop of spiritual highs. Instead, we are to find God in the ordinary and in the everyday moments of life: in the commute to work, on the bus ride to school, in the run of the mill routine of life, with all its joys and sorrow, excitement and boredom. And if the ordinary is where we live, then we need to learn to find God there.

Author and professor, Fr. Michael Downy has said, “Human life—all of it—is the precinct of epiphany: of God’s showing, of God’s constant speaking and breathing. God shows up. We should not be surprised. We should expect him.” But how do we do that? Here’s five suggestions:

1. SLOW DOWN. We’re now in the season of Lent. The word LENT is derived from the Latin word lento, which means “slow down.” We need to slow down, to simplify our lives, to clear our schedules, and to turn down the noise. If your life is too cluttered, too busy, too noisy, your world is too stuck in the ordinary to ever notice the extraordinary.

2. CHANGE YOUR SENSE OF CONSCIOUSNESS: When I taught at Paramus Catholic, I was introduced to how the De LaSalle Christian Brothers begin prayer. Before they prayed at the beginning of class they would take a few seconds to pause and reflect after saying, “Let us remember that we are in the holy presence of God.” I was told that originally, that wasn’t just done before prayer, but that their daily routine would be interrupted several times a day to reflect on that awesome reality: We are in the holy presence of God! ALWAYS! We need to change our sense of consciousness to constantly remind ourselves of that.

3. STOP TALKING AND START LISTENING: Remember what God the Father said in response to Peter’s offer to build the three tents: “This is my Beloved Son, LISTEN TO HIM!” We need to listen, to be attentive to God’s voice: in Scripture, in the teachings of the Church, when he speaks through other people, and especially when he speaks to us in prayer. Prayer should never be a monologue. It’s meant to be a dialogue. Plain and simple - relationship can’t happen if the only voice your listening to is your own. 

4. PUT YOURSELF IN THE RIGHT PLACES WITH THE RIGHT PEOPLE: God doesn’t tolerate evil. He can’t – he’s pure goodness. If we want to become more aware of God’s presence in the ordinary, we have to avoid the places where he isn’t. We need to avoid those harmful places, whether they be physical or cyber, as well as those toxic people that are near occasions of sin. 

5. HOUSECLEAN YOUR LIFE – YOUR MIND, YOUR HEART AND YOUR SOUL: In the Beatitudes, Jesus said, “Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God.” We need purify ourselves and get rid of the cobwebs, dust, dirt, fog and smog that obstruct God’s presence in our lives. And the best way to begin that is to go to the Sacrament of Reconciliation. 

In a half hour or so, you’ll all be leaving church to return home, to go shopping, to go visiting, to engage in some weekend plans you’ve made, or simply to rest up for the grueling week ahead. But as you go, remember that you do not leave God’s presence behind. Remember that amidst the ordinary is the extraordinary. Go and find it, so that no matter where life takes you, you, like Peter, can say, “Lord, it’s good for us to be here.”

Ash Wednesday

PLEASE BE PATIENT . . .

GOD ISN'T FINISHED WITH ME YET

Joel 2: 12-18; 2 Corinthians 5:20 – 6:2; Matthew 6: 1-6, 16-18 

When I was in high school, I had a Latin teacher by the name of Dr. Leitner. He was steely-eyed, strict, condescending, and arrogant. I spent most of high school being terrified of him. But all that changed one day, when he came into class wearing a big button on his lapel. Forty-two years later, I don’t remember much of what he taught us about, except how to conjugate a few Latin verbs. But I do remember that button. It said: “Please be patient. God isn’t finished with me yet.”

Whether we realize it or not, today we proclaim that same message. We won’t do it with a button on a lapel…but with ashes on our brow. Receiving these ashes serves a number of purposes. First, it proclaims to the world that we are Catholic Christians. It tells others that we are preparing for Easter, embarking on this 40-day journey of fasting and prayer and almsgiving. And, significantly, it announces that the light of Christ burning within us is not as bright as it should be—it has been darkened by dust. We need to bring forth the light, to be ready for the great feast of Easter. But most of all, the ashes we wear announce to the world this plain fact: we’re sinners. They tell all who see us that we are beginning 40 days of prayer, and repentance, and sacrifice — that we are Catholic Christians seeking somehow to reconcile ourselves with God.

One of the things I love about our faith is that our God is a God of second chances, fresh starts, and new beginnings. In the Bible we read these epic tales of the incredible ways that God transformed people and their lives: Moses, Noah, Jonah, Jeremiah, David, Joseph, Mary, Peter, James, Matthew, Zacchaeus, Paul, Lydia, Mary Magdalene, the woman at the well, and so many others whose names we don’t know. Why not you and me? Why not now?

What’s happening in your life right now? What’s not working in your life? What great question are you grappling with in your heart? Do you need a fresh start too? Welcome to Lent! 

These ashes say that we’re works in progress. They say: please be patient. God isn’t finished with me yet. He isn’t finished with any of us. That’s the great wonder and consolation of Lent.

I’ve been reading a lot on Facebook today about people giving something up for Lent. Several have said their Facebook “goodbyes,” because they’ll be giving up Facebook itself. Thousands (millions?) will be giving up chocolate, French fries, coffee, swearing, late-night snacks, food during the day, or some such thing.

But if you truly want to give up something, don’t just settle for chocolate or hamburgers or cheesecake – though right about now, I think, we’d all like to lose that weight we gained over Christmas. Go further. Go deeper. Try giving up something really hard, something that costs, not money, but something of yourself.

Give up cynicism. Or jealousy. Or backstabbing. Give up gossip. Give up regrets for choices you never made or paths your never took. 

Give up fighting God’s will for you. Give up always forgetting that the most famous prayer in the world doesn’t include the phrase “MY will be done,” but “THY will be done.” 

Give up whatever fear or anxiety is keeping you from going to confession, and just go. Give up being too busy to pray or being too worried to hope. 

Because in giving up one of these things we acknowledge that God isn’t finished with us yet and that we’re open to cooperating with him towards becoming the finished product, the masterpiece, he calls us to be. 

And so . . . 

Here we are on this Ash Wednesday, such as we are . . . 

Imperfect.

Confessing.

Repentant.

Hopeful.

Listening.

Here we are, such as we are. . . 

Willing to be melted

And molded.

Wanting a newly created 

Pure heart.

Here we are, such as we are . . . 

Branded with a mark . . . 

Christ’s unmistakable mark . . .
The sign of His cross.

Our prayer, our hope, our deepest yearning is that He leads us . . . 

That He walks with us these 40 days . . . 

That He walks with us always.

And as we embark on that journey, and begin this 40 day adventure, remember one more thing. Be patient. With yourselves. And with everyone else. Because God isn’t finished with any of us yet.

Third Sunday in Ordinary Time (Cycle C)

TODAY!

Nehemiah 8:2-4A, 5-6, 8-10; 1 Corinthians 12:12-30; Luke 1:1-4; 4:14-21

There’s a story about a certain man, very late in years, who was a devout Christian. More than anything, he longed for the Lord to come again. He wanted so much to be reunited with his wife Katherine who had died the year before. She had been the love of his life for 60-something years. He was also anxious to move beyond all the aches and pains of his own old age, and to be young and strong again. And he wanted the world to be made right. Each day when he sat alone at the kitchen table, dipping bread into his soup for lunch, he would pray the Lord’s Prayer and linger over the part that says, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” Then, he would take his prayer journal and write in flowing letters, “Perhaps tomorrow!”

The man’s son, who loved him very much and came by the house to visit his dad every afternoon after work, would sometimes leaf through the pages of his dad’s journal. There, before his eyes, was the story of his father’s life – page after page of the day’s experiences contained in a stack of journals covering many years. Stories about his marriage…the birth of children…career experiences…his life as a Christian. And at the end of every day’s entry was written, in flowing letters, “Perhaps tomorrow!”

One afternoon in the late autumn, the son came by his father’s house and immediately knew something was different. There was a kind of empty silence unlike anything he had ever heard before. And then he saw his dad, lying silently on the old sofa. He had died as he took his afternoon nap.

Well, the son took care of all the things you need to take care of in times like these – made all the phone calls, retrieved all the necessary paperwork, talked quietly with the people from the funeral home who came to get the body.

And then he was left alone in the old house, full of his parents’ humble treasures – the figurines, and furniture and fine things gathered over a lifetime…and, the journal on the kitchen table. The son sat down, sweeping away the few crumbs of bread left from the last noontime meal his father had eaten. He opened the journal, page after page completed with his father’s handwritten hope: “Perhaps tomorrow!” The son smiled. And then he turned to the last page. It was dated that very day. Surprisingly, there was only one word written there, penned in his father’s beautiful handwritten scroll. It simply said, “TODAY!”

One day, in the town of Nazareth, a group of people just like you and me went to the synagogue. Like us – and like the old man in the story – they were looking for the coming of God’s kingdom. – the day their lives, their nation, and their world would be made right – the day they’d be rescued from their frail humanity, set free from all the oppressive powers of the world, and gathered under the protective and life-giving presence of God Himself. These citizens of Nazareth gathered every Sabbath to pray and to hear read the promise of God to bring them a new day of Jubilee. And they would leave the synagogue afterwards renewed in hope and thinking, “Perhaps tomorrow!”

But then, one Sabbath something amazing happened. A man named Jesus returned home to Nazareth where he had been raised, and he joined the crowd in the synagogue. As was the custom, he was invited to read the lectionary for the day, which happened to be a portion of Isaiah 61 that refers to this great Day of Jubilee:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners, and recovery of sight for the blind, to set free the oppressed, and to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

It was a passage the people had heard many times over. It was one of their favorites because it spoke of the day the Lord’s Messiah would come and inaugurate God’s kingdom on earth. Oh, what a day it will be! Perhaps tomorrow!

And then Jesus rolled up the scroll and gave it to the attendant. Then he sat down to teach. And this is what Jesus said: “TODAY!” . . . TODAY! Not tomorrow, out there in the future. Not yesterday, back there in the past. But TODAY! “Today this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing!”

“Today” is the first word of Jesus’ public teaching. He neither reminisces about the past nor forecasts the future. He comes to his people in the very circumstances of their lives. It’s not about what happened yesterday or what might happen tomorrow. It’s about today. It’s not about nostalgia for the past, nor a fantasy of the future. It’s not centered in memory or anticipation: next year I’ll do this; in the old days we did that, someday God will set things right. “TODAY this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing,” Today he brings good news to the poor. Today he proclaims release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind. Today he lets the oppressed go free. Today he proclaims the year of the Lord’s favor. TODAY!

But TODAY is a dangerous place when you live your life with one foot in the past and one foot in the future because today insists that you lay aside both the comfort of your memories and the hope of your dreams to embrace fully the moment of now. And so the people reject both the messenger and the message. Their one foot is firmly planted in the past: They know this man Jesus! They saw him grow up! They visited his carpenter show! He - the Messiah? The Chosen One? The Anointed One? The Holy One of Israel? Impossible! And their other foot . . . that’s dug deeply into the sands of the future. Because if it is today, that puts responsibility and accountability on them. And they weren’t ready to accept either. 

What about us? Are we like those neighbors of Nazareth? With one foot in the past and one in the future, do we straddle and completely miss the present. Do we become captive to what was, fearful of what might be, and blind to what is? Are we stuck in the past and blind to the power of God in the here and now, oblivious to the God-moments in our lives? Do we obsess on the future and chalk up to coincidence or pure luck the miracles that are happening all around us? 

The bible is the LIVING Word of God, which means that it is never out of date; its lessons are still applicable; and the words Jesus speaks, he speaks not just to an individual or a community of antiquity, he speaks to us and to the situations of our lives. Poverty might be about money or material needs such as food, clothing, or housing. It might also be poverty of love, hope, or meaning. Regardless, our world is empty. The captive might be a prisoner. It might also be an addicted person, a cancer patient, or one overcome by anger and resentment. Regardless, our world is small and closing in. Blindness can be physical. But it can also be emotional or spiritual. Regardless, our world is dark. Oppression happens in hundreds of ways from physical or emotional violence, to racism, to fear, to profound sorrow. Regardless, our world is not safe.

In the midst of these circumstances, when life gets really difficult, it’s easy and tempting to run away, to get stuck in the past, or fixate on the future. Yet, Jesus comes to us today, here, now. He’s not lost in our past or hidden in an unknown future. The only place we can meet Jesus is today, in this present moment, in whatever the circumstances of our life might be.

But here’s the irony. We too often miss today fretting over yesterday and worrying about tomorrow. And yet the presence of Christ today somehow heals our past and prepares us for the future. Good news, release, sight, freedom, the Lord’s favor. All these are made real and present today, in the current context and circumstances of our lives.

This morning's Gospel is fulfilled in our hearing . . . TODAY!