Fashioned in His Likeness

Did you get a new article of clothing this Christmas? Perhaps a new shirt or sweater, a new scarf or pair of shoes? A new piece of clothing can make us feel new ourselves. It’s kind of an interesting notion – if we change something of our outward appearance, it can make us feel different on the inside as well. And the reverse can happen too: an interior change can sometimes affect us externally and thus how others perceive as well.

In today’s second reading, St. Paul encourages the Christians of Colossae to “put on” the virtues of Christ – that is, to be clothed in “heartfelt compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience,” just as one might proudly show off new pieces of clothing. With each virtue we grow in, we emulate Christ more and more – we look more and more like him, you might say. And then on top of the other virtues, St. Paul says, “Over all these put on love, the bond of perfection.” Charity is to be worn over all the other garments since it is charity that makes us most perfectly like Jesus. You might say it’s the piece that really completes our spiritual outfit.

St. Paul can encourage the Colossians to do these things because he recognizes that with the coming of Christ, a special give-and-take has occurred between us and God – an exchange of gifts, you might say. By taking upon himself our humanity, clothing himself in our flesh in the person of Jesus, God has made it possible for us in turn to adorn ourselves in Christ, clothing ourselves in the spiritual qualities and attributes that by our own power we would not be fit for. We know how to be compassionate, kind, humble, gentle, patient, and loving in a natural, human way, although we don't always do those things. But we couldn't those things supernaturally, in the order of grace – not until the Incarnation made it possible for us to share even now in the attributes of God. St. Athanasius of Alexandria summed this up well – this idea of a mutual exchange of gifts between humanity and divinity – when he said, “the Son of God became man so that we humans might become God.” The more closely we live out the humanity of Jesus, the more fully we become united to his divinity. 

The Holy Family (c. 1610) by Sisto Badalocchio

Today we celebrate the Feast of the Holy Family. All of the celebrations within the Christmas season are new considerations from different vantage points of the same, central mystery: that in the Incarnation of the Second Person of the Holy Trinity, God shows how fully he desired to share in our human reality. God might have revealed himself to the world as a fully mature person, or even a superhuman figure of some sort or another. But, no – he was born into our world as a humble child and so was raised in the context of a human family. In his human experience, the Lord Jesus came to know as we do what it means to grow, to experience, to learn, and all of the other realities of family life that are at once routine and also marvelous in themselves.

In doing so, we might say that God has consecrated the very idea of the family, and made the reality of family life a means of grace. The birth of Jesus has made it possible for the family itself to be a place where godly gifts can be given and received, and where the virtues of Christ can be learned and adopted. The family is the first place then that we learn to practice charity – to learn to love with the heart of Christ. A Christian family is formed by the bonds of natural love, but in and through relationship with Christ, those bonds are elevated and perfected by Christian charity, the “bond of perfection.”

Perhaps then we can understand better what St. Paul goes on to say in this famously controversial passage from Colossians: wives are to follow their husbands, and husbands are to love and care for their wives, and children are to be respectful to their parents, and parents in a certain way also to their children. He says these things not to enforce stereotypical views of power and gender, but to show how mutual love and service should be the hallmark of every member of a family, especially a Christian family. These words might offend our sensibilities if we look at them in a worldly way, but I think they make spiritual sense if we remember how God views the family to be: as a sort of training ground for practicing the love of Christ, for learning how to love as the Holy Family loved.

Because the family is a place of great love, it can for that very reason also be a place of great suffering. Division, divorce, abuse, addiction, illness, old age, and countless other difficulties and burdens are all too familiar to us in the context of the family. In today’s Gospel, the Holy Family was forced to flee for their lives to a foreign land because a murderous ruler was seeking to destroy the Son born to them. While this fulfilled a particular prophecy, it also reminds us that the Holy Family knew its own difficulties – perhaps different from our own – but nonetheless very human. And like theirs, our sufferings – perhaps especially the sufferings that come from family life – can be redemptive, if we continue to give and receive the heavenly gifts that God has communicated to us. Clothed in the virtues of Christian understanding, service, humility, patience, and above all charity, we learn to invite the grace of the Holy Family to become our own.

Friends, whether you are showing off some fancy new threads this Christmas season or not, remember that you are called to display to others the newness of Christ, for you have been clothed in his love. To others, and perhaps especially to our families, we must remember to don “heartfelt compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience,” and charity on top of everything else. As wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, children – or in whatever other way we may fit into the context of a family – the world needs the example of our Christian families just as it needed the model of the Holy Family. 

May the newborn Christ give us strength to endure the trials and difficulties of family life, so that in the charity we show in family life, we may be ever more fully fashioned in his likeness.

Pax Christi

[This homily refers to the readings for the Mass During the Night for The Nativity of Our Lord. They can be found here.]

In a museum in the middle of Rome stands a 2000-year-old marble monument known as the Altar of Peace. Despite its name, it’s really more of a temple than an altar: it has four walls, a staircase leading up from the outside, and ornate sculptures on the inside and out. It was built in honor of the emperor of the time: Octavian, better known as Caesar Augustus, or Caesar “the Exalted One.” When he came to power, he went about defeating the last of Rome’s enemies and so ushered a period of relative peace and tranquility throughout the Mediterranean. This period of tranquility, the so-called “Pax Romana,” lasted for some two hundred years, a length previously unimaginable in the ancient world.

I mention this not just because it may be interesting historically, but because it is clear that St. Luke, the author of the Gospel passage we just heard, wants us to have it in mind as well. We heard from the beginning of St. Luke’s tale of a king, a king about whom Isaiah had said “his dominion is vast and forever peaceful,” the one who would rule “with judgment and justice.” If you were living in the first century – right smack in the middle of that era of peace and prosperity, the “Pax Romana,” – the only king who fit that description was Caesar, “the Exalted One,” the one who made a show of his absolute power by decreeing that all the world be numbered. But it is not Caesar who is the focus of Luke’s story - not the emperor, not the governor Quirinius either, and not any other secular power or authority that one might have guessed. Instead, Luke’s story centers upon the backwater province of Judea, in the humble town of Bethlehem, where in a cave or grotto a young woman gave birth to a child.

Matthias Stomer, Adoration of the Shepherds (c. 1640)

The birth of any child is something wondrous. For all of our human sophistication and technocratic mastery, life is still something we cannot create, and so there is always a sense of the miraculous when a child is born. But as special as every birth is, very few are remembered two millennia later, and none have been celebrated up and down the centuries as this one is tonight. In every birth we see the power of the divine but that birth in Bethlehem was something more — not just the power but the Presence of the Divine, not just touching our reality but entering into it, becoming part of our existence. In Mary’s child, born in manger, Emmanuel has come, “God-with-us.”

The celebration of the birth of Christ is the reason for our worship this evening, but nonetheless we each need to ask ourselves, “Yes, but why have *I* come here?” Our answers will surely vary. Maybe we came tonight out of habit – we show up every week, rain or shine, so there’s no way we would miss out on this most special of feast days. Maybe some of us came because of a sense of obligation – we don’t make it to church as often as we’d like, perhaps only once or twice a year, but to not come on Christmas would be unthinkable. Others among us might say that we wanted to come back to visit the church we grew up in, or because we are accompanying family, or because we just wanted to hear the prayers and the songs and be a part of a worship service.

These ostensible reasons for our presence here are fine in themselves, but I think there is something more. If we searched our hearts, if we looked deeply within our souls, I think each of us would find that there is a deeper reason as well. Something about that birth resonates with us; it is not just an event to be recalled, or commemorated. It is a revelation to be rejoiced in – a manifestation of God, for us! That birth, so obscure at its happening as to almost go unnoticed, is for us and millions upon millions of other Christians like us around the world a gift that we cannot help but pause, for a moment at least, to remember and celebrate and give thanks for. I think the true reason that we have come this evening is that we long for the peace of God – a deep and abiding peace, not merely stability or tranquility or prosperity, not merely the end to conflict, but peace. We yearn for peace in our world, in our families, in our hearts; we long for a cessation of the woes that plague us and those we care for. We hunger for a peace that no Caesar can decree, that no treaty can enact – a peace that unites all peoples, all lands, a peace between earth and heaven, a peace to heal all time and all sorrow. And so we come, almost in spite of ourselves, I think, because we glimpse in this birth – this event 2000 years ago – the dawning of a peace that impacts us now. The birth of any child reawakens in us the awe of our existence, but in Mary’s son this awe reaches new heights, previously unimaginable. This newborn babe is “Wonder-Counselor, God-Hero, Father-Forever, Prince of Peace,” as Isaiah says. He is the true “Exalted One,” the Son of God who has humbled himself to share in our existence. In doing so, he has done what no earthly ruler could – he has remade the friendship between us and God. He has enrolled us among the company of heaven.

The Christ Child has been born to give us the gift of his peace, if we will receive it. How do we do so? By entering into the mysteries of his life – by letting our lives become oriented toward him and redefined in relationship to him. The peace of Christ is not like the “Pax Romana,” a mere absence of conflict, nor like any other peace the world can give. No, it is the peace of relationship, of friendship with the divine, through the One who is both God and Man. To receive the “Pax Christi,” then, we must be friends with Christ. We must walk together with him, accompanying him in his path, and he in ours. We must learn to think with thoughts, speak with his words, love with his heart. We must strive continuously to encounter his Presence, in prayer, in works of charity and service, and especially in the sacraments. We must turn to him in every need and difficulty, even in joys and blessings as well – we must see in him the constant point of contact with the divine, not just for one night but always: the very meaning of our lives in the here and now. We must seek to become Christ ourselves – to take up our place as active members of his Body, the Church, present in the world – so that the peace that he has communicated to us, we can communicate to others.

The Stable of the Inn (1912) by N.C. Wyeth

My friends, like all earthly rulers, the reign of Caesar eventually came to an end, and his “Pax Romana” ended with him. Earthly peace is fleeting in that way. But heavenly peace – the peace of Christ, “Pax Christi” – is still present with us, if we seek it out. You know, there is in the middle of Rome another altar, a smaller one, not in a museum but in a church. And behind it is another relic from the ancient past: a few fragments, not of marble, but of wood. According to tradition, they are from the manger in which the Christ Child once lay. You might say that that Holy Crib is the true “altar of peace” because the One who lay upon it has established an everlasting peace – between heaven and earth, between this reality and the one to come, between you and me and the Lord God.

It is this peace that we celebrate tonight, and that have come to receive anew, in adoration, in rejoicing, and with the angelic choir say: “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”

Change of Plans

We are just a few days away from Christmas, and I imagine most of us have our holiday plans finalized. We’ve made preparations for who we plan to be with, what we plan to eat, and what we plan to give to others. If we are really on the ball, maybe we’ve even made plans for what others are going to give us!

Imagine though, for a moment, if God asked you to change your plans: to not go where you want or not get what you want, but to do something else instead. How would you respond? Maybe you’d say, “That’s okay, no big deal! I’m flexible, God!” But what if he asked you not just to change your plans for Christmas, but for something much bigger: maybe to turn down that better paying job you’ve been offered, or to not buy that fancy car you’ve been saving for, or to not take that vacation you’ve been dreaming about? What if he said he didn’t want you to pursue that dream you’ve set your sights, and to let go of that goal you’ve had for years? What if he asked you to change the course of your whole life? Needless to say, those kinds of changes are a lot more difficult to accept. But implicit in accepting God’s will is the grace to trust in him a deeper way, if we accept it.

In today’s readings, we are presented with two stories of individuals who are asked to accept God’s will rather than their own, and their responses couldn’t be more different. In the first reading, we hear a conversation between Ahaz, the king of Judah, and the prophet Isaiah. Some background is helpful here. The kingdom of Judah is under threat from foreign forces and God wishes to assuage the fears of his people by reminding them of his protection; he speaks to Ahaz through Isaiah and tells him to ask for some sign to guarantee that the Lord will protect Ahaz and his kingdom. It appears that Ahaz acts piously, by saying he does not need a sign, but the context here is important. We know from both Scripture and history that Ahaz secretly planned to cut a deal with the invaders and so save his own reign. Ahaz rejects the Lord’s plans and the opportunity to trust in him; instead, he displays a false humility, which masks an inner pride and a focus on doing his own will, even though the Lord had asked differently.

Contrast that with the story we just heard in the Gospel. The story of the birth of Jesus is so well known to us that we sometimes forget how astonishing it is. Joseph, a carpenter and no doubt a practical man, nonetheless believes that the dream he had was in fact a message from God via an angel. Not only does he, a just and righteous man, accept a woman pregnant with child into his home, risking the whispers or outright scorn of his neighbors. No, indeed he is willing to completely change the course of his life and marriage in order to accept what God wished to do through him. Here is authentic trust in the Lord, and true humility, besides. Joseph is the antithesis of Ahaz – without any pious statements, or showy bravado, he accepts God’s will for his life, as startling and as disruptive as it no doubt was. 

Rembrandt, Joseph's Dream (1646)

Why do our readings present us with this distinction between accepting or rejecting a divine change of plans, especially today, just a few days away now from Christmas? Because in order to comprehend the meaning of what we are preparing to celebrate, we have to first understand the essential role played by humble trust in the will of God. God’s desire to give all of humanity a sign of his love and faithfulness – to send his Son, Emmanuel, “God with us” – required our humble cooperation. It needed the daring of a woman who believed what the angel said to her and the courage of a man who provided her with a home in which to welcome the Christ child.

I mention this not only to remind us of how these things came about and of the profound debt of gratitude we owe to Mary and Joseph for changing their plans to accept God’s will. I mention it because it is how God deals with us as well, and invites us to trust in him. Whenever God asks us to change our plans, and accept something different that he has in mind, he also offers us the grace of humility to allow our will to be conformed to his. This grace invites us to cooperate with the purpose of God, even if we can’t fully understand it; it reassures us to believe that his purposes are greater than our designs. But this cooperative grace does not impose itself upon us, but perfects us from within, healing the brokenness of our nature so that we can act and move as we were intended to be, according to the plan of God.

Humility is a virtue that we may appreciate but think is difficult to acquire. Especially in a culture that values so much trying to achieve our own purposes and plans, it’s good for us to be reminded that God is not dissuaded by our shortsightedness or even by our faithlessness or ill intent, at times. Indeed, God did not let Ahaz’s scheming prevent him from still giving a sign, a promise later fulfilled by both divine action and human cooperation. God’s grace never is dissuaded or discouraged – instead it draws us ever onward to achieve what he wishes to give us.

Friends, as we draw very close now to the pinnacle of this holy season, let us be reminded again of the power of God’s grace and of how much our own humble trust is needed at times to let that grace become effective in our lives. Mary and Joseph had to change the course of their whole lives to accept God’s will, but by doing so they changed the course of history too, and allowed the Savior to be born into our world. If we look for where we too can trust in God’s purposes, in humility and in faith, then we also will make space for the Lord’s will and accept the plans he has for us.

May the Lord, who draws near to us now in the Sacrament of the Altar, prepare our hearts to accept in grace every good gift that he has in store for us.

Here Is Your God

Certain stories and certain characters capture our imagination, especially if they are different from our normal reality. For example, there is a lot of excitement for the next Star Wars movie that is coming out in just less than a week. It’s not just young people who are excited; it’s also older folks too, since the original movie came out some 42 years ago. Supposedly this is the last movie in the trilogy of trilogies, although with such a successful franchise, I for one am a little skeptical they are really going to call it quits now.

It’s not only fictional characters that capture our imagination, but figures from real life stories as well. I’ve always been fascinated by the figure of John the Baptist, whom we hear about again in today’s Gospel. John grew up in obscurity, wearing strange clothes and eating strange foods, but for a time, he captured the imaginations of the people of his day. Living a life of austerity and poverty, he preached a message of repentance and prophesied a coming reality of justice, peace, and renewal. As we heard last week, people from all over the region went out to hear him preach and to be baptized by him. Jesus himself notes that the people recognized something in John’s prophecy unlike anything they had ever heard before – and that is why they journeyed into the harsh desert to hear him.

But fortunes dim and popular voices sometimes lose their popularity. Today’s Gospel finds John in a much different place. Having pointed out to his followers Jesus as the Lamb of God, John now is imprisoned by Herod, awaiting his own death. This prophet, who grew up in obscurity in the desert, was for a time a voice crying in the wilderness, drawing thousands to hear his message, before he retreated again into obscurity.

Giovanni di Paolo, Saint John the Baptist in Prison Visited by Two Disciples (c. 1460)

However, today’s reading from the Gospel of Matthew provides us with one last word from John. He sends some of his followers – that is, some of those who did not convert to following Jesus – to ask Jesus a question: “Are you the one who is to come or should we look for another?” John knows that Jesus is the true Messiah, but he also knows that he is not acting in the way that many had expected the Messiah to be. Rather than deliver swift justice, Jesus is undertaking a ministry of mercy.

Notice how Jesus responds to the question of John’s disciples. Rather than give a defense of himself, he points their attention to what is happening around them: that the blind regain their sight, the lame walk, lepers are healed, the dead are raised. In other words, it is the ministry of Jesus itself – the miraculous works that he is doing – which serves as proof for who he is. Not only he is healing individual people – in a sense he is restoring creation, refashioning the brokenness of the world to its original harmony. He is, in a real way, fulfilling the words of Isaiah we heard in the first reading: "Be strong, fear not! Here is your God, he comes with vindication; he comes to save you." Now we can see why John sent his followers to ask this unusual question. He wants them to hear the answer that Jesus gives – he wants them to understand for themselves what he himself already knew: that Jesus is the Lamb of God, come to take away sins and restore friendship between God and humanity. Even from his prison cell, John was directing people to Jesus till the last.

On this Third Sunday of Advent, in the midst of our season of preparation and anticipation, the Church bids us to look with joy to who Jesus is and what he has come to do. He is certainly the Messiah whom John foretold and who will one day judge all creation. But he is also the Savior, who through the power of his mercy restores what is lost and lifts up those who are low. This work of Jesus is not something consigned to history, as if his ministry ended with his earthly life. No, in a real way, the Church as the Body of Christ continues that same work, offering forgiveness to sinners, counsel to the troubled, strength to the weak.

This week, we have a wonderful chance for this ministry of the Church to become real for us in our penance service on Tuesday evening at 6 p.m. If it’s been a while since you experienced the healing effect of the Lord’s love for you, I invite you to come and be refreshed in the sacrament of reconciliation. When we confess our sins truthfully and humbly, and receive the mercy of Jesus, our souls become as Isaiah described in today’s first reading: like flowers after desert rains, blossoming with new life. Don’t let any fears or discouragement you may feel keep you from receiving the loving assurance of his presence that God wants you to have.

Having been healed by the Lord, we also remember that we bring his healing also to others. Not just priests and deacons but every baptized Christian has a share in the work of the Church, in the renewal that Isaiah preached and which the disciples saw occur. That work need not always be as dramatic as the miracles that Jesus performed. Indeed, as the Epistle of James says to us today, often it is done in much more subtle ways – bearing hardship patiently, dealing with others tolerantly and without complaining, refusing to judge others lest we judge ourselves. Such seemingly small things have no less of an important role in refashioning creation and continuing God’s work of restoring what is lost. 

"Flowers," photo by Jean Beaufort (Creative Commons licensed for Public Domain)

Friends, God’s salvation is not something left merely to the imagination, like a fictional story set in a galaxy far away. No, it is something real, and close at hand – it is the love of Jesus made known to us and to all. As we journey closer to the celebration of our Savior’s birth, may we not be tempted to “look for another,” one who conforms more to our expectations, but instead to see anew the mercy we receive in Christ and share that mercy with others. We don’t have to work miracles to be a part of God’s salvation; we need only be like John the Baptist, pointing the way to Christ. May the Lord prepare our hearts in these holy days to patiently, faithfully advance the work that Jesus started long ago and which we as the Church continue in and through him.

Witnesses to Unity

When I was growing up, one of the rules in our house was never answer the doorbell without permission. Our parents, rightfully so, wanted to make sure that we kids didn’t too eagerly welcome into the house some stranger, salesperson, or other unexpected visitor. The only exception to this rule was when we were expecting company to be coming. If we knew a friend or relative would soon be arriving, then, when the car pulled up outside, we would yell out, “They’re here!” and Mom or Dad would invite us then to open the door and welcome in our guest.

Advent is all about waiting, as I spoke about last week – waiting for the arrival of Christ. But waiting doesn’t mean anything unless it is finally fulfilled, whether that is the coming of morning after a long night, or the arrival of a long-expected guest. On this Second Sunday of Advent, we continue our preparation by recognizing that our waiting has a purpose – that the Lord is indeed coming. Thus, we must make ready. Advent itself presents us with various figures to imitate as we prepare for the Lord’s arrival. There is Mary, of course, who anticipates her Son’s birth with great joy and with awe at God’s great work. How might you become more aware of the way in which God has been at work in your life, and become more grateful because of it? There is John the Baptist, who as we heard in today’s Gospel announces the coming of Christ by preaching repentance. In what area of your life do you need to “prepare the way of the Lord, and make straight his paths?”

There’s another Advent figure that’s less immediately apparent, but I think just as important as these: St. Paul. This Sunday, just like last week, our second reading came from Paul’s Letter to the Romans, written around the year 58 AD. In today’s reading, Paul tells the Christians in Rome that everything written in Scripture points to the coming of Christ, and so what we read, what we hear has been given to us so that we may persevere in hope as we await that coming. Paul goes on to say that one of the best ways to prepare for the Lord’s coming is to consider how we treat each other. Like most of the early Christian communities, the Christians in Rome were made up of Jewish converts and non-Jewish converts. As a result, there was much that they did not share in common: they had different cultures, traditions, and languages. Yet, they were united by one thing: their faith in Jesus. And that was precisely as Jesus wanted it, Paul says – the Lord came in order to bring together all peoples. Thus, if the Lord has accommodated us, we must accommodate each other. “Welcome one another,” he says, “as Christ welcomed you.”

We have to remember, of course, the history of the man writing those words. This Paul had once been Saul, a zealous Jew, who would certainly have had nothing to do with non-Jews, Gentiles, and who persecuted those Jews whom he believed to not be following the right path. This included Christian believers, as we know; the Book of Acts tells us Saul was present when St. Stephen was martyred. But Saul’s life was radically changed by an encounter with the Risen Christ on the road to Damascus. Meeting the Resurrected Jesus, Paul saw everything in a new light, especially himself. He underwent a radical conversion: he became a member of the Christian faith that he had been persecuting, and became the Church’s greatest advocate for its non-Jewish members, the Apostle to the Gentiles. Having been changed himself, St. Paul became a force of change for others: a mentor, a motivator, a spiritual father to Christian communities.

Valentin de Boulogne (attr.), Saint Paul Writing His Epistles (c. 1620)

Remembering Paul’s backstory, we can see that when he encourages the Christians in Rome to be united, to welcome each other in faith, he’s encouraging them to undergo the same transformation that he himself experienced. He surely had to overcome a little fear or prejudice, a little awkwardness if nothing else, in relating to these people that he before had scorned and thrown in jail and even killed. But he did so out of faith, because the unity we have from believing in Christ requires that we be transformed.

It is worthwhile to ask ourselves to whom do we feel an aversion at times, a temptation to not be Christlike? Maybe it is those to whom we do not share much in common: those of a different language or culture, those with vastly different political priorities, even those living in ways that we do not approve of. Advent gives us a chance to consider whether these prejudices are unfair and not worthy of us as those who claim to follow Jesus. And even if they do have some plausible justification, we have to remember that our faith in Christ demands we try if possible to overcome what divides us. Just as Jesus came to unite all peoples, so too those who believe in Jesus must themselves strive for unity, understanding, and reconciliation. This may be with those very different from us, as I said, but it’s also something to be done with those closer and more familiar to us: with those who have hurt us or rejected us; those who tend to annoy us, or with whom we often disagree; those who ask for our forgiveness and we have trouble giving it. A worthy Advent reflection is for each of us to ask, “To whom is the Lord inviting me to open my heart, and how can I welcome them? Could doing so lead me to encounter the Lord in a deeper way? So what’s stopping me?”

Friends, as John the Baptist announces in the Gospel, the Lord is coming, and so we must make straight the paths of our hearts. This means experiencing an interior conversion, as St. Paul did, but it means something more as well – it also means becoming a witness, as he was, of how that conversion can bring change and healing to others. We, too, in our relationships – whether at home, in the workplace, in our parish – can be a witness to others of the unity that comes from faith. In this Eucharist, the sacrament of unity, may the grace of the Lord who welcomes us to receive him open our hearts to welcome others in return.

Eagerly Waiting

Everyone knows that waiting is just a part of life, but none of us like having to do it. We hate to wait, whether it’s in traffic, in the checkout line, or waiting for Father to finish his homily so we can continue with Mass and get on with the rest of our day. We especially don’t like to wait on someone else – someone who is running late, taking their time, forcing us to wait.

It seems though that Jesus is just such a person. The season of Advent is all about waiting for the arrival of Christ, and preparing accordingly. We are certainly waiting for Christmas, and we know the kinds of preparations that we will make in these coming weeks to celebrate that coming. Advent also provides us the chance to prepare for a new coming of Christ in our own hearts. In these weeks, we should look to our own lives to see how we can seek a renewed faith in order to encounter the Lord in a renewed way.

But on this first Sunday of Advent, our readings don’t speak at all about Christmas or the Christ Child. Rather, they focus our attention on the most important sense that we await the coming of Christ, the way that Christians have been awaiting him since he ascended to heaven – the Lord’s return to earth in glory and power at the end of time. The idea of the Second Coming may seem like a distant thought, a far off idea; after all, it’s been two thousand years. But as Saint Paul writes to the Romans, the Lord’s return should be something we await eagerly and expectantly, whether it comes tomorrow or another two thousand years from now. We await the Lord’s return like the coming of morning after a long night, a dawn so brilliant that all things will be illuminated by it.

"Noah sent out a dove and it returned with an olive branch", Mosaic, Monreale Cathedral, Palermo, Sicily

In the Gospel today, Jesus warns his followers not to be like the people of Noah’s era – those who ignored prophecies of the coming flood because it sounded unrealistic, or because they were too caught up in their present concerns. Jesus says that in just the same way, many will be unprepared for his Second Coming, perhaps even many who claim to be his disciples. Because we can’t know the day when the Lord will return, there is an ever-present risk of becoming too caught up in the day to day concerns of the world, so much so that we fail to prepare for the dawning of the Lord’s return.

The season of Advent affords us a wonderful chance to reset – to focus again on what we are hoping for and to make sure we are not caught off guard by the Lord’s coming. We can use these weeks not just as a preparation for Christmas but as a chance for spiritual renewal, an opportunity to really deepen our relationship with the Lord. One easy way to do that is to read and pray with the readings for Mass for each day, whether you try to make it to daily Mass or not. You might have seen that we have several copies of “The Word Among Us” available each month at the table in the back of church which has the readings for each day. Encountering the word of God and reflecting upon it is a wonderful way to prepare the way of the Lord in our own hearts.

This season is also a wonderful chance to practice charity. Many people make monetary contributions to organizations they support this time of year, and certainly for us as Christians this should be seen as part of our spiritual responsibility to support the Church – our parish first and foremost, but also the diocese, worthy organizations, and even families and persons who may need our help. But we can also practice charity in ways that don’t involve money at all. We can visit those who are homebound, or take a meal to someone who is recovering from an illness. We can make a phone call or write a letter to someone whom we know would love to hear from us. We can make an extra effort to detach from social media, or to watch less TV, or perhaps disconnect from technology altogether in order to spend more time in contemplative prayer or spiritual reading. Not only will your Christmas be better for it, you’ll be closer to Christ and more ready for his final coming.

Friends, we await the return of the Lord eagerly and expectantly, like the daybreak after the night. Whenever it may come in time, Jesus's return at the end of time is something that we can prepare for now, making ready for it with firmness of purpose. In this Advent season, let’s strive to arouse ourselves from spiritual slumber for the dawn is coming sooner than we might believe. May Jesus, the Light of the world, find us ready to welcome his coming and to rejoice at the salvation which he brings.

Loyal Subjects of the King

When I was a kid, I loved board games. One of my favorites was RISK. Did you ever play that? The object of the game was pretty simple – world domination. You started by placing your armies in a particular corner of the world – North America, Europe, Australia, etc. – and then through careful deployment of resources and skillful execution, you tried to defeat your opponents and conquer the world.

In real life though, it’s not nearly as nice of an idea. History unfortunately has known no shortage of those who have tried to conquer the world. Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, Napoleon Bonaparte, Adolf Hitler, and many more who aimed to subjugate the world to his power through the sheer force of will. And while each of them fell short of his ultimate goal, they wreaked devastation and death upon untold numbers in their quest for power. The very concept of a ruler for all people should rightly appall us.

And yet, on this last Sunday of the Church’s year, that idea is something we are here to celebrate – that there is someone who is ruler of all: Jesus Christ, King of the Universe. It’s sort of a strange idea to our modern, American mentality – that all power is given to one, one to whom all glory and honor is due. And yet, as Christians, we proclaim precisely that – that Christ is the Lord of all things, of all peoples, of all times.

What does it mean for us practically to say that Jesus is king? First and foremost, Jesus is not a King in the ways that we are used to thinking about power. We see that clearly in the Gospel today. Hanging upon a cross, crucified as a criminal – Jesus's authority is far from tyrannical. Instead, he shows his power by subjugating our greatest enemy – the sin that divides us from God. In the Preface for today's Eucharistic Prayer, the text of the Mass says that Jesus conquered that sin by means of his Cross and brought all created things under his rule.

Second, if Jesus is the King of all things – heaven and earth, life and death – then he has the right to rule all things within us as well. Just as we look ahead to the day when all creation will be under his authority, so too we must also see within our own lives what we might be holding back from his grasp, and how we might bring those things back under his authority. We do this especially in the sacraments: at the Sunday Mass, when we gather humbly to worship the King; at the sacrament of reconciliation, when we allow him to remove whatever keeps us from being devoted to him. We don’t lose anything by letting Jesus be Lord of our lives. Rather, the more we devote ourselves to him – the more we let go of earthly ideas and persons and causes and devout ourselves instead to Christ the King – then the more we become worthy even now of his heavenly kingdom.

Titian, Christ and the Good Thief (c. 1566)

Lastly, the kingship of Jesus is one that we also must proclaim. We proclaim it especially by virtue of our own forgiveness. This King that we worship possessed nothing in the final moments of his earthly life – no crown apart from his thorns, no throne apart from the Cross – and yet he was still infinitely rich in one thing: his mercy. Notice how easily Jesus forgives the good thief on the cross. It takes only the smallest recognition of the latter’s sin for Jesus to freely share eternal life with him. Imagine how that man’s despair changed to overwhelming joy with just the few words, “Today you will be with me in paradise.” While we can’t as easily share the promise of heaven with others, we can readily share the healing power of mercy by our own words and actions. When we are merciful, we are in that moment like Jesus on the Cross, releasing someone else from the burden and debt of sin, sharing with them the joy of being forgiven. When we forgive, we demonstrate to someone else that their offense or grievance or wrong done toward us pales in comparison to the King who rules our heart. If Christ who is King of the Universe offers mercy so freely to sinners, what excuse could we possibly have to not do the same?

Friends, unlike the rulers of this world, Jesus’s reign is not one of destruction and domination but rather of justice, love, and peace. We serve him well when we work for the building of that kingdom on this earth – through works of mercy and service to our neighbor – even as we eagerly await the eternal kingdom of the life to come. Let us choose again today, in a purposeful way, to answer the call of our king, to respond to the grace he gives to us by choosing to be again his loyal subjects. With Jesus as our king, now and in the life to come, then he will surely remember us and bring us to reign with him in Paradise.

World Upended

It is a feeling we all have experienced at one time or another. The phone rings, and a loved one calls with heavy news. A routine doctor visit turns into an unexpected and alarming diagnosis. A letter arrives in the mail that makes the future seem less certain. We all know that feeling of something coming out of the blue that upends our world, that puts into question something which had seemed solid and secure.

For the last several weeks, our Gospel passages have followed Jesus as he has made his way from Galilee to Jerusalem. This sequence is more than a physical journey; it’s intended also to be a spiritual one. Jesus, the Son of God, is making his way to the city of God, Jerusalem, and there he will fulfill the purpose for which he came into the world: to redeem humanity by his suffering, death, and resurrection. All of Luke’s Gospel has been building toward this point – to the moment of the Lord’s arrival into the city where God will at last deal with sin and death.

In today’s Gospel, we have finally arrived at the journey’s destination. Jesus is speaking to his disciples from inside Jerusalem, in fact from within the Temple, the most important place on earth for a Jewish person. It was literally the dwelling place of God and a symbol of the covenant he had with his chosen people Israel. And yet, as we hear, Jesus predicts its downfall. In each of the four Gospels, Jesus explicitly prophesies that the Temple, this center of Jewish life and religion, will be destroyed. It’s hard to overstate how devastating and disorienting a prediction that was. For a faithful Jew, the Temple was the spiritual, cultural, and political center of the world. For it to be destroyed, for it to be wiped from the face of the earth, was to put into question everything that had seemed solid and secure.

"Jerusalem, Jerusalem" by James Tissot (c. 1890)

Of course, the disciples, very understandably, want to know more about more about the specifics of his prediction of the Temple’s destruction. When is it going to happen? How should they know to be ready for it? We sometimes ask similar questions of God – not about the Temple’s destruction but about how we are to navigate the natural course of our lives now, the ups and downs that can come unexpectedly, the surprises that occur which can so often be disorienting and devastating. How do we find stability in an ever-changing world?

Jesus gives us two recommendations in the Gospel. He doesn’t answer the disciples’ question about timing directly, because timing is something outside of our control. Instead, he speaks about what we can control. First, he warns us not to be deceived. When our world is upended in some way, it’s tempting to search for easy answers. Jesus instead encourages us to be shrewd and not to put our trust in those who seek to lead us astray. This might be quite literally persons: false prophets and fake messiahs, those who promise us religious salvation, political security, some special knowledge that is attractive when we are struggling. As Jesus says, “Do not follow them!” More broadly, it means also resisting the temptation to panic and then seek comfort in ways that only further disorient and discourage us. What we need instead is to turn to the Lord, to trust in him more fully, and to believe in what he has promised. 

The second recommendation Jesus gives begins from that point: do not be terrified. It is certain that we will encounter trial and suffering, especially if we are trying to live faithfully Jesus’s teachings. Our world is out of sync with God’s plan, and so there’s always going to be a fundamental disconnect between the world and us until the end of time. If the Lord himself came into the world to do battle with the forces of darkness and to eventually suffer and die, then we should not expect that as his followers we are going to avoid sharing in that same fundamental struggle. But despite our suffering, Jesus tells us not to fear. Why? Because he is somehow with us, within us, strengthening us, empowering us when we need his presence most. After the struggle is the victory; after suffering is the Resurrection. When we place ourselves in the Lord’s hands, and allow him to direct us where he will, then while we might suffer we can never truly be afraid, for we know that he is stronger than all else. We must continue on our paths confidently, faithfully, believing that the Lord who controls all sees our perseverance and will secure us in his love.

Friends, we are just a few weeks away from the season of Advent and the start of a new liturgical year. The Church invites us in these weeks to consider the course of history, broadly and specifically as it applies to our own lives. Sometimes it takes difficult news, or an unexpected diagnosis, or an uncertain future to remind us that in the end we are not made to be at home in this life. In this ever-changing world, even those things that seem safe and secure will inevitably be upended and overturned – if not now, then in some time to come. The only true and lasting stability to be found is in the One who is greater than those things, in the One who is all-powerful and everlasting. In what way is the Lord inviting you today to not be deceived, to not be terrified, but to trust in him more deeply and so navigate this world toward the life to come? 

As we prepare for this Eucharist, may our communion with the Lord in this Sacrament of the Altar always be our true and lasting foundation.

Heaven Is For the Body

Do you remember the movie “Heaven is for Real”? It came out about five years ago and was based upon a book by the same title. I never saw the movie or read the book, but I remember how they made some headlines when they debuted, especially in Christian circles. If you’re not familiar with the story you might be able to guess what it is about. A young boy becomes deathly ill. When he eventually recovers, he tells his family that during his illness he had an out of body experience and went to heaven where he met Jesus. His family is skeptical of his story until he shares details that he would have no way of knowing, such as about long deceased family members, and even about a sibling who his mother had miscarried years before. Eventually the family and others come to believe his story, and it strengthens their faith and brings them closer together.

These kinds of stories are not unfamiliar to us. Whatever we may believe about a particular one, it is interesting how powerful they can be. I’ve met people who have really had their faith reinforced by such stories, or who found a reason to hope and persevere in difficult and challenging situations because of them. I used to be surprised at this. I thought, “Isn’t heaven what we all hope for as Christians? Is it a surprise to find out heaven exists?” I came to realize though that it’s one thing to believe in heaven, but it’s something else entirely to have that belief become real, as something actually attainable.

We hear about just that kind of belief-made-real in today’s readings. In the first reading from the story of the Maccabees, seven brothers are able to endure torture and ultimately even death rather violate their religious faith because they have a firm hope in being justified by God in paradise. In the Gospel, Jesus speaks plainly to the Sadducees about the reality of the life to come – how it is different and far greater than what we experience here on earth. In both readings, what is notable is that this heavenly life is not a distant hope, a vague dream – it is a reality very near and present, and thus one worth sacrificing much to achieve.

Martyrdom of the Seven Maccabees (1863) by Antonio Ciseri

Notice though that in both readings what is being hoped for is something very different from how we often think of heaven. We typically envision heaven as a spiritual reality – disembodied souls, floating clouds, maybe some angels strumming harps. But that’s the Hollywood picture of heaven not the Christian one. If you look at the readings today, what is being hoped for is not heaven in that spiritual sense; in fact, the word "heaven" is used only one time. What is being hoped for instead is resurrection – the hope that the mortal body which passes aways will one day be raised up again.

Each Sunday, when we profess our faith in the Creed, we say: “I look forward to the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.” Why do we say this? Because contrary to how some think today, our bodies matter. We are not just souls in material shells – we are human persons, composites of body and soul, as much corporeal as we are spiritual. When we die, our bodies pass away, and we pray that our souls will go to heaven. But for God to give us true redemption – for him to truly be, as Jesus says in the Gospel, “not God of the dead but of the living” – then that means that he will not only save our spirits, but will resurrect and transform our bodies as well. We believe that this will happen at the end of time, after the Lord comes again and delivers the Final Judgment, when all of the dead will be raised and will enter heaven (or hell) as body and soul once again.

Michelangelo, The Last Judgment [detail] (1541)

This may seem like an abstract theological point, but it actually has profound importance for how we live. If our bodies will be raised up – if our bodies are made for glory, to be in some way like the Resurrected Body of Christ, which sits at the Father’s right hand – then that must inform how we live now. And how we live now is always in and through our bodies. Christians, especially Catholics, often get criticism for being too focused on bodies and what we humans do with them. But the reality is our bodies are important – they have been given to us by God as the means by which we operate in the world, and they have been created not merely for this life but also for the glory of heaven.

There is nothing that we do that does not involve our bodies in some way, and if we are aiming for the glorified, eternal life of heaven, then how we use our bodies now matters. As you know, our faith teaches that there are all kinds of ways we can treat our bodies, or the bodies of others, that lead us away from eternal life. I know our minds gravitate to “sins of the flesh,” as we call them, so let’s name some of them: masturbation; pornography; sex before marriage; homosexual actions. We could also include other things related to what we believe about life and sexuality: cohabitation, artificial contraception, sterilization, and a number of other things. Because sex is intended by God as the physical expression of the spiritual bond we call marriage – a lifelong bond, called to be faithful and fruitful – then there are all kinds of things we can do with our bodies, some even that are very accepted by society at large, that are not in accord with God’s law.

There are other things, besides those related to the sixth commandment, which we can do with our bodies that are also bad for us, things like: violence and abuse, whether self-inflicted or, God forbid, inflicted on another; gluttony; drunkenness, intentional or otherwise; use of illicit drugs; vanity about our appearance or even our health; or alternatively, neglect for our proper health and well-being. We also know how there is a growing acceptance in our society of people who want to change their bodies or even the bodies of their children, sometimes to another gender, or to no gender, or even to make it appear non-human in some way. We have even seen the growing trend of not respecting the body at the end of life, often through the misguided notion of relieving oneself or another of the suffering that comes with illness and age. While some of these are complex things, and we don’t want to stigmatize any single person, especially if they suffer from some illness or addiction, we must say that these things are not good for us. They are not the way to treat our bodies in the manner that they have been created by God and made by him for resurrected life. 

What we need is to recover a healthy respect for our bodies and the moral significance they have, and believe that it matters how we use them. If we are not in actively awaiting and yearning for heaven, then we may become like the Sadducees: we can implicitly believe that this world is all there is, and so it is fine to seek pleasure and happiness in all these ways and more, in all sorts of things that do not align with how God has created us to be. Instead, we need to be more like the seven brothers in the first reading, who knew that what they did with their bodies was important, because their bodies were made for eternal life. It’s for that reason that they were willing in the end to let their bodies be tortured and even killed rather than lose the promise of resurrection. How willing are we to do the same? To live in our bodies well – to deny ourselves, at times, perhaps even to suffer death one day – rather than lose heavenly glory?

Friends, heaven is for real, as Jesus tells us clearly in the Gospel. May we always believe that to be true, not just as a distant hope but as a firm reality which awaits us. But let’s remember also that heaven is for the body. Our bodies – so familiar, so well known to us in their flaws and weaknesses – have been created for glory, for eternal life, if we use them well in this life. May we endure every trial, suffering, or self-denial necessary – in body and in spirit – to ensure that we receive one day what we profess today that we believe: “the resurrection of the body, and the life of the world to come.”