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.