Do Not Be Afraid

N.B. This homily refers to the readings for the Vigil Mass of Christmas, found here.

It is a great joy for me to be here with you on maybe the most special evening of the year. Everyone knows that Christmas Eve is a time to be with family, with loved ones, and so although I don’t know you, I feel honored to be with all of you as spiritual family. And we have gathered here, in the house of the Lord – our spiritual family home, so to speak.

We are united by our faith, but we come here in different places and at different moments in our lives. Some of us, praise God, have come with smiles on our faces, with warmth and cheer in our hearts and good will towards men. But others of us are struggling. Perhaps some of us have come *because* we are struggling, asking for some hope and peace in the midst of our difficulties. We face physical ailments and illnesses, financial struggles, problems in our workplace, relationship difficulties, spiritual desolations, worries about the future, emotional fatigue and mental health challenges, and much, much more. There’s a good chance that all of us are facing something right now that feels exhausting, overwhelming, incapacitating, either in the world out there or in our own little worlds, and for those that aren’t, we probably soon will be.

Maybe that puts a little damper on our cheery mood this evening, but believe it or not, that is good news. Because while our struggles are not fun or easy, the fact that we are facing them means that we are in good company. The Virgin Mary knew what it was like to face hardship; she was asked by God to give birth to his Son, without a home or a husband and only a fiancé who may or may not have understood. Joseph, too, faced difficulty: his own fears and a sense of unworthiness to take such a holy lady into his home, most likely enduring the scorn of his friends and the gossip of his neighbors in doing so. None of us – not even those called to be the parents of Jesus – are exempt from facing things that are scary, worrisome, perplexing, and exasperating.

The Good News, however, is that God is not silent in all of this. He has something to say to us, and his message comes through the angel Gabriel, first to Mary, and then to Joseph, and then also to us in whatever struggle or sorrow is currently weighing on us or that ever will do so. He says to us, “Do not be afraid.” Don’t be afraid. Why? Because fear is often the first step away from faith – a temptation toward trying to figure things out ourselves, or to abandoning hope and belief altogether. And so that’s why God says, “No, stop, don’t be afraid” – to nip in the bud that temptation to doubt, and to assure us that he is with us.

The Dream of Saint Joseph (c. 1640) by Georges de la Tour

Last Sunday, if you recall, we heard pretty much the same Gospel as the one that we heard tonight, with only two differences. The first is that, in the longer form of this Gospel, we have the genealogy of Jesus. Saint Matthew gives us the long litany of those men and women who were Jesus’s ancestors as a way of showing us that God’s idea to send us the Savior was not one that he hatched overnight. The plan of our salvation was carefully prepared, and it played out slowly, through good people and some not-so-good people as well.

But the second change in the Gospel this week is the very last verse, Matthew 1:25, which tells us that after Joseph took Mary into his home, she bore a Son, who was named Jesus. That’s the most important part of the whole long Gospel! That one verse makes all the difference between last week and this one, between the promise and the proof. Jesus is the reason we need not be afraid. His presence is the confirmation that God was not lying when he told Mary to trust in him, when he had told Joseph to trust in him. When God tells us to trust in him, no matter what our sorrow or struggle is, Jesus is our proof that God is trustworthy. Why? Because Jesus is Emmanuel, “God-with-us,” born for us. He has come to dwell with us, not only to share our dysfunctional world but to redeem it and transform it and to elevate it by his grace.

One of the most powerful messengers of this truth was Pope St. John Paul II, the Polish priest who was pope a couple of popes ago. If you know his story, you know that he certainly was familiar with sorrow and struggle. His mother died when he was nine; his brother, when he was twelve; his father, when he was nineteen. The Nazis forced him to work in a factory; he had to study in secret in the seminary; and when he was a priest and later a bishop, he endured opposition and persecution from the communist regime.

With all of these sufferings and challenges, you might expect John Paul to have been stern and severe. But the opposite is true! He was a man of great joy and laughter and hope – not because he didn’t suffer, but because in his sufferings he knew the Lord Jesus was with him, as his Savior, as the One can transform this fallen world. And wherever he went, St. John Paul preached that the same relationship was possible for others, often by repeating some words he had borrowed from the angel Gabriel: “Do not be afraid.” In the first homily he ever gave as pope, he said: “Brothers and sisters, do not be afraid to welcome Christ and accept his power… Do not be afraid. Open wide the doors for Christ... So often today man does not know what is within him, in the depths of his mind and heart. So often he is uncertain about the meaning of his life on this earth. He is assailed by doubt, a doubt which turns into despair. We ask you therefore, we beg you with humility and trust, let Christ speak to man. He alone has words of life, yes, of eternal life.”

St. John Paul II, addressing the crowd in St. Peter Square on the day of his election as pope, October 22, 1978.

That, my friends, is what the Lord wants us to hear tonight. It is his message for us – not just for our present concerns and worries and difficulties, but always: “Do not be afraid.” Whatever you may be facing, today or tomorrow or anytime, don’t give in to your fears, but instead find your strength in Christ the Lord. Open wide the doors of your heart, and let him enter. Let him transform your world: this Savior, Emmanuel, born of Mary this night for us, whose name is Jesus.

Rejoicing in Our Hardships

There’s an old saying, “Fortune is a fickle mistress.” In other words, just when things seem to be going well, good fortune often abandons us. The crooner Frank Sinatra put it another way in one of his most famous songs: “They call you Lady Luck/ But there is room for doubt/ At times you have a very un-lady-like way/ Of running out!”

John the Baptist knew the fickleness of fortune all too well. In last week’s Gospel, we heard how people from Jerusalem, Judea, and all over the region of the Jordan – an area of some several hundred square miles – were coming out into the desert to hear him preach and to receive his baptism of repentance. In today’s Gospel, John is in a very different place: he in prison, awaiting his own execution. Lady Luck, it seems, has run out on him! John had been the voice calling out in the wilderness, preaching to multitudes, the one that everyone wanted to see. But he ends his life alone, beheaded in a cold prison cell.

This sharp change in the fortunes of John the Baptist might surprise us. We might think, “Is this any way for God to treat the prophet whom he sent to preach the coming of his Son?” But while we might be caught off guard, John himself certainly was not. He knew his role was a temporary one. His job was to point toward the Messiah and then move out of the way. As he himself says about Jesus, “he must increase, and I must decrease.” What John was after wasn’t worldly fame and fortune, but something deeper. He wanted salvation – not just for himself, but for all, for the world. He wanted God’s People to finally receive the fullness of redemption that had long been promised to them, and then God was at last ready to send. That was John’s mission – to prepare the Lord’s way – and in the end he was willing to lay down his life to see it through.

Today is the Third Sunday of Advent, sometimes called “Gaudete” Sunday, a Latin word that means “Rejoice.” Using the pink candle and vestments, we look ahead with expectation and joy to the dawning of the Lord’s salvation. Because like John the Baptist, it is salvation that we are after. That’s what we prayed for in the opening prayer today: “Enable us, we pray, to attain the joys of so great a salvation.” Salvation is lasting. It is not fickle like fortune; it doesn’t abandon us like Lady Luck. And today, on this Gaudete Sunday, we celebrate with joy that salvation is now very near, that it is coming soon – not just at Christmas, not just in this holiday season, but in every way that the Lord desires to enter more fully into our lives.

Whenever we encounter Jesus, we encounter his salvation. Sometimes that salvation comes in the ways we like – as blessings of peace and prosperity, happiness, love, meaning, purpose, fulfillment. But sometimes the Lord’s salvation has more difficult manifestations: for example, contrition or guilt, when we have sinned; perseverance or resolve, when we are enduring some trial; perhaps even sorrow or loss, when we experience the fickle nature of this world's fortunes. But even these more challenging experiences are forms of the Lord’s salvation, ways that he draws us more closely to himself.

Joseph Dietrich, John the Baptist in Prison (c. 1740)

And for that reason, these more difficult encounters with the Lord are reasons to be joyful, even in the midst of pain or confusion. Our Gospel does not say it explicitly, but surely John the Baptist rejoiced when he heard from his friends what they had seen and heard: that in Jesus, the blind regained their sight, the lame walked, lepers were cleansed, the deaf heard, the dead were raised, and the poor had the good news preached to them. Surely, he was joyful and gave thanks to hear that the salvation that he had long hoped for had finally come to pass – even though he himself was still in a prison cell, awaiting his own death.

We can think too of Saint Juan Diego, the man who received the apparition of the Virgin Mary on the hill of Tepeyac five hundred years ago. When the Blessed Virgin Mary appeared to him, she appeared to him as one expecting a child, bearing within herself the Lord Jesus. The Virgin Mary's coming was a cause for joy, but it didn't make Juan Diego's life perfectly easy. He had to endure the hardship of his uncle's illness; he had to endure the difficulty of having the archbishop not believe him at first about the apparitions; he surely had other challenges and difficulties as well. But he opened himself to receiving the Lord's presence, with faith and with rejoicing, and he was rewarded for his perseverance.

Friends, perhaps the question for us in this Advent season is this: can we be joyful in welcoming the Lord’s salvation in whatever manner it comes to us? John the Baptist and Juan Diego were saints focused not on their own good fortune but on God’s salvation, and who rejoiced when it came even though it brought them hardship. Are we willing to go through difficulties to receive the coming of the Lord, perhaps to be misunderstood as Juan Diego was, perhaps even to give up our own life as John the Baptist did? Are we able to rejoice at what the Lord comes to give us – even in those blessings and invitations that are not so enjoyable, but which nonetheless bring us closer to him?

Let us now prepare our hearts for the Eucharist we will celebrate, for in this banquet too Jesus comes, to bless us with a foretaste of the heavenly feast. May the Lord, who draws near to us, enable us, we pray, to attain the joys of so great a salvation.

The Hour to Awake

It’s a pleasure to be here with you on this holiday weekend. I hope everyone had a very blessed Thanksgiving. Did anyone do any shopping on Black Friday? Plenty of people did – some who were out in search of a particular item, and others who wanted to check out some of the sales that were being promoted, to make sure they didn’t miss out on some really great deal.

I ventured out myself because I decided I needed to buy an alarm clock, of all things. I help out with Mass at lots of churches, all of which have different schedules, and many of which have Masses early in the morning. And if there’s one thing a priest who does supply work is afraid of it’s being late for Mass, so I decided I need to invest in a good alarm beyond just my cell phone.

Part of maturity is learning to do what it takes to get ourselves out of bed in the morning – not to wallow in sleep but to wake up and face the day and what it holds. Today’s second reading reminds us that this is true not only for our bodies but also for our spirits. Just as we must shake off the sleepiness of the morning, so too St. Paul encourages the Romans to be roused from spiritual drowsiness in order to be ready for the hour of salvation. In other words, he tells them that it’s time to wake up, because while the world is still shrouded in night, we await the dawning of the new and eternal day.

In the Morning (1840) by A. Rötting

The season of Advent, which we begin today, is something like a liturgical alarm clock – a ringing reminder from the Church not to be lulled into complacency by the worldly things that surround us, but to wake up and stand ready for the coming of the Lord. And just like we get out of bed and get dressed when our alarm clock goes off in the morning, even if it’s still dark outside, so too St. Paul urges us to take off what is old and disheveled – what he calls the works of darkness: orgies, drunkenness, promiscuity, lust, rivalry, jealousy – and instead dress ourselves in the armor of light. In using this time to be deepen our faith, to strengthen our hope, to renew commitment to works of service and charity, then as he says, we literally put on the Lord Jesus Christ. We become vested in the very identity of the Lord whom we await.

This admonition is one that should always be at the heart of our practice as faithful Christians, but especially so in this season of Advent. As we know, this season is the one that prepares us for the birth of Christ, but it also looks ahead – especially in the first few weeks – to the Lord’s return at the end of time. And it’s that coming which Jesus speaks of in the Gospel today, in which he also encourages the disciples to stay awake, and to stand ready for his return. We don’t know when that return will be, but if we remain ready, then, in a sense, it doesn’t matter when it will happen, because we will be prepared for it whenever he comes.

These next few weeks then are a chance to heed the spiritual alarm clock and to make ourselves ready again for the Lord who is coming. If we have grown a little lax lately in our prayer, now is the chance to renew those daily practices of speaking to the Lord – of communicating with him in the words of Scripture, the words of our devotional prayers, and in our own words from the heart. Maybe we need to admit that our behavior has been a little off recently, perhaps in just those ways that St. Paul warned the Romans about – drunkenness, lust, jealousy. Advent is our chance to rouse ourselves to a new sobriety, so that we will be clearheaded enough to see the dawning of the Lord’s coming. And if we have been a little lethargic lately in helping others – in serving those around us, in sacrificing of ourselves without complaint, in exercising the charity that the Lord commands of his disciples – then Advent is just the perfect time to start over, to start again, and to put on the Lord Jesus Christ in all we do.

Friends, in what way is the Lord calling you to spiritually wake up? In whatever way it is, don’t miss out on the great deal the Lord offers you in this Eucharistic banquet – how at this Mass and every Mass we can recognize and attune ourselves to the Presence of the Lord, who comes to us under the appearance of bread and wine in order to make us ready for his coming on the day of his return. Let’s hear the spiritual alarm clock of this Advent season, so that we may become fully awake in these days, and ready for the day of the Lord’s return.

How the Story Will End

The most important part of any story is how it ends. Lots of stories that start out pretty well are ruined by rotten endings. We probably can all think of a book we read, or a movie we saw, or a TV series that we streamed that started out OK but fell apart by the end. A good story, on the other hand, might start slowly or have some confusing twists or turns in the middle but it ends in a memorable and satisfying way that redeems the whole experience.

The problem, of course, is that we don’t know how a story will end until we get there. Several months ago, I was sitting in a dark theater, kinda squirming in my seat, and just counting down the minutes until the movie I came to see would finally come to an end. I had seen the trailer and thought that the film’s premise looked interesting enough, but halfway through I was second-guessing my decision: the movie was just kind of dragging on, I couldn’t understand where it was going, and worst of all, I wasn’t at all sure the ending was going to be good. At the same time, I was too invested to leave; or better or worse, I had to see it through to the end. Fortunately, on that occasion, I was rewarded for my perseverance – the story picked up and had a good ending that was worth seeing.

Life is not a movie or a TV show, of course, but it is a story, and this is especially true when we think of it in light of our faith. The fundamental claim of the Christian faith is that our lives are part of a larger story – not just the story of the world, but the story of God’s relationship with the world, a relationship that is defined by the person of Jesus Christ. We know the rough outlines of the story: that we have each been created in God’s image and likeness, that by our sins we have fallen short of God’s plan, that we need a Savior and that Savior is Jesus, God-with-us, who died and rose again to save us from our sins, that we now share in his Holy Spirit and in the hope of eternal life with him.

All of that we know, but sometimes we get stuck at that point. We’re not really sure where the story goes from there. How do our lives – with all of their joys and sorrows, their various goals and challenges – how do they fit in to the story? And most importantly, how will they end? In today’s Gospel, Jesus gives us some assurance. As the one who wrote the story, he knows how it ends, and he shares with us a glimpse of what the future holds. What we hear may not sound at first very encouraging: nations engaging in violence, natural disasters and famines and plagues, and then perhaps most frighteningly, facing persecutions and even death. In the time of global pandemics, divided politics, even the threat of global war, all of that may hit a little too close to home.

Believe it or not, though, Jesus tells us all of this so that we may have hope. Why? Because he wants us to know what the ending will be. He assures us that in the end, after all these trials, God will save the righteous. All of these bad things will happen and it will seem like the good guys are going to lose, but then – boom, God will come to reward those who persevere in righteousness. As we heard from the prophet Malachi in our first reading, on that day God’s justice will come in an instant to give each their due: for those who are proud and those who do evil, it will be like a blazing oven “to set them on fire, leaving them neither root nor branch,” whereas for the righteous, that day will dawn like the warm sun “with its healing rays.”

John Martin, The Destruction of Pompeii and Herculaneum (1822)

So, that’s how the story ends generally. But what will our ending be? On the one hand, today’s readings can give us strength and hope – if we find ourselves in the midst of a difficult chapter in life, perhaps confused with the direction we are headed, or being tossed about by the twists and turns in life’s plot. Maybe we are anxious about the storylines we see around us – in our society, in our church, in our personal lives. Maybe even some of us are tempted to give up on our faith. If that’s where we find ourselves, Jesus says, “Take heart! Fear not, for the ending of this story is certain, and though you may be suffering or perplexed now, if you persevere in your faith in me, you will be rewarded.”

On the other hand, today’s readings might be a wake-up call if we’re not perhaps as focused on our final end as we should be. Jesus says that those who share in his identity will necessarily encounter difficulties, sufferings, persecutions, and possibly even death, and we must be ready for those things so that when they come we don’t grow discouraged. The story of life is long and winding, and it has lots of subplots and side stories that can distract us from our ultimate goal, if we’re not careful. If we think that God primarily intends for us to find lasting happiness in this life or in what this life offers – power, pleasures, prestige, possessions – then we should perhaps squirm in our seats a bit because we will be sorely disappointed on the last day.

Friends, a week from now we will celebrate the Feast of Jesus Christ, King of the Universe. That’s the part of the story that we haven’t yet experienced – the ending that awaits all of us. He who will return in glory on the last day, who will rule over all things in the end, is also the One who encourages us to have hope in him today, to stay focused on him, and to persevere in faithfulness to him in all of our joys and sorrows, all of our goals and challenges. If we do so, then on the coming of his day, we will encounter his justice like the healing rays of the rising sun. And that will be an ending worth seeing.

Say You're Sorry

“Can you say, ‘I’m sorry’?”

My sister has been asking that question recently of her kids. At 8, 6, and 3, my niece and my two nephews can all say, “I’m sorry”, but her question has a deeper meaning than just knowing how to literally say the words. She’s teaching them the lesson of how to take ownership for their mistakes, and of recognizing the harm, whether intentional or unintentional, that they sometimes cause each other.

Talking with my sister, it struck me how important it is to learn this lesson at a young age – to be able to say “I’m sorry” and to do it well. Too often, we are more inclined to respond in some way that justifies ourselves or avoids responsibility: “Sorry you misunderstood me,” or “You’re overreacting,” or “I did that because you did this.” My niece and nephews aren’t bad kids, not by any means, but if they learn how to simply say, “I’m sorry,” and mean it, they’ll be much better off, not only in their sibling squabbles, but in the deeper wounds that they will inevitably give and receive in various relationships as they mature.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus is also aiming to help his listeners to recognize their faults. The evangelist St. Luke tells us that the parable we hear about the Pharisee and the tax collector is specifically intended for “those who were convinced of their own righteousness and despised everyone else.” Jesus must have known that there were some among his followers who also had trouble owning up to their mistakes, who were quick to explain away the harm they caused or to put the blame on somebody else. Maybe Jesus was especially concerned with the implicit judgmentalism that can creep into our dealings with others, when we are quick to latch on to the faults of others and ignore our own, assuming the worst about others’ intentions and only the best of ourselves.

As Jesus’s parable shows us, this kind of spiritual egotism can have serious consequences for our relationship with God. The Pharisee goes to the Temple, as he must have done frequently, perhaps every day. And yet, his prayer is not heard; God does not accept what he offers. As a Pharisee, he probably lived an upright life; he would have followed the commandments of the Law very faithfully, and probably was a paragon of virtue to those who knew him. But all of his good works were corrupted by his interior sense of self-righteousness. And we are told he went away unjustified, which means not at peace with God. Compare that to the tax collector, a man who was in league with the Roman occupiers and who had probably cheated his countrymen and women out of their money. Most people would have thought him pretty despicable, but because he recognizes his fault, and begs God for mercy, his prayer is heard. He leaves the temple in God's good graces.

Julius Schnoor von Carolsfeld, The Publican and the Pharisee (c. 1860)

This Gospel passage is an excellent examination of conscience for us about the proper way to approach the Lord. I have sometimes used it at the beginning of a penance service, the kind we have usually in Lent or Advent. Even the best of us – the most considerate and self-aware among us – fall far short of the righteousness of God, who is perfectly good, holy, and just. In light of that disparity, it’s ridiculous to try to justify ourselves to him, to boast to him about our own qualities or merits, as if they were not his free gifts to us. If we come into God’s house – whether for a penance service, or to attend Sunday Mass, or even to just spend some time in prayer – it’s kind of pointless to approach the Lord and say, “See all of these great things I have done, God, and all of these bad things I haven’t done!” The Lord can’t do anything with that kind of self-satisfied attitude, and with those words, it’s likely that we’re falling into the spiritual vanity that corrupts our very desire to be good.

In contrast, the Lord always hears the one who approaches him as the tax collector does, with recognition of his own unworthiness and need for mercy. Even the most hardened sinner, if he approaches the Lord in humility, confessing his faults, and seeking to do better, will be quickly and easily forgiven by God. To use an image from the writings of St. Faustina, such a person is like a grimy seashell washed in the ocean; the Lord’s mercy overwhelms us, removing our stains as if they had never been there.

Friends, let’s hear the Lord speaking to us today. As we seek to mature in our discipleship of Jesus, let’s learn anew the importance of being able to say, “I’m sorry,” – to others, certainly, but especially to the Lord himself. It’s not by self-righteousness that we earn his favor, but rather by our humility, and we have the opportunity to practice that every day in our prayer, especially here at Mass. As we prepare for this Eucharist, may we be convinced not of our own worthiness, but of our need for his mercy, so that by humbling ourselves us in this life he may exalt us in the next.

Raise Your Voice

There’s an old adage: “Pride comes before the fall.” The Book of Proverbs, specifically the 16th chapter, is the source of that saying, although these days it is also mentioned in non-religious contexts, like sports or politics or even daily life. “Pride comes before the fall” means, in effect, that overconfidence and ego often prevent a person from seeing some coming failure or defeat. Pride blinds them to what they could have avoided.

If pride comes before the fall, then we might say the opposite is also true: humility comes before ascendance. Or, said another way, humility helps us to see with new eyes, not only the situation before us, but especially ourselves. And in so doing, humility opens the way to growth and transformation.

Today’s Gospel gives us a clear example of just how this works. Jesus is making his way to Jerusalem, where he has told the disciples he must go to suffer, die, and then rise again. And on the way, he meets ten people afflicted with leprosy. Lepers were the lowliest group of the ancient world; their disease not only prevented them from engaging in normal human society, but it was seen as a stigma and a sign of God’s disfavor. In this condition, it would have been no small thing for them to approach Jesus, the famous rabbi and miracle-worker. Yet, they see in him someone who can alleviate their plight. And so they have the humility to ask for help, crying out, though also standing at a distance out of respect and caution. And it’s only by having the humility to get Jesus’s attention that they are transformed by his power and healed of their leprosy.

I’d wager that none of us ever have been or ever will be afflicted with leprosy. If we were, modern medicine could help us. But while we may not have that terrible disease, we do have other needs – needs that we should recognize in honesty and humility. Maybe we have another physical illness or malady that burdens us. Maybe we are plagued by spiritual afflictions, like addiction, mental health issues, or emotional trauma. Maybe we have suffered damaged relationships, or spiritual doubts or dryness, or fatigue in our vocational duties or in the responsibilities of daily life. Whatever it is, surely all of us can think of some malady that plagues us, that we wish to be rid of, that we know we can’t fix ourselves.

Christ and the Lepers (c. 1920) by Gebhard Fugel

Jesus can help us, just like he helped the lepers in today’s Gospel. But first we must recognize our need for his aid. Like them, we must raise our voice to him – not to catch his attention, since he is already always focused upon us, but to humble ourselves, to recognize in humility that he can provide what we cannot. It’s that kind of trust in the Lord that is pleasing to him, that not only helps us to move toward the transformation that we desire, but that also deepens our relationship with him. Spiritual growth isn’t about mastering certain abilities or acquiring certain attributes on our own; rather, it comes from learning to rely ever more deeply on the Lord, he who loves us and who wants to give us the good things we need, if only we open ourselves to him.

Of course, humbly asking the Lord for what we need is just the first step. We must be prepared for the fact that he may not grant what we need right away. Sometimes he asks us to wait a bit, to deepen our trust in him even more and to expand our capacity to receive. Sometimes he asks us to suffer a little – to walk with him on the path to Jerusalem – for our good and the good of all the world. Sometimes the true gift is not the answer to our prayers, but the spirit of thanksgiving that the Lord also gives us; like the leper who returns in gratitude, we are truly healed and transformed only when we praise the One who has helped us.

But it’s important not to get too far ahead of ourselves. Today’s Gospel reminds us that the most significant step is the first one: recognizing our need in humility and asking the Lord for his help. Brothers and sisters, in all of the individual ways that perhaps we have reflected upon, and for all the needs we have collectively – the needs of this parish, the needs of our Church, the needs of our society, the needs of all the world – let us raise our voices and lift up our hearts anew to the Lord. Let us humbly call upon him, and say with great faith, “Jesus, Master! Have pity on us!” And may our faith in him be our salvation.

Lazarus's Neighbors

“Good fences make good neighbors.” You might recognize that statement if you are familiar with the work of the American poet Robert Frost. It’s from one of his more famous poems, “Mending Wall.” In the context of the poem, it is the saying of a New England landowner who explains why he’s performing the hard labor of repairing a stone wall that separates his property from others. He wants to rebuild the wall because, in his words, “Good fences make good neighbors.”

There is a kind of logic to that point of view that our society recognizes as well. We usually don’t like to meddle in the affairs of other people, and we certainly don’t like it when they meddle in ours. We have a sort of built-in mentality of “Don’t bother me and I won’t bother you.” Good fences make good neighbors.

The problem, as we all know, is that this can be taken too far. Sometimes we need others to be invested in our well-being, even if it invades our privacy. If our house is on fire and we’re not home, we don’t want our neighbors to say, “Oh well, you know, I didn’t call the fire department because it’s not my house, I didn’t want to get involved in someone else’s business.” And it goes the other way, too. We have the obligation to get involved in the affairs of others when a true emergency is present.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus tells us that the well-being of the poor is just that kind of emergency — it’s a spiritual house on fire, and the hydrant and firehose are within our reach. The great sin of the rich man in Jesus’s parable – the sin that leads him to perdition – is not the fact that he is wealthy, but that he doesn’t use any of his wealth to aid the man who was so clearly in need at his doorstep. We can think of all kinds of reasons that the rich man might have had for not helping – “I don’t really want to get involved”; “Lazarus, I’m sorry, I’m in a hurry, I don’t have time right now”; “Lazarus, can’t you just get a job, for crying out loud?”; “Lazarus, how do I know that you won’t use what I give you for booze or drugs?” But none of these reasons, in the end, justify the fact that the rich man failed to help someone whom he *could* have helped, who was in such dire need.

The Rich Man and Poor Lazarus (1625) by Hendrick ter Brugghen

The implication, I think, is obvious for us. Helping the needy and the poor might take us out of our comfort zone, and we might be tempted not to help because of all kinds of What-Ifs that might come to mind. But Jesus is telling us today that the well-being of the poor has a direct impact on our eternal well-being, so it’s best to use our dishonest wealth now — that is, our money, to use a phrase from last week’s Gospel — in order to build up treasure in heaven.

Now, I know many of us might say: "Father, my situation is not exactly that of the rich man's. Things are hard for me." But wherever we may find ourselves on the economic scale, I think we can all admit that there's someone who is in an even more challenging situation. What this Gospel should prompt within each of us is an examination of conscience about who is within our reach that is need of our help. Maybe it’s a neighbor who is going through a difficult stretch after losing a job. Maybe it’s those folks we see standing on street corners and red lights asking for a little help. Maybe it’s those in our community that we’ve never met, but whose needs are known to us, that we can alleviate through supporting a homeless shelter, a soup kitchen, a pregnancy resource center, a halfway house.

And lest we think otherwise, it’s not only those close to home that we must have concern for. Today is the World Day of Migrants and Refugees, an annual reminder as Catholics that we also are to help vulnerable persons who have been displaced from their homelands because of famine, violence, or economic hardship. As citizens of a global society, and as members of the Body of Christ spread throughout the world, we have a duty to know about and help even those far away from us whom we may never meet personally. I’d encourage you to consider learning more about how you can help migrants and refugees through the work of groups like Catholic Relief Services, Jesuit Refugee Services, or the International Catholic Migration Commission.

Friends, perhaps it feels a little overwhelming to think of all these systemic problems like homelessness or a global refugee crisis. But the point today is that we don’t have to solve those issues in order to still help the individual people that are within our reach. What makes good neighbors, in the end, is not good fences, but just being good neighbors to the Lazarus's among us – having concern for the well-being of others and doing what we can to help those clearly in need. As we prepare for this Eucharist, may the Lord Jesus be our model in all these things – he who humbled himself to help us in our need, who submitted to the lowliness of the Cross in order to raise us to new and eternal life.

God Is #1

On this Labor Day weekend, I have some family visiting from out of town. My sister and her husband and their three kids live in Nebraska, which means that they make it to Arkansas only about once a year. The rest of our immediate family – my parents, myself, and my younger brother Fr. Stephen Hart – all live here in Arkansas, so we really value the opportunities we have to see them, since they are relatively few and far between. And as some of you know from your own lives, visiting with nieces and nephews has a special importance when you don’t have children of your own – you get a chance to see the world in a different way, and have a glimpse into the future of your own family and your heritage. Plus, they’re just a lot of fun to be around.

All of that is to say – I love my family very much, and I’m sure you love yours, too. How challenging it is then for all of us to hear in today’s Gospel that to be Jesus’s disciple, we have to hate our families: our mothers and fathers, wives and husbands, sisters and brothers – yes, even presumably, our nieces and nephews. I think we all know that Jesus, the Prince of Peace, isn’t saying here that we have to literally *hate* them – as in, feel dislike or harbor animosity toward them. Perhaps it’s important to be clear about that, at a time when a lot of family life and relationships are disrupted by hatred, distrust, disagreements, and resentments. The Church has always privileged the life of the family and promoted its unity and harmony, not just as the building block of society but as a microcosm of the family of faith, the Church, with Christ at the Head and we as members of his Body. God wants us to love our families, because he has given them to us as his gift – and given us to them as his gift – and as means of coming to know and love him more deeply. We always take our example of how to do this from the Holy Family, the life of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in Nazareth.

What Jesus is really saying here is that our love for him must exceed every other love, and that includes the love that is perhaps most natural, most deeply held – the love of our families. If asked, most of us would probably agree that the love of God should come before all else. In fact, sometimes I hear people say, in a list of their priorities, “God is #1, my family is #2, and then every other priority is a distant 3rd.” But while we might agree that’s the proper ordering, we often don’t really live up to that in practice. In fact, I think Jesus refers here to our families because he knows that when it comes to those relationships, the ones that are most important to us, we sometimes can let our values and principles slide a little bit.

For example, how many of us have ever gotten out of a work or school obligation because of a family emergency? Or looked the other way with language or behavior we didn’t approve of because it came from a family member? I’m not saying those things are always wrong to do; perhaps they may even be the right thing, in a given situation. But right or wrong, our family relationships sometimes have a certain, special hold over us that other things don’t. What Jesus is pointing out to us today is that that may be okay when it comes to other things, but not when it comes to him. To put our relationship with God second to that of our family *is* wrong, and we might do this in practice more than we like to admit.

For example, we put our families ahead of the love of God if we think that, because we are going out of town for the weekend or going away on vacation, then it’s okay to not go to Sunday Mass since we are away from our regular parish. We put our families ahead of the love of God if we find it very important to get our kids to sports practice or to their favorite activity but not as important to take them to Confirmation class or to the parish youth group meetings. We put our families ahead of the love of God if we find it more important that our family members share our political viewpoints, or our favorite hobbies, or our sports allegiances, than we do our Catholic faith.

Now, I imagine that most of us might say at this point, “Okay, okay — maybe there are some times when I place the love of my family before the love of God. Is that so bad? After all, it’s my *family*!” And I think here we have to say, “Yes, it is.” I’m sorry, I know it may be hard to hear, but Jesus really is saying we have to love him even ahead of our families. In fact, I think we have to say that Jesus is telling us that unless we love God first, and unless we teach our families to love God above all else, then we really aren’t loving our families, because we are not forming them in the most important way – in the only thing that really matters: to know, love, and serve him.

James Smetham, Christ Preaching to the Multitudes (c. 1890)

To be sure, family relationships aren’t always easy, and even if we try to make sure our love for family is rooted in the love of God, it’s not always easy to know what to do in difficult situations. For example, sometimes people ask me things like: “Father, my daughter has decided to leave the Church; what should I do?” or “My nephew is getting married, but not in the Catholic Church; should I go to the wedding?” Those kinds of questions are often hard to answer, because a lot depends on the particulars of the relationship. Most of the time, the person knows what is best or what they are being called to do. Generally, I tend to favor the approach of trying to preserve the relationship, while also explaining what we believe or what our Catholic faith teaches. But it’s not always easy, and we should wrestle with these situations. We should really ask ourselves, “What does my relationship with God and with my faith ask of me in this particular situation?”

There’s one last thing that Jesus says we shouldn’t prefer to love of him, and that’s our very own life. The possibility of martyrdom is not something that keeps most of us up at nights. We know that it’s still possible in places in the world for people to die for the name of Jesus, but that’s a possibility that feels pretty remote for most of us. But there are lesser forms of martyrdom that perhaps we face more frequently: whether we will compromise our beliefs to preserve a friendship or to keep up appearances or to win the esteem of those we want to think well of us. Putting Jesus first can often mean putting ourselves last, sometimes in the very ways we find it most hard to do.

Friends, I know this has probably been a challenging homily; I found it a challenging one myself! But sometimes to love well we need to be challenged – whether that’s loving ourselves, our families, and especially God above all. It’s only in this way that we advance toward the future and the heritage that God has created for us. But in those difficult things the Lord asks us to do, let’s also remember that he will give us strength, perseverance, and even peace of heart, if we seek his will above all. He comes to us now, in this Eucharist, to renew the relationship that we have with him – individually and collectively – so that in all we do, we might seek to love him above all.

Just Opt Out

Recently, I’ve been getting a lot of unwanted email. I don’t know if I accidentally subscribed to a mailing list of some kind or if my email address somehow was marketed and sold. But lately it feels like I’ve spent a lot of time just clicking “unsubscribe” from various spam messages that arrive. It got me to thinking: wouldn’t it be convenient if we had an unsubscribe button for other unpleasant things in life? Taxes, or traffic, or illness, or family problems – wouldn’t it be nice to just have a button to click to make those things go away?

Of course, life doesn’t work that way. But while there are plenty of problems that we can’t just make disappear, it’s also true that some of our problems of our own making. In today’s Gospel, Jesus addresses one of the biggest sources of our woes: our own pridefulness. The context of this Gospel is a dinner in the home of a prominent Pharisee. Jesus has been invited to this swanky scene, but it’s clear that this is not the kind of thing to which he was accustomed. For an itinerant preacher, who ate with tax collectors and sinners, he must have felt out of place among these high society folks, who were all seeking places of honor at the table, jockeying for position in order to be recognized as important. I tend to think that, as he observed them carefully, the whole thing made him a little sad, and perhaps it is that which prompts the parable and the lesson that he gives.

Feast in the House of Simon the Pharisee (c. 1618) by Peter Paul Rubens

Perhaps like the people at that dinner, most of us probably wouldn’t think of ourselves as particularly prideful. We tend to think that pride is really only possible for people like the prominent Pharisee, those who have a lot of power, or fame, or wealth. The rest of us are just trying to make to do, be thought of moderately well, to be accepted in the social circles that we are in, whatever those might be. After all, who doesn’t want to feel appreciated, esteemed, and valued? The challenge though, as Jesus knows well, is that too often we seek that validation in the wrong places: by comparing ourselves to others, and by trying to show them – and ourselves – that we measure up by what we have, by what we’ve done, and by what we’re doing. From educational goals and career objectives, to the activities of our social lives, from what we do to maintain our own health and wellbeing, to the way we treat our friends or our relatives, and even to the ways we seek to give back, and to serve society – sometimes what we do is done as much to impress others, or to impress ourselves, as for any other reason.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus encourages us to simply opt out of that kind of behavior. Be humble, he says, and stop striving to make an impression. That can be a hard thing, especially if we struggle with insecurities or with our own sense of self-worth. The key then, as we hear in the first reading from Sirach, is to root ourselves in the knowledge of God’s love for us above all else. To be humble doesn’t mean to be diffident and demure, but rather to recognize that our identity and our importance comes not from ourselves, and not from others, but from the One who looks on us from above. We each have worth and dignity, not because we have had to earn them or claim them or flaunt them, but because God himself has bestowed those things on us, and because of that, we can’t be robbed of them. When we come to understand more deeply our own value, and the value of every person, then we can opt out of the prideful striving that can creep into a lot of our motivations and concerns. We can, if you will, simply unsubscribe.

If we need an example of how to do this, I’d encourage us to look at those for whom God has a special love: the poor and the needy. Often, they are the ones who know best that we find security not in what we have, or in whom we can impress, but only in the love of God and in his love for us. As a priest, I have often been taught this lesson time and again by those who are suffering from illness or physical ailment. For example, just this past week, a dear lady from my former parish in Stuttgart passed away after a long battle with cancer. She first got sick around the time I arrived there as pastor, but after a while, because of her illness and because of COVID, it wasn’t really possible for her to come to church. Instead, I would go to visit her, as did others in our community. As her illness increased, her movement became limited, and she was often in great pain. But every time I visited her, I was always impressed by the great patience and kindness she showed. As more and more was taken away from her, and as her interactions with others became more limited, she relied more and more on God’s strength and on the power of prayer, by which she stayed connected not only to God but to those whom she loved. She continued to touch the lives of her family and friends, and of our parish, by the spiritual example that she gave us, bearing the cross that had been given to her with great faith and humility.

Friends, consider who in your life shows you the value of relying totally on God. Of those who are needy, or suffering, or poor, what can you learn from them? What might they teach you about valuing what’s most important? Not all of the problems of our lives are like unwanted email, where we click a button and make them go away. But we can choose to opt out of the prideful motivations and desires that often guides what we do. If we seek to think less of ourselves, and strive more to measure up to what God asks of us rather than anything else, then we discover the freedom that comes from true humility. May the wisdom of the poor and the needy be an example for us, to reflect on who we are and what we are about in the light of Jesus Christ, he who became poor for our sake and who humbly accepted the Cross out of redemptive love for us. May we await, with great faith and humility, the resurrection of the righteous.

It's Who You Know

You probably know the old saying: “It’s not what you know but who you know that matters.” In other words, in life, relationships are just as important as achievements, and sometimes more so. This saying sometimes helps us explain why someone was passed over for some honor, like a job promotion or an award, despite the fact that they were deserving. Maybe they had more experience or better expertise, but because they didn’t know the right people, they didn’t get chosen.

We tend to think that sort of thing is unfair. In business or sports or entertainment, we believe that honors and privileges shouldn’t be decided by personal relationships. But when it comes to faith, it’s a little more complex, because in the spiritual life, it *does* matter who you know. At its heart, faith is not about learning facts, or meeting certain objectives, but about growing in relationship with God. When I was a seminarian, a priest once told us: “It’s entirely possible to know all about God but not to know him at all.” In other words, he was telling us that there was a danger, perhaps especially for us seminarians, to learn all the facts of our faith, to seek to impress others with our knowledge of theology and Scripture and church history, but never to actually come to know God himself. As someone who was intellectually minded, I remember that idea sort of terrified me, because I realized helping others to get to heaven, and getting there myself, was going to depend not just on studying and learning but actually coming to know the Lord in a deeper way. 

In the Gospel today, Jesus is asked a question about this very thing – who, in the end, will make it to heaven? Whoever asked this question – whether someone in one of the towns and villages where Jesus was visiting, or someone from his own traveling party – this person knew Jesus well enough to approach him and ask him and to expect a reply. But it could be there’s a kind of presumption in the question, too, as if to say, “Jesus, will only those of us close to you – those of us who know you – get to heaven?” This person seems to believe themselves to be in the “in crowd,” those whose own salvation isn’t in question.

As he often does, Jesus gives a surprising answer. On the one hand, he confirms that eternal life will be based on knowing him; he is the master of the house who will open the door only to those whom he knows. This would seem to be good news to the person who asked the question, right? They must have thought: “Knowing Jesus is the key to eternal life – great, I got it made!” But then Jesus says something surprising. Apparently, not all of those who are in his company, who ate and drank with him, who heard him teach, will in the end know him well enough to enter eternal life. In other words, those who think themselves to be part of the “in crowd” may be mistaken, and they may find that others who would appear to know Jesus less well, those from the east and the west, from the north and the south, will enter eternal life ahead of them.

James Tissot, The First Shall Be Last (c. 1890)

On the one hand, this Gospel should be Good News for anyone who may feel themselves undeserving of heaven, whether because of past experiences, or present circumstances, or whatever else. A lot of the things that we use to judge and distinguish in this life – ethnic background, education level, personal accomplishments, career accolades, financial success, family harmony, etc. etc. – those things aren’t going to matter at all. What will matter – the *only* thing that will matter – is how well we know the Lord, and that is open to anyone and everyone. The word “catholic” means “universal” and that’s what we believe about our faith – that it is open to all, no matter who you are.

At the same time, today’s Gospel is also perhaps a challenging one to people like us, sitting in the pews, because most of us probably like to think that we won’t have much to worry about when it comes to getting to heaven. Much like the person in the Gospel who asks the question of Jesus, we would hope that we would be considered part of his inner circle. We might think, “I say my prayers, I go to church on Sunday, I try to treat other people well. Surely, I’m in the clear!” Hopefully so, but Jesus’s words today should at least give us pause about the possibility of being presumptuous about eternal life. Saying our prayers and coming to church and treating people well are all good things; so, too, is the desire to learn about what we believe, to help explain or defend it to others, or to grow in knowledge about Scripture or doctrine or spirituality. But none of these things is itself a guarantee of heaven, just like, apparently, eating and drinking in Jesus’s company and hearing him teach wasn’t a guarantee for those in his day.

What matters, in the end, is not what we know but who we know, as that old saying says. And that means knowing Jesus himself – not just knowing about him, or knowing him in a casual way, but coming to know him personally and intimately, as a Friend and as a Savior. You might say, “Well, how do I do that?” It’s a good question but the answer depends on where we are in our faith journey. Some of us may need a true conversion – a turning away from something that is standing in the way of our friendship with the Lord, some aspect of our life that is sinful, in order to give ourselves over to Jesus and let him be the Master of our life. For others of us, it may be a matter of persevering – of enduring the difficulties and the disciplines that the Lord sometimes sends us, as a way of purifying and strengthening us, as the Letter to the Hebrews says. Finally, for some of us, it may involve not doing anything radically different from what we are already doing, but doing it with a new focus: saying our prayers, not just to say them but to dialogue and communicate with the Lord himself to know him more deeply; participating in the sacraments not just out of habit but as spiritual encounters with the Lord who loves us and who is drawing us to himself from heaven; treating people well, not just because we’re being nice, but because we’re displaying the Lord’s charity, loving Jesus in others, especially in the poor and the needy.

In the end, knowing Jesus means challenging ourselves continuously, examining our own actions and preconceptions, and asking ourselves how we can know the Lord more intimately. As he tells us, we will have to strive not to take the easy paths of the world, the ones that can dominate our daily activities if we’re not careful. It will mean not presuming that we have done enough, that we know Jesus well enough, but to keep striving each day to enter through the narrow gate, the one that is shaped exactly the Lord’s Cross. It’s the Cross in the end that helps us to know Jesus more deeply, and even more, to be conformed into his image and shaped into his likeness, so that when we meet him one day, he will recognize us because he will see in us an image of himself.

Friends, as we prepare for this Eucharist, let’s hear the words of Jesus our Friend and Savior, speaking to us personally, encouraging us to do whatever we need to do to come know him more deeply and to love him more fully. May the graces of this Sacrament help us not be presumptuous, but to keep striving each day, so that we may grow in relationship with the Lord now so as to one day be welcomed by him into the kingdom to come.

Faith of Our Fathers

One of the most recognizable hymns of our Catholic tradition, and one of my personal favorites, is “Faith of Our Fathers”. I won’t subject you to my attempt to sing from it, but I’m sure you know its famous refrain: “Faith of our Fathers! Holy Faith! We will be true to thee till death.” It was written in the mid-19th century by Fr. Frederick Faber, who was a Catholic convert from Anglicanism. He wrote the hymn to commemorate the Catholic martyrs of the English Reformation: those men and women who laid down their lives rather than abandon the Catholic faith. As the hymn reminds us, we believe that our faith is our most precious possession, and it is our guiding light in times of uncertainty, difficulty, and even persecution.

Today’s readings also tell us about the faith of our spiritual fathers and mothers, from times even farther back in history than the English Reformation. In the reading from the Book of Wisdom, we hear how the Israelites, though still enslaved in Egypt, had faith in the coming Passover of the Lord, believing that God would destroy Pharaoh’s dominion over them and would free them and establish them in their own land. And in the second reading, the Letter to the Hebrews goes even farther back in time to remind us of Abraham, whom we call “our father in faith.” God called him to leave the land of his birth for a new country where he would become the father of many nations. And Abraham responded to God’s invitation with faith; he made the journey and accepted a covenant with God. The fullness of God’s promise wasn’t fulfilled during Abraham’s lifetime, but he believed in it, nonetheless, because of his faith.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus also speaks of a coming reality, one not yet seen but one which he nonetheless calls us to believe in: “Do not be afraid any longer, little flock. Your Father is pleased to give you the kingdom.” Just as the Israelites believed that God would free them from slavery in Egypt, just as Abraham believed that God would make his descendants “as numerous as the stars in the sky and as countless as the sands on the seashore,” so too the Lord Jesus calls us to believe in the nearness of the heavenly kingdom of God. It is Jesus, and he alone, who by his Cross and Resurrection has at last established a new homeland – a heavenly one, as the Letter to the Hebrews tells us – so that those who have faith in him will no longer be “strangers and aliens on earth” but will arrive at last in the eternal city that God has prepared for all those who believe.

Still, we might ask: what exactly is “faith”? First, we should say what it isn’t. Faith is not primarily a feeling or a sentiment – something that we have at certain times but not at others. Faith is not a luxury or a hobby – something that we engage when we have the time, or when we feel like it. Faith is not a cultural heritage – something that we receive from our families, via our backgrounds, but which we personally and individually may or may not be all that interested in. No — faith, as the Letter to the Hebrews tells us, is “the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen.” In other words, faith is spiritual knowledge that assures us and helps us to understand that which is true and certain, but which is not yet visible – that which lies ahead. Faith is a gift from God that gives us insight into the future, so that we may understand what God is doing and what he will do, and to believe in it although we do not yet see it.

If this gift of faith is so important, then it is also important to be aware of how we can lose it. One way we can lose our faith is by what Jesus warns us about in the Gospel: spiritual short-sightedness. Those who heard Jesus preach were attracted to what he said, because he spoke to the deepest desires of their hearts. But Jesus also told them that the fulfillment of those desires – the final unveiling of what God promises to those who believe – is not going to come right away. It is guaranteed to come, but we will have to wait for it, and if we’re not mindful, if we don’t persevere and take the longview, then the waiting might cause us to become careless in the meantime. In Jesus’s parable, the servants are caught off guard by their Master’s return because they have grown lax in staying vigilant. The steward of the house, also, has become lazy and, even worse, selfish, thinking that he can indulge his desires because he thinks his Master won’t return anytime soon. In contrast to them, the faithful servants are not distressed by their Master’s long delay but instead hold fast to what they believe: that he will return, and when he does, they will be rewarded.

The Martyrs of Gorkum (1867) by Cesare Fracassini 

Jesus encourages those who hear him – “little flock” he calls us – to believe firmly and eagerly that the Father will give us a share in his kingdom. The heavenly kingdom to come is real, and certain, and we can know this by faith, even if we don’t see it right now. But to reach it, we must wait, and persevere in waiting for Jesus our Master’s return. In our waiting, we have to be on guard against becoming careless, or growing impatient, such that we seek the more immediate pleasures of this world rather than the joys that he promises to his faithful servants. Instead, like Abraham, like the Israelites in Egypt, like the Catholics of 16th century England, like all of our fathers and mothers in faith, we must hold fast through present challenges and difficulties – even persecutions, if it comes to that – to reach the heavenly homeland that God has prepared for us.

Friends, this week, perhaps each of us can do a little examination of conscience about our own faith, and about where we find ourselves in our journey of faith. Do I take my faith seriously, not just as a habit or a luxury, but as my most precious possession? Do I seek to be a faithful servant of the Lord, through daily prayer, weekly Sunday Mass, and regular confession, through loving my neighbor and caring for the poor? Do I try to guard myself against spiritual impatience, carelessness and laxity, making sure that each day I busy myself with seeking the things of heaven and not the allurements of this life? Surely, there is room for improvement for all of us, in one or another of these areas. It’s better to identify our areas of weakness now, and to make preparations for our Master’s arrival now, so that we may not be caught off guard later.

As we prepare for this Eucharist, let’s ask the Lord Jesus to make our faith stronger, so that he will find us ever vigilant as we await his return. May the graces of this Sacrament help us not only to sing but also to live: “Faith of our Fathers! Holy Faith! We will be true to thee till death.”

Bless and Keep You

Last week, as I was packing up the rectory, I came across the notes for my first homily here three years ago. Believe it or not, it was for the very feast we celebrate today, the Solemnity of the Most Holy Trinity. In it, I spoke a little bit about my family, including my youngest nephew, who had just been born a few days before. I spoke about how God reveals his love for us through the family – through our natural families and through our spiritual family, the Church. And I spoke about how it was a great honor and joy for me to have become a part of the spiritual family of Holy Rosary parish.

I still feel that way today, even as I now say farewell to you after just three short years. While I wish I might have stayed for a longer time, I also know that this is what God’s Providence has arranged for our community at this present time. In my years as a priest, I have come to believe that God’s wisdom is often at work in ways deeper than we can know. For example, when I came here three years ago, there were some projects that I left unfinished at my previous parish, and out of pridefulness it was bittersweet for me to leave there with those things undone. But the pastor who followed me has been doing amazing work at accomplishing those things – much better than I could have done – and all in the midst of a pandemic. God truly does know better than us what is best for us.

Today’s Gospel shows how the first disciples learned this. When Jesus tells them that he had to return to the Father, surely they wondered, “Why?”. Couldn’t he just stay with them? Jesus knows, however, that the disciples must be made ready for the mission he will give to them, and that for him to continue to be present to them in the way that he had been wouldn’t actually be what’s best for them. What they need is God’s presence in a new, intensified, and expanded way. What they need is the Holy Spirit.

The Holy Trinity (c. 1650) by Antonio de Pereda y Salgado

The Holy Spirit’s coming is also best for the disciples in another way. He enlightens their minds to show them at last the fullness of who God is – a Trinity of Persons: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. All that they will do thereafter will be, in some way or another, a proclamation of this deepest mystery, the Most Blessed Trinity. The words they preached, the signs they performed, even ultimately in the witnesses of their deaths – the disciples will do all of them with the aim of helping others to know and love the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in the way that they do.

The same is true here. Just as he did for those first disciples, the Holy Spirit will continue to lead and guide this community. He will be active in your new pastor, Fr. Babu, who is excited to get to know you and to work with you. He will teach you about Jesus in new and profound ways, and with different gifts than I had. The Holy Spirit will also be active in the new deacon of our parish, Deacon Greg Fischer. He doesn’t speak Spanish – not yet, you can help him to learn! – but he knows that he has been ordained for service to our whole parish, and so he is happy to help you in whatever way he can. I hope that he will be able to occasionally help at this Mass, too, so that he can show you by presence if not in word, that he is ready to serve you as well, in the model of Christ the Servant.

And finally, perhaps most importantly of all, I know that the Holy Spirit will continue to be active in and through you. He’s calling you as disciples to continue to proclaim Jesus in the world, just as he did the first disciples. You may preach with different words; you may perform different signs in your daily labors; you may lay down your lives differently than they did – but the love of the Most Holy Trinity who is behind all, who is the foundation of all, is the same. And if you trust in his guidance, in his Providence, the Holy Spirit will lead you into all truth.

Brothers and sisters, it has been an honor to have been a part of this parish family, and I look forward to when God’s Providence will arrange for us to see each other again. In the meantime, let’s pray that we all may remain strengthened by the Holy Spirit and united always in the one family of the Church. May all that we do, as priests and people, be a proclamation of the love of the Most Blessed Trinity, and an offering of love to the same – the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

The Lord bless you and keep you;
the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you;
the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.

The Divine Guest

Hospitality is a hallmark of the Christian faith. And it always has been – from the Church’s earliest days, when the only place where believers could worship safely was in the homes of wealthy widows, to the modern day, when we challenge ourselves to open our hearts as widely as we open our homes or our wallets to those in need. Whether it’s potlucks or parish mission trips, the motivation is the same: we serve others because in others we encounter Christ. God is truly present in those around us.

But is that all? Is God’s presence only found in others, or is it also within ourselves? It might seem to border on blasphemy to say we can look for the divine within. To be sure, there are plenty of New Age-y ideas along that line that don’t correspond at all with our beliefs. At the same time, it has always been a hallmark of the Christian faith that, in the one who believes, God himself comes to dwell by grace.

Vigil Mass: In today’s Gospel, we hear this very idea, when Jesus references the Holy Spirit whom he will give as a gift to the one who comes to him. We might be familiar with imagining the Holy Spirit as a dove or a flame descending from heaven, but here Jesus uses the image of a spring of living water, welling up in the heart of the one who believes in him; more than a spring, in fact – “rivers of living water” flowing out from within, that nourish and satisfy the spiritual thirst of the believer. Who wouldn’t want that?

Mass of the Day: If we had any questions along this line, today’s first reading removes all doubt. In the account from the Acts of the Apostles, the disciples are gathered together in one place, ten days after the Ascension of Jesus. And then, like a rushing wind, like tongues of fire, the Holy Spirit comes into their midst – and not just into their midst, collectively, but comes to rest upon each of them, *within* them individually. As we are told, it is the power of the Holy Spirit *inside* each of the disciples that enables them to speak in different languages, so that the Gospel message could be proclaimed to all.'

Jean II Restout, Pentecost (1732)

And so, the answer is *YES* – God can be found within us, when by grace, through faith, the presence of the Holy Spirit comes to dwell within us. It’s an amazing idea – a little unsettling even, if you think about it – but also one that should give us great confidence and joy. For as much as we respect the presence of God in others, through service and hospitality, even more so we can draw great strength from the Gift who is also a Divine Person, who aids us, guides us, consoles us, and gives us strength.

How do we receive this Divine Guest? The Church teaches that he comes first in our baptism; the same Spirit who moved over the face of the waters at the dawn of creation moves into us through the washing of water and floods our souls with his redeeming grace. The Spirit comes again in our Confirmation to renew and seal us with the grace of Christ. And he comes to us in other ways, too – by our prayers, by the graces of our vocations – to strengthen us with his sevenfold Gifts: wisdom, understanding, knowledge, counsel, fortitude, piety, and fear of the Lord.

Mass of the Day: In just a few moments, these gifts will be given right here in our midst, when four members of our community – who by the grace of their baptism have heard the voice of the Holy Spirit drawing them to seek the fullness of God’s grace here in our community – will be received into the Church and confirmed. In that moment, what happened in that first Pentecost will happen in this one: the Holy Spirit will descend upon them. Though invisible to our eyes, they will bear the Presence of God in a new way within their souls, and so be ready to at last join us in receiving for the first time the Lord’s Real Presence in the Holy Eucharist. It’s with great joy that we welcome them into the fullness of our Catholic faith.

So, the Holy Spirit comes to us – comes *within* us with his gifts. What then are we to do? What does this Divine Guest, who makes his home within us, urge us to do? Exactly what he called those first disciples to do: to be witnesses of Jesus to the world. As Christians, we believe that the world needs Jesus. It needs his love, his peace, his truth; we are given countless reminders of this, all the time. But we also say that, as Christians, we will proclaim Jesus in the world, that we will show the world his love, his peace, his truth – not by our own powers, but by the presence of the Holy Spirit who dwells within us. And we pray that through him, through the Spirit moving in and working through us, the presence of God will be made known – so that others may encounter him, come to believe in him, and through faith receive themselves his redeeming Presence within.

Friends, on this great Day of Pentecost, let’s make space within ourselves anew, to welcome the Divine Guest who comes to us with the grace of Christ to make us his witnesses in the world. Come, Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of your faithful and kindle in them – in us – the fire of your love.

All Shall Be Well

The weather has been gorgeous this weekend, just perfect for late May. It made me think of a poem about spring by Robert Browning. It’s very short, so I thought I’d share it:

The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn:
God's in His heaven—
All's right with the world!

We all know the feeling Mr. Browning had when he wrote that, even if we haven’t expressed it poetically as he did. When we look out at the beauty of the nature, the splendor of the world around us, we might well be moved to say: “God’s in His heaven – All’s right with the world!”

But is that right? We see shocking, horrific events, like the school shooting in Texas this past week. We endure the sorrows of illness and the passing of loved ones. We struggle under private burdens and crosses, those perhaps unseen or unappreciated by others. We know the weight of our own sinfulness and experience the grief and loss of not always being what God calls us to be. It seems there are lots of things we could point to, and say, “Look here, Mr. Browning – clearly, the world is not all right!”

However, I think he spoke more truly than he knew. For the person of faith, there is a sense in which all is right with the world – namely, because “God’s in His heaven.” Because God reigns on high, we can believe that he sees everything, and so is taking care of everything, and so everything will be alright. It may sound like naivete, especially when have to face those really difficult sufferings and sorrows; but in fact, it is a truth of deep faith. Everything is okay. Yes, the world is not all good, all true, or all beautiful – but God is, and in the end, he will make all things like himself.

In the account from Acts in today’s first reading, the disciples ask Jesus if he is now going to restore the kingdom to Israel. They are ready for Jesus, having died and risen again, to now at last settle all scores, to right every wrong, to show openly his kingship over all the earth. Much to their surprise, perhaps, Jesus instead ascends to heaven – not to ignore their request, but to show them that he’s going to fulfill it in a far greater way than they could have imagined. Ascending to his Father’s right hand, Jesus shows them he is Lord of heaven and earth, the Lord of all time and history, who will return in glory to restore all of creation, with judgment and justice. God is in his heaven, but he will return one day to make all things like himself.

The Ascension of Christ (1912) – St. Stephen's Church, Bilwisheim, France

And until that time, Jesus gives his disciples a mission: he sends them to be his “witnesses” to the world. He wants all “the ends of the earth” to have the chance to know about him and believe in him as they do – so that our lives can, through him, may become more true, good, and beautiful. This is the mission of the Church, of all of us, still today – to give witness to the Good News of Jesus. A witness gives testimony about what is true, and as Jesus’s witnesses, we testify to his truth. By our words, actions, our whole manner of life, we give testimony that, despite the darkness and dysfunction that still hold so much sway in the world around us, Jesus truly reigns in heaven.

Often, the best way to give testimony to the Lord’s truth is by enduring our sorrows with hope, faith, and charity. In a culture where we often don’t know the value of sacrifice, we might be tempted to look upon our sufferings as signs that God has forgotten us, or is angry with us, or isn’t responding to our needs. But the opposite is often true – the Father often permits sufferings to those whom he most loves, because by them he draws us to know the love of Son more fully and to rely completely upon it, and not the things of this world. If we can unite what we suffer to the Lord’s Cross, then not only do we store up our treasure in heaven, rather than on earth, but we can have the confidence to work in building up God’s kingdom while also knowing that he has it all in hand.

So, friends, despite what external appearances might tell us – whether in the world around us, or closer to home – all is right because all will be *made* right, because the Lord Jesus who ascended to heaven will one day return. For the present, we must continue to hope and to have faith, but we can believe that a time known to him, in a way that only he knows, God will put all things right in the end. Or, put another way, to use the words of Jesus himself, as quoted to the mystic Julian of Norwich: in the end, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

Ticket to Heaven

The word “apocalyptic” probably conjures up in our minds all kinds of negative images: wars, famines, natural disasters. Sometimes we use the word as a synonym for things that are catastrophic, cataclysmic, world-ending.

Interestingly, though, the Bible shows something different. At the end of time, after the wars and plagues and everything else, something else – something good – will be unveiled as the final reality of all things. Today’s second reading tells us what it is: the New Jerusalem. We hear it described in symbolic terms: golden streets, jeweled walls, twelve pearled gates, and no lamp except the light of the glory of God, coming forth from the Lamb. It is with the unveiling of this glorious city that the Bible ends, with God dwelling in the midst of his chosen People finally, for all time. Far from an apocalypse of doom, the New Jerusalem shows us what heaven will be like.

The Celestial City and the River of Bliss (1841) by John Martin

But how do we reach it? That’s the million-dollar question, because the Bible also says that not everyone will be found worthy to inhabit the New Jerusalem. In fact, the Book of Revelation describes the various trials by which the true members of Israel, the people of God, will be identified and confirmed to be worthy to dwell with God in his city. This notion turns on its head the traditional understanding of what it meant to be part of Israel. In ancient Jewish law, it was very clear who was part of the people of God: only those who had received circumcision, or for women, those who were part of their families. This created something of a problem for the early believers in Jesus, as they began to distinguish their Christian identity from their Jewish roots. Was it necessary to be circumcised in order to be saved? Did one have to be ritually Jewish in order to believe in Jesus and hope to dwell in the New Jerusalem?

The answer that the apostles gave, as we heard in today’s first reading, was “No” – one did not have to follow Jewish ritual laws in order to be a Christian. Instead, the early Church came to believe that the people of God could be distinguished in another way – not with a physical mark but a spiritual one. To be a member of God’s people, they decided, it wasn’t necessary to be circumcised in the body but it *was* necessary to be circumcised in the heart, in the soul. In fact, Saint Paul and others use this language in reference to what God had said he would do in the books of Leviticus and Deuteronomy: that he would purify their hearts so they would love him, follow his commands, and so live.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus speaks of the same thing: love, discipleship, and eternal life are all intertwined. To get to heaven, we must love God, and we show that we love God by following his commands. It’s for this reason that Jesus promises to send help to his disciples – not just help, but a Helper, an Advocate, the Holy Spirit, who “will teach you everything and remind you of all that I told you.” This Holy Spirit, the Spirit of the Father and the Son, literally dwells within the souls of believers. So – it is by the very presence of God that we are circumcised in the heart, purified and made ready for the heavenly kingdom. In fact, it was because they discerned this divine presence of the Holy Spirit in Gentile believers, non-Jews, that the apostles made the decision that they did: that it was not necessary to be circumcised in order to be a Christian.

So, how do we get to the city where God dwells? By allowing God to make his dwelling within us now. It’s the presence of the Holy Spirit that is the true dividing line between those who will and won’t get to share in the heavenly Jerusalem, and Jesus is very clear that that presence comes only to those who share in his life, who participate in his love, and who follow his commands. The Christian religion is often criticized, and Catholicism, particularly, for placing lots of demands on its adherents – for requiring us to believe certain ideas, and abide by certain principles, and perhaps most difficult, *not* to do certain things that we may want to, or which worldly culture tells us is okay. However, these requirements are not arbitrary – there is a purpose for them, and that is to guide us in the truth. To live by God’s commandments, to follow the teachings of our faith – that’s the path to the New Jerusalem, Jesus says. And for those who do so, we have the presence of the Holy Spirit within us to guide us, to console us in difficult moments, and to be in the end, the very ticket to get us into the pearly gates.

Friends, Jesus promises peace to his disciples – to us. Let’s invoke that peace today, in whatever struggle we are facing, in whatever truth of our faith or teaching of our Church might be giving us some difficulty, in whatever area of healing we need. Perhaps that challenge, whatever it is, will be the very thing that will get us one day to the New Jerusalem – if we endure, and stay faithful, and find our peace in the way that the Lord gives it to us, not as the world does. May the presence of the Holy Spirit be renewed within each of us this day, to purify our hearts and guide our steps unto the heavenly kingdom.