A Mercy Greater than Fear

For some of us, they are tangible things – spiders, snakes, lions and tigers and bears. For others of us, they are less tangible – debt, illness, loneliness. All of us fear something, something that impacts how we act, the choices we make, the things we desire.

In the Gospel reading for today, fear plays a dramatic and important role. The disciples have gathered in the Upper Room and the doors, as we are told, are locked – even more than a week from the Resurrection, the disciples are still hiding behind closed doors as they struggle to understand the meaning of what has happened.. They are, on the one hand, fearful of the Jews, afraid of what those who put Jesus to death might do to them. But on the other, they also perhaps are fearful of Jesus, afraid of the one who has Risen from the dead because they had abandoned him in his hour of greatest need.

In our lives as well, we struggle at times with our fears. Whether it’s the creepy-crawly things when we are younger, or as we age things less tangible but just as real, our fears can sometimes come to define who we are and how we act. Fears can limit us; they can restrict us. The figure of Thomas is a good example of this. As we heard, Thomas is not present with the other apostles when Jesus first appears to them. He is somewhere else, somewhere separate. Perhaps, we can take this as a metaphor that he is not spiritually disposed to receive the news that the Master has risen from the dead. And as we heard, he does not initially believe. In fact, he is rather determined that unless he physically encounters Jesus – placing his finger in his hand, and his hand in his side – he will not believe.

The apostle Thomas has often been interpreted throughout history in a particular way. That is, he’s seen as the skeptic, the one who needs proof, the one who demands a sign in order to put forward his belief. But there is, I think, another way of interpreting him. That is, he’s a man who has been wounded, a man who had put his entire faith and trust in Jesus and for whom the death of Jesus was a deep trauma. He had put so much hope in Christ as the Messiah, hope that is seemingly dashed when he is crucified and put to death. Now, Thomas is … hesitant and afraid. He is afraid to trust again, to believe, afraid to put on the line again what was so deeply important to him, afraid of being disillusioned once again.

Into this fear and confusion, Jesus enters. He is not angry at the apostles’ fearfulness. He is not wrathful at Thomas’s hesitancy. Instead, he comes with a message of conciliation – “Peace be with you,” “do not be unbelieving but believe.” Jesus the Risen One is not worried about our shortcomings and our failings; instead, he desires earnestly to rescue us from them, to free us from what binds us and holds us back, what causes us fear and dismay. One might think he would have grown exasperated – these disciples who never understood him during his ministry, whose faith constantly comes up short, who even after his own death and resurrection still are hesitant to believe, demanding proof as Thomas did. But Jesus is never exasperated, not with them and not with us. He is patient with our weakness, merciful to our sinfulness, able to wait us out and break through what we fear so as to give us what we need.

The phrase “a Doubting Thomas” has entered our lexicon. But that phrase doesn’t really get to the heart of who Thomas was. For though Thomas doubted, he was convinced; though he wavered, he held firm. He is as much a Believing Thomas, as anything else, the first one to recognize among the Apostles Jesus as not just the Christ, the one sent by God. Encountering his pierced hands and feet, Thomas realizes who he stands in front of – as he says, “My Lord and My God.”

Caravaggio, The Incredulity of Saint Thomas (1602)

You and I too often allow ourselves to be defined by our weaknesses. We look to our fears, to our failings, to our shortcomings and we judge ourselves according to those. I hear from people, “Father, I’m just having a really hard time trusting God right now,” because they can’t see an answer to their problem, a solution to their difficulty, a way forward. Amid our stark experiences, our dark days, our moments of struggle, it seems as if God is not there. But it is precisely in these challenging moments, if we persist in faith, that God enters in. Just as Jesus breaks through the locked doors, God will not leave us in dark or doubt but proves to us the depths of his faithfulness and love.

My friends, this Second Sunday of Easter is also Divine Mercy Sunday, and in this Year of Mercy, it is perhaps the the day above all others when we recall that the divine plan, the history of our salvation is one all-encompassing mission of mercy on the part of God toward us. As Pope Francis has said, “Jesus Christ is the face of the Father’s mercy.” Mercy is the way in which God’s love manifests itself to the sinner and it is to us as sinners that the manifestation of Jesus as the Savior has been made known to us.

So let us strive not to be defined by our sins, our failings, our fears, and our doubts. Instead, let us look to Jesus, opening the locked doors of our hearts to the power of his mercy. With Thomas, let us not be unbelieving but believe. As we prepare to receive the sacrament in which Jesus becomes present to us, let us look upon him and say with great love, “My Lord and my God.”

Encountering the Risen One

The Empty Tomb (1889), Mikhail Nesterov

Happy Easter, everyone! 

A very warm welcome to everyone who has joined us for this most sacred of celebrations. In a particular way, I would like to welcome those guests who are visiting from out of town and those who come from religious traditions other than the Catholic one. It’s an honor to have you here. I would especially like to extend a welcome to the nine men and women who will be receiving Catholic sacraments today, as well as to their family and friends; we rejoice that you are here to celebrate with us.

As some of you know, I recently returned from a pilgrimage to Rome, a place where I studied for four years while I was in seminary. It was my first time back as a priest, and despite several years of being away, I was surprised by how familiar everything felt. A few things were different since my last time there – Pope Francis for one, my own ability to celebrate Mass in some of the shrines and churches for another – but on the whole, I was amazed by how easily I felt right at home again amid all of the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes of Rome. I guess that's why they call it the Eternal City!

There was one particular experience though that, while not unfamiliar, struck me again in a new way. Rome is full of a lot of tombs. A city with such history is of course full of churches and basilicas, and in every one, you find tombs of countless saints, men and women alike. It is an ancient Christian practice to honor the dead, and for those who believed to have lived particularly holy lives, to build churches over their tombs in those churches, construct altars over their graves, and even to display their mortal remains or fragments of their bones in cases for all to see.

For those unaccustomed to the practice, it can seem a bit grisly or morbid. But actually it is rooted in an amazing belief, a belief we celebrate tonight more than any other. The men and women who lie in those tombs, whether as saints or as the great unknown, are remembered, are honored, are even displayed because they had faith in a reality greater than this world, in something – in Someone – who has conquered even death itself.

On this Vigil in the Holy Night of Easter, our hearts and minds are focused not on death but on life, not on any occupied tomb but on the Empty Tomb, the one from which the Author of Life has risen. It is the tomb, as we heard in the Gospel reading, in front of which the angel declared to the women, “He is not here, but he has been raised.” What those women experienced nearly 2000 years ago, what the disciples experienced and came to believe, what you and I are doing here tonight is to make a very particular, very bold statement of faith: that the man Jesus of Nazareth is also the Christ of God, his own Son, who though put to death for our sins, is now Risen, the Lord of all things, alive for all eternity.

That is the heart of our Christian faith, and ever since it was first proclaimed two millennia ago, the world has tried to refute it, ignore it, and persecute it. You can find today those who will argue against faith in the Resurrection; the broader culture that we live in certainly seems increasingly contemptuous of it; and you just have to watch the news to know that throughout the world there are believers in Jesus who are literally shedding their blood rather than give up their faith.

We are privileged to have with us tonight nine men and women who are not afraid of all that. They will not let those things or more keep them from fully embracing the Risen Lord. Instead, they stand ready to declare their faith in him and so to take their place among us, and among the countless men and women who have gone before us marked with the sign of faith. Some of them will receive the sacrament of baptism, by which we are first given a share in the death and Resurrection of Christ and the new life of grace given to us. Some of them will receive the Holy Eucharist for the first time, taking into themselves the Risen Jesus himself as spiritual nourishment. All of them will be confirmed with the sacred chrism, receiving the gifts of the Holy Spirit so that they might in turn become witnesses to the Resurrection, ready to do or say all that they can to share the Good News of Jesus. How inspiring is their example to us, that the Spirit of God is still active in our midst and leading us to come to know Jesus.

The gift of faith, which they have received, which all of us pray to receive ever more fully, is not invulnerable however. It can be lost – if we allow ourselves to be burdened by distractions and discouragements, if we begin to let our spiritual lives be dictated by our experiences – how we feel rather than what we believe, if we start focusing on satisfying ourselves rather than serving others, then it is possible to lose the grace of new life. But because Jesus is Risen, it is always possible to get it back, to turn our lives back toward following the Risen One. The light of Jesus is never conquered by the darkness that we may find ourselves in; rather, all of our darkness – yes, even the darkness of death – is transformed by his light.   

Our nine catechumens and candidates have undergone months of learning, prayer, and preparation, and they are ready to make a definitive act of commitment for the Lord who committed himself to them on the Cross. What I hope they remember – indeed, what I hope all of us remember – is that the essence of Christianity is not an idea, or a system of thought; it’s not a philosophy or a social plan of action. At the heart of authentic Christianity is a realization that the tomb is empty, that the one who gave himself over to death for our sake, is now alive and invites us to share in his new life. To be a Christian means to know the Risen Jesus, to encounter him through the sacraments of his Church, and to learn from him how to live each day filled with his grace.

My friends, as I walked around Rome a few weeks ago, I was indeed surprised again at the number of tombs and graves and remains I encountered. But even more I found myself moved by their faith – that their love of Jesus and belief in his Resurrection led them to endure every suffering or malady or insult, even to the point of their own death, rather than lose the encounter with the One they had come to know. For those who hope in Christ, for our nine catechumens and candidates, for us, even death is just transitory, just a stopping-over point on the way to the final reality of heaven. For those with faith, the tomb is merely a pause in the drama of salvation.

May the the Risen Christ, whose glory brightens this night, be for us all a constant guide through the darkness so that one day we may rejoice to share in his eternal Light.

The "Goodness" of Good Friday

Crucifixion (1565), Tintoretto

Have you ever wondered why we call today “Good Friday”? It seems like an odd name, doesn’t it? People have suggested various explanations as to the reason. Some say it is a corruption of the original name of “God’s Friday.” Others say it’s because the word “good” used to mean something akin to “holy” or “sacred”. Because it is the day of Jesus’s sacrifice on the Cross, the way by which you and I are reconciled to God, we can call it “good.”

But even while we recognize the importance of today, it’s hard to really think of it as something that is truly good – something that that we should rejoice in. We’ve just finished the reading of the Passion according to St. John – an account of an innocent man being betrayed, wrongly accused, unjustly sentenced and brutally executed. At face-value, this appears to be the very defeat of goodness.

And yet, as people of faith, we believe there is something good happening here. Even amid the cruelty of Jesus’s passion and death, there is a reason to rejoice, because the divine plan is at work. Today happens to be the 25^th of March, that is, exactly nine months away from Christmas. Normally, today the Church would be celebrating the Solemnity of the Annunciation, remembering when the angel Gabriel appeared to Mary to announce the Incarnation of Jesus. So while March 25^th usually affords us the opportunity to remember the occasion when God indicated he would soon fulfill the promise of Israel’s Messiah by sending his own Son to free us from sin and death, today we recall the very passion by which he has done so.

Interestingly, the parallels between Good Friday and the Annunciation go much deeper than that. Early Christians were interested in the chronology of Jesus’s death and calculated that its date, the 14^th of Nisan in the Jewish calendar, corresponded to March 25^th in the Roman calendar. In other words, according to tradition, the Incarnation of Jesus and the death of Jesus occurred on the same day. Going even farther back, this same day held great importance in the Jewish faith since it was believed to be the date on which Abraham was prepared to sacrifice Isaac and, even farther back, the day that God finished the work of creation.

So what we recall today really is remarkable. And we do more than recall. We celebrate, we rejoice that what Christ accomplishes on the cross is the fulfillment of the “good work” of God – his work of creation, his work of redemption. The Christ who dies on the cross is the same Christ by whom the world was made, in whose image and likeness mankind was created, through whom the ancient fathers and prophets formed a covenant with God, the same Christ who became man at Mary’s “Yes”. It is the “Yes” of Christ to the Father’s will, through his passion and death, that we have been restored to harmony with God and given a share in his eternal victory.

My friends, as we contemplate the mystery of the cross, today and every day, every time we look at a crucifix – we acknowledge its terrible reality, the suffering that Jesus endured on account of our sins. But we also must look beyond it and see it as the reason for all of our joy and hope. The timeless love that God has for humanity, a love that through all history and creation has sought to redeem us, finds its perfect expression and fulfillment here, in the Cross of Christ. “Behold the wood of the cross, on which hung the salvation of the world. Come, let us adore.”

Fulfilling the Commands of Christ

When you and I sit down at table, most of us normally have one thing on our minds – how quickly can this food in front of me get in my belly. That’s kind of a crude way to put it – but if you think about it, when you consider the fast food drive-thrus, the TV dinners, the way in which so much of our dining culture seems to be about getting the most while paying the least, that’s kind of the way that we operate.

But there is an element of human culture around food that is more sophisticated than mere gluttony. I don’t just mean the gastropubs and fancy restaurants – there is something about eating, something about dining together, that communicates an essential part of the human experience. Food has always been a social reality, something that gathers us, and around which we gather. In the taking of food, we find common ground to share experience, broker harmony, and learn friendship.

In the Christian context, there is no more important meal than when Jesus last broke bread with his disciples prior to his betrayal, trial, crucifixion, and death. The Last Supper is an iconic meal, one which has so many points of contact with our faith. We commemorate it every time we gather together for Mass, fulfilling the commandment that Jesus gave to his disciples: “Do this in memory of me.” When we share the Eucharist, we are put in contact again with that iconic event, nearly 2000 years ago in the Upper Room.

As Catholics, the Eucharist is at the heart of our faith. Perhaps more than anything else, it is what distinguishes us from other Christians – that by faith we believe that what we receive at communion is not merely a symbol of the sacrifice Jesus made for us, but that it really is his Body, Blood, Soul, Divinity, his Real Presence offered to the Father for the forgiveness of our sins. For us as Catholics, the Eucharist is, in the words of Vatican II, the source and summit of all that we do, both the fount of grace that stir us to be witnesses to Christ in the world and the most essential gift that we have to share with it.

Jesus Washing Peter's Feet (1858), Ford Madox Brown

In light of all of that, isn't it interesting that our Gospel for this evening mentions nothing about eating? At the Mass of the day on which the Eucharist was given to us, the Gospel says nothing about it. Instead, we have this story of the washing of the disciples’ feet. To outward appearance, it seems as if this is a separate thing – something that Jesus did separate from what he did at the meal. But in reality, the institution of the Eucharist and the washing of the feet are intimately connected.

As Jesus tells Peter, unless the apostles allow him to wash their feet, they will have no inheritance with him. What is this inheritance? Nothing other than a share in the sacrifice he will offer the next day on the Cross, as both High Priest and Victim, handing himself over to death in reparation for our sins. The Eucharist, which he gives to the Church at the Last Supper, is our point of contact with this sacrifice – it is what makes the Cross present throughout the ages and the centuries through the Church. But the Eucharist, as important as it is, does not consist merely in you and I receiving the Body and Blood of Christ.

Often, I think, that’s how we tend to operate as Catholics. We gather around this table, focused on what we are getting, on who we are receiving. But as important as receiving the Eucharist is, living from the Eucharist – putting the charity we have received into action – is more important. Jesus has given us the command of celebrating the Eucharist so that we might have the spiritual fortitude to continue his greater command of loving one another as he has loved us – that is, to the point of self-giving, sacrificial service. It is at this table that find harmony and friendship with God, and from this meal and sacrifice that we are invited to be instruments of the same in all that we do. As much as Jesus does indeed wish for us to receive his Real Presence under the appearance of bread and wine, he doesn’t want us to stop there. Having received the love of God in Christ, what are we called to do? To go and wash feet – that is, to serve with a heart focused on the good of the other, with a charity that seeks the lowest place. 

Immediately following this homily, I will remove my chasuble and wash the feet of twelve members of our community. I do so as a symbol that I too seek to serve, to serve you, in the person of Christ for our community. But I also do so as an encouragement for you, that you might seek to wash the feet of those you know, those you encounter, not physically but spiritually, with the heart of Christ.

My friends, we enter tonight into the holiest three days of our liturgical year. The mystery of the Lord’s passion, death, and resurrection are at the very heart of our faith, and each time we gather together at Mass, those events become present to us again. They are for us not memories or things of the distant past, but eternal realities that very much continue to animate and empower us to continue the charity of Christ in the world today, loving with his heart, speaking with his words, serving with his hands. Let us be reminded of all that we share here together, at this altar, all that Christ has given to us and still gives to us, and all that he invites us to do with him. May all that we do, here and throughout our lives, be a fulfillment of his command: “Do this in memory of me.”

Taking Up Again the Story

The Entry into Jerusalem (c. 1620), Pedro Orrente

A priest friend of mine is a great lover of books, as I am. A couple years ago, when we were comparing the great works of literature that we have read (and admitting to those that we have not), he told me, “You know, whenever I start a new book, I always read the last page first. That way, if Jesus comes back before I finish, I’ll know how the story ends.”

Now, I don’t know about you, but I just couldn’t comprehend that line of thinking. To my mind, it robs one of the experience of seeing how the story develops. Part of the enjoyment of encountering a story comes from not knowing the ending!

I have to admit though that, at least for today, the Church seems to agree with my friend’s line of thinking. On Palm Sunday, at the start of Holy Week, we read the account of Jesus’s passion – the events, that is, of Holy Thursday and Good Friday, which we will celebrate more solemnly later in the week. Why do we do that? In our case, it’s not about skipping ahead to the end – rather, it’s about reminding ourselves of what we are advancing toward.

There is a great contrast in the liturgy of Palm Sunday. At the beginning, we commemorate Jesus’s triumphant entrance into Jerusalem, where the people sang "Hosanna"'s and called Jesus their king. And then, just a few moments later, we read the account of his passion, of how the crowd has now turned against him, ready to ridicule him and hand him over for crucifixion. Their fickleness and mob mentality is contrasted to Jesus’s quiet strength and resolve in carrying the burden of our sins to the point of their final annihilation.

Friends, as we enter into Holy Week, we take up again the story of our salvation, authored by Jesus himself. This work deserves our deeper, renewed reflection. I don’t suggest that we pretend as if we don’t know how the story ends. Indeed, it’s precisely by knowing of the Lord’s triumph, which we will celebrate next Sunday at Easer, that we can more deeply enter into the path that he takes to get there. Let’s allow our hearts to be moved to a deep compassion for the resolve that Jesus showed, despite all of the resistance and suffering that he encountered, to carry his cross until the end, to fulfill his divine mission. But let’s also allow the Lord to share that resolve with us, that despite our fickleness, at times, in following him, we might continue to accompany him through his passion and so share in the victory he has won.

Journeying into the Desert

Who here would say you have the “travel bug”? I don’t mean whatever disease is seemingly going around campus at the moment. I mean that itch to explore the world, to see new places and encounter new cultures. My family is sort of at opposite ends of this spectrum. In general, my father’s side of the family is content with staying at home and attending to the comforts there. My mother’s side of the family, on the other hand, including myself, has always had the sort of wanderlust to see new sights and explore new horizons.

There’s something about our human nature that has always looked to the beyond, to the next hillock, the next horizon. People have turned to the open sea to seek adventure; and to the mountains to seek transcendence; and, even within our Christian tradition, to the desert to find themselves. In the Gospel today, we are told that the Holy Spirit drives Jesus into the desert following his baptism. One can imagine that this is a time of preparation and examination – of intimacy and solitude with his heavenly Father before he embarks upon his public mission.

The Temptation of Christ, J. Kirk Richards

But as we hear very clearly, it’s also a time of temptation. The devil shows up and tempts Jesus in three ways – each time an invitation to misuse his power or his authority to take an easier or more inviting path. Jesus resists, however; following the forty days of interior reflection and prayer and communion with his Father, Jesus remains resolute in who he is – the Word of God made flesh for the salvation of the world.

I think this Gospel story is significant for us in at least two important ways. First, as we begin the season of Lent, we are invited to journey with Jesus into the desert. The forty days that we have embarked upon are a preparation for Easter, the greatest feast of our faith. But even more, they also offer us the opportunity to pare down, to strip away, to make a sort of interior pilgrimage away from the passing things of this world so that we might be more focused on the things of the next. In short, we are offered a chance to be alone with God, to seek and find him through prayer, fasting, and works of charity. We always think about giving up something during Lent, but sometimes taking something additional can be even more helpful. Consider dedicating 15 minutes at the start of your day just to recognizing God’s presence and giving him thanks; or download an app so that you can read the readings of the Mass for each day and reflect upon them; or save the money you would have spent on a movie or a pizza or a bottle of wine and donate it to charity. If you sacrifice a little for God, you might be surprised how at the end of Lent he has helped you become a better, holier version of yourself than when you began it.

Second, we should not be surprised that, just like Jesus, we too are tempted. Often in our lives, when we embark upon a new effort of seeking the Lord and trying to follow his will, the devil is also there, offering us an easier route. Satan is the father of lies; his primary objective is to deceive us, to convince us that the life-giving relationship we have with God is less important than some other thing. In this way, temptation is not altogether a bad thing, because it affords us a test, an opportunity to remain committed to who we are and what we believe. Like Jesus, we must remain resolute in the face of temptation, to recognize the deception for what it is and to reject it. Remember that God is indeed "with us in times of trouble," present also in times of temptation, providing us the grace we need to resist.

My friends, as we begin this Lent, our Lord does call us to new experiences and new horizons. He invites us not to travel the world, but to journey in a sense more deeply into ourselves, to find out where we are with God and who he is calling us to be. This journey can at times be a difficult one, and we will surely be tempted along the way. But if we stay resolute, like Jesus, if we recognize that what God calls us to is far greater than the offer of any temptation, then God will see us through. May the Eucharist we will soon share be our food for the journey.

An Acceptable Time for Repentance

The Conversion of St. Augustine (c. 1435), Fra Angelico

So the Super Bowl was a few days ago. As seems to happen every year, to my ears at least, it seems as much attention or more is paid to the advertisements as to the actual game. Some people watch the Super Bowl who don't even like football watch just to see the commercials! And those ads showcase a variety of things – from soft drinks to cars to medicine to beer – but they all share a common theme: “This will satisfy you, this will make you happy, so buy this and buy it now.”

There is a kind of urgency about our modern consumer culture that we can’t help but buy into. We want to be healthier, and more likeable, and more attractive, and more financially secure, and we are told that we need those things now, that we must get started now, that we must not waste time, the sooner we begin, the sooner we will get to where we want to go.

It’s funny though that when it comes to the interior aspects of ourselves, the opposite is sometimes true. We know we should be kinder, more patient, more forgiving, more prayerful – but those things are so hard. I remember the story about St. Augustine, who before his conversion to Christianity, recognized his impurity and sexual immorality, and he famously prayed, “Lord, grant me chastity and continence… but not yet.” We sense this urgency about taking care of our bodies and our pocketbooks and our personal lives but when it comes to our souls, we’re content to take it slow.

Ash Wednesday is a great cure for this mindset. By remembering our own mortality, by looking at our lives honestly and reflectively, by undertaking a penitential practice of some kind, we remember how ardently God desires us to return to him. “Even now, return to me with your whole heart,” he says to us through the prophet Joel. “We implore you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God,” he says to us through the apostle Paul. There is an urgency that marks the Lord’s desire for us to repent, to be reconciled to him, to be freed from the sins and anxieties that burden us, to be lifted from the passing things of this world and prepared for the next.

Friends, as we come forward to receive our ashes, beginning this Lent mindful that we have a limited time on this earth before we stand before God face to face, let’s remember another quote from St. Augustine, written after his own heartfelt conversion: “Late am I in loving you, O Beauty ever Ancient, ever New, late have I loved you!” Though we have been far from God, though we have sinned, it is not too late to return to him with our whole hearts. Now is a very acceptable time for repentance.

Living Our True Identity

Earlier this week, I went to jail. Don’t worry – I was there for a good reason. I was attending a training session for those who wish to volunteer in ministry work with those in the detention center. Several priests in the area, including myself, will soon be going there on occasion to offer confession for inmates who are Catholic.

During the course of the training, the senior chaplain explained that for many of those in prison, religious affiliation can sometimes be a fluid thing. In other words, they’re Baptist if the Baptist chaplain comes around, and Jewish when the rabbi visits, and Catholic if the priest is there. One of the biggest challenges of prison life, it seems, is that there is so much time and so little to do, and so when the opportunity comes along for human interaction and conversation, inmates are willing to adapt themselves – even something like their religion – in order to seize the moment.

That got me to thinking – you and I, though not in prison, are sometimes sort of the same way. Hopefully we’re not identifying ourselves with multiple religions, but don’t we sometimes adapt or shift our religious fervor depending on where we are, or who we are with, or what we are doing? Maybe we are one way with our families or our church community, but when we’re with friends or coworkers or classmates, we’re something else completely. Maybe we go through phases where we feel very Catholic and we pray and participate in the sacraments, but then other times, we let those things go entirely. We act a certain way on Sunday morning even though we had acted a totally different way on Friday night.

This problem existed in Jesus’s age too. The Jewish people were God’s chosen people, but they didn’t always act like it – they fell victim to fear, malice, oppression, all of the things that any other nation did. In the first reading, the prophet Ezra, having led back to Jerusalem a large number of Israelites returning from the Babylonian exile, reads aloud to them the Law, the Torah, God’s commandments to Israel of how to live. And the people weep – they weep out of sadness because they had failed to fulfill those commandments and they weep for joy because they have been given the chance to start again.

This aspect of our human condition – however you want to characterize it: being two-faced or wishy-washy or even hypocritical – is something we all fall victim to, in greater or lesser degree. Except for Jesus. Though truly man, he was also truly God, always in communion with and intimately connected to his heavenly Father. Jesus was incapable of duplicity or guile or sin not because he wasn’t truly free but because, being truly free in his Father’s presence, his human will perfectly conformed to the will of God. In every moment – whether in a healing, or a sermon, or just an encounter or a glance – Jesus perfectly embodied the fulfillment of his Father’s will. It was mission, his identity, and he never wavered or faltered from it.

Christ in the Synagogue (1868) by Nikolai Ge

Jesus announces the nature of that mission very explicitly in the Gospel today. Returning to the town where he was raised, entering his own home synagogue, surrounded no doubt by family and neighbors and friends – he announces that he is the fulfillment of Scripture, that he is the one anointed by God “to bring glad tidings to the poor, … to proclaim liberty to captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free….” But it’s not a mission that he came to accomplish alone, especially now that he physically sits at the right of the Father in heaven. Instead, it’s a mission that he began but which is perpetuated through the Church, continued by every believer. We are, as Paul reminds us Corinthians, the parts, the members of the Body of Christ; we are, in a sense, his new family, his friends who are united to him not by blood or background but by mission and purpose. We do a variety of things, exist in this world in a variety of ways, but as a whole we form the living, breathing, active Body of Christ which continues to fulfill the Father’s will on earth.

How do we do that? In a number of ways. Through prayer, through sacrifice, through the active practice of our faith – we unite ourselves to what God continues to do in the world today. Even more, we can become the instruments through which God does it. Around our country, around the world, the Catholic Church is one of the biggest providers of education, health care, and support for the poor and the downtrodden, not just because we are altruistic but because we understand that is what Jesus would have us do. And in smaller ways, much smaller, we can be examples of his love and mercy to others – through daily encounters of faith, through small offerings of love, through heartfelt instances of forgiveness.

My friends, in this Year of Mercy, you and I are challenged to live authentically from our identity in Christ, and not to waver or falter in it. We are encouraged again to see ourselves not as we so often do – as from this background, or that culture, or this occupation, or that political persuasion. Rather, above all else, we are first and foremost members of the Body of Christ – his hands, feet, eyes, ears. We each fulfill, according to our own gifts, according to our way of life, the mission of furthering the work begun by Jesus, the mission of fulfilling the Father’s will. The role of the Church, of every believer, is to keep doing what Jesus started until all the world is converted. What is your part in that? What mission is God asking of you?

The Transformative Power of Christ

The Wedding at Cana (c. 1563), Paolo Veronese

Human nature is a funny thing. Though it may seem vastly different depending on the region of the world or the historical era, there are certain aspects of human culture that are common to any place or time. Take, for example, the ritual of a wedding. Every human culture celebrates weddings, and there are always two parts to any wedding: the ceremony and the celebration.

As a priest, I’ve been involved in quite a few weddings. I’ve noticed that there’s a somewhat humorous dichotomy to our contemporary American wedding culture. On the one hand, the ceremony is always very planned out, very choreographed – sometimes with lots of pomp and circumstance and even tension. Everyone behaves very proper and dignified. But after the ceremony? It’s time to party! All these people who were acting very sophisticated a few minutes before are now ready to throw down. The ties and jackets come off, the libations flow, and before you know it, Grandma is out on the dance floor. I’ve learned that’s usually the opportune moment to excuse myself.

Don’t get me wrong – if done in moderation, all of this is perfectly fine. After all, people come to a wedding to celebrate! They come to celebrate love – how two people have come together to form something new – and that feeling of love overflows into joy and exuberance. In the Gospel today, the people attending the wedding in Cana were certainly enjoying themselves. They were .... well, partying, but the intensity of their joy had led to a serious problem. The wine had run out.

On the one hand, we can interpret this story in a rather straightforward manner. The wedding at Cana is set in the Gospel of John at the beginning of Jesus’s ministry, just after he has called his disciples but before he has really begun teaching and preaching. Indeed, as we heard, Jesus tells his mother that his hour has not yet come – he’s not yet ready to reveal who he is, to show his power and attract attention to himself. And yet, Mary persists and Jesus is persuaded. He performs the miracle of changing the jars of water into wine and so the party is able to continue. It’s a good reminder for us of why prayer through Mary is so important for us – then and now, Jesus has a special fondness for fulfilling the requests of his mother and all who appeal to her.

There is also a deeper, more hidden meaning to this story. Throughout the Bible, the writers of Scripture use the imagery of marriage – the love between spouses, the wedding banquet – to symbolize the intense, faithful love that God has for humanity. The prophets write about how God and humanity are divorced, in a sense, from each other by mankind’s sinfulness, but that there will come a time when God will restore his people and take them to himself like a beautiful bride.

We hear this in the first reading – Isaiah writes to the people: “you shall be called “My Delight,
and your land “Espoused”…. As a young man marries a virgin, your Builder shall marry you; and as a bridegroom rejoices in his bride so shall your God rejoice in you.” Though the chosen people of God had rejected the Lord’s plans for them time and again, he was not going to give upon them – even more, he was going to fashion them into something wonderful and beautiful, like a bride on her wedding day.

Unlike the other three Gospel writers, John never speaks of miracles; instead, he refers to the signs of Jesus. In a sense, they’re the same thing – the changing of water into wine can be seen as both a miracle and a sign. But perhaps thinking of them as a sign is the better way, because it takes the emphasis off of what is being done and instead puts it on who is doing it. Jesus performs various signs as a way of showing who he is and why he has come.

In this light, what Jesus does in the Gospel reading today takes on a new meaning. By changing the water into the wine, he shows his power to transform – not just the elements of the wedding celebration, but we ourselves, our very nature. He is the Savior who has been sent to restore humanity, he is the God who has come to raise up his people – in him, the divine and the human are forever reconciled and brought into union. He is the heavenly Bridegroom come to claim his Bride.

The transformation of water into wine at Cana allowed the celebration of the wedding to continue, taking on a new and joyous exuberance since it was “the good wine.” The transformation that God has worked in humanity through Jesus is a far, far greater cause for exuberant celebration. Though we have been far from God, he can bring us back to himself; though we have failed to live as his children, he wishes to restore us to a new and greater glory. Indeed, even more he has endowed us with his own power – gifts of wisdom and faith and prophecy and mighty deeds through the Holy Spirit, as the epistle tells us. Through our baptism in Christ, we share already in the ability to let each moment of each day – though seemingly ordinary or unremarkable – to be transformed into something greater, a cause for rejoicing, like water into wine, because of the knowledge of the love that God has for us.

My friends, the union of God and man in Jesus is something that profoundly affects us, indeed transforms us, since he shares that same union with us. Though human, we have been recreated in Christ and participate now in his divine life. His is a love that forgives but also transforms – his is a love that gives us reason to rejoice but then asks us to share that joy with others, each in our own way, according to the gifts God has shared with us.

As we begin a new year, a new semester, a new season in the life of the Church, it’s worthwhile I think to reflect upon the immense outpouring of love that Jesus offers and to consider how we are responding to it at this moment. Let us look for the ways that God wishes to show us his power in our daily life – not through loud miracles perhaps but through small signs – that we may be constantly reminded that we have a celebration to join in, a wedding feast of the divine and the human – present now, but especially in eternity – that awaits us.

Mary & Contemplating the Faithfulness of God

In the year 1788, the Scottish poet Robert Burns gathered together some fragments of a traditional Scots poem, added his own words and melody, and published the song, “Auld Lang Syne.” Ever since, that song – which is about cheerfully remembering friendships long past, even if they have faded with time – has traditionally been associated with end of the year. As we close out one year and usher in a new, “Auld Lang Syne” bids us to raise a toast for old times’ sake and remember the ways in which we have been blessed.

On this January 1, the Church bids us to do the same, to remember the ways we have been blessed, not just by others but by God. In the first reading, Moses receives the Lord’s promise of blessing upon the nation of Israel, a blessing that does not waver or fade but remains through for all time. Of course, as Christians, we understand that that blessing is primarily fulfilled in the coming of Jesus, who is the embodiment of God’s answer to humanity’s longing. On this eighth day since Christmas Day, we are reminded again that God has chosen to reveal himself to us by dwelling among us as one of us.

Francisco de Zurbarán, Christ and the Virgin at the House in Nazareth (c. 1640)

Rather than just remembering past blessings, rather than just being reminded again about what God has done for us, at the start of a new year, we also look to Mary – specifically to what she did in the Gospel reading. As the shepherds draw close to her newborn child, we hear that she “kept these things in her heart and reflected upon them.” Mary did more than observe, more than recall – she pondered, she contemplated, she kept the amazing events that had been done for her alive in her heart. Mary, of course, was pondering what God had done for her – that he had chosen her before all time to be the mother of his only Son. And because that Son, Jesus, is himself God, Mary is also properly called the Mother of God.

But by pondering what God had done for her, Mary was also pondering what he has done for all of us. The newness that Jesus brings is not something that fades after Christmas has ended – it has forever brightened our darkness, forever changed our mourning into gladness. Through Jesus, we are assured that God will never abandon us – he has eternally joined himself to our human reality through the Incarnation. And if God shares humanity with us, he also invites us to share in the divinity that he comes to bring.

On this New Year’s Day, perhaps we can take a hint from our Mother Mary, and remember to keep these things and reflect upon them in our heart. Gratitude is such an important key in our relationship with God – but we only cultivate a spirit of gratitude if we remember, as the shepherds did, what we have seen and heard. We shouldn’t let these days of Christmas slip by unnoticed; rather, we should seek to contemplate the newness of Jesus again and again, now but also throughout the year, so that we can learn to be grateful that the faithfulness of God is unwavering.

So let us be happy and rejoice, not just for old times’ sake, as Robert Burns would have it, but also for this new work that God has begun for us in Jesus, through whom he continues to bless us anew.