Homily for 27 Jan 2019

27 January 2019

3^rd Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C

Jesus made quite an impression there in the synagogue.  And we know that “all spoke highly of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his mouth” [Lk 4:22].  But their amazement may not have been because of how he spoke.  It’s perhaps more because of what he said; in particular, when he said, “Today this Scripture passage is fulfilled....”

Whenever prophecies are fulfilled, people perk up and pay attention.  Partly because people have been waiting for a prophecy to be fulfilled, and partly because the fulfillment of a prophecy gives a certain amount of authority to whatever it is that fulfilled the prophecy; there’s a strong connection made between the past and present that gives the present authority and credibility.

So Jesus spoke with authority and credibility because he was the fulfillment of what people were waiting for.  He made what the prophets said come true, and he fulfilled the law of Moses to a T.  Jesus was authoritative, credible, and he was thereby beautiful and compelling. 

And what’s going on here is what we’d probably call “continuity:” continuity between what the prophets had said and how their prophecies were fulfilled; continuity between the past and present; continuity of faith and fundamental values.  Continuity is very important to God, and it’s important to us as a people faith.

For instance, our faith wasn’t invented yesterday.  It didn’t come into being with the Second Vatican Council.  It wasn’t born at the Council of Trent.  It didn’t come into being at any point in the long history of the Church.  It came into being “in the beginning,” when those first disciples encountered the living God in Jesus.  And a big part of what gives the community of faith any credibility and authority is its connection to its beginning, to its source.

When Saint Luke wrote his gospel, it was in the later 1^st Century—after two or three generations of Christians were already on the scene.  And he wrote his gospel as a way to show how the church at that time was an extension of the work of Jesus and the Apostles.  Luke wrote his gospel to help legitimize the early Church in the eyes of others.  And he did that by applying this idea of “continuity,” pointing out that Jesus formed his community of disciples and sent them out to preach to the world, and—look!—here is the Church fulfilling what Jesus had set in motion.

Continuity gives credibility and authority.  And, really, this is how we judge Church leaders today; it’s how we evaluate people (and ourselves) who are called  “Christians.”  We look at them (and us) and we ask: Is this person a fulfillment of what Jesus was all about?  Is there continuity between Jesus and...this bishop, or priest, or deacon, or lay minister who claims to be a servant of the Lord?  And we do that because we know, almost instinctually, that continuity gives credibility and authority. 

Of course, this is why scandal in the Church is so damaging.  It destroys the credibility of the Church (and even the credibility and authority of Christ himself) because then all people focus on is hypocrisy.  They see the Church acting in ways contrary to the good, the true, and the beautiful, and they say: “Why should I believe them?  They don’t practice what they preach.”  In short, there’s been a rupture between who they are and what they profess their foundation to be: they’re professing to be Christians, but they’re not acting like Christ.  And that lack of continuity destroys (or, at least, it cripples) any credibility it might have.

And the Church has gotten off track many times in its history.  It’s continuity with Christ and the teachings of the Apostles hasn’t always been stellar.  But it’s because of that that we have saints like...Anthony of the Desert, and Francis of Assisi, and Clare.

Saint Anthony saw that the Church was getting too bound up with the political structures and practices of the day.  And so, he ventured off into the desert to get “grounded” again; to reclaim the “foundation” of the faith.  He was searching for continuity with Jesus himself and the way of the Apostles.  And he’s widely recognized as the founder of Western monasticism.

With Saint Francis of Assisi, he heard the call of God to “rebuild my Church, which has fallen into ruin.”  In the 1200s, there was a lot of disarray in the Church: power struggles, struggles for wealth and land, the selling of Church offices, and the like.  And when Francis answered God’s call, he didn’t try to decipher the present, and he didn’t try to envision the future.  Instead, he looked back—not to his own past, but to the foundation of the Church. 

Francis rebuilt the Church from its foundations up.  He recaptured continuity with Christ himself and the life of the early Church; a life of community, self-giving, poverty, charity, faith, and hope.  And, of course, among his first followers was our patroness, Saint Clare.  She wanted to live a more “authentic” Christian life, and so where did she turn but to the beginnings of the Church.

And we see this with all the saints.  They were, and are, in a constant search for continuity with Christ and his Apostles.  They wanted their lives to be a fulfillment of what Jesus was talking about.  And, because of that, we revere them as credible, authoritative witnesses to the truth of the gospel.  And we can certainly learn from their example, and from this idea of “continuity.”    

I imagine many of us have probably felt, at some point in life, that our life has “gotten off track.”  And we might wonder: “How did I get here?” and, more importantly, “How can I get back ‘on track’?”  And the answer seems to be this idea of continuity.

We look back at our lives and we see interests and passions we used to have.  We remember old dreams and visions we had for ourselves—and they’re probably from childhood or maybe adolescence.  And then life happens and those things sort of fade away, maybe eventually, we feel that “somewhere I got off track.” 

And we have three choices.  We can either just stay in the present and hope that somehow life will change.  Or we can try to forge ahead and create a new life.  Or we can look back to the basics of who we are.  We can look back to our origins, back to a time when we had a sense of direction or purpose.  And we can do that—not to “recapture the past,” but to get firm again on the foundations of who we are, and then build again from that.

And, really, it’s just making the choice to have continuity in life: continuity between who I was, who I am, and who I will be; continuity between my past, my present, and my future.  And that gives not only credibility and authenticity to whom we are; it also gives integrity to who we are as individuals.

And we can apply this idea to so many instances.  One is the state of our country.  It’s fair to say that our country is losing its way.  You know, when it becomes the law that a pregnancy can be aborted up to the ninth month, we’ve lost our way.  When politics become such that party affiliation is more important than doing what’s right and just, we’ve lost our way.  And what can we do, but to go back to the founding.  What are our basic governing principles?  What are the basic values regarding personhood, and life, freedom, and happiness that are enshrined in our founding documents? 

Again, it’s not a return to the past (because the past wasn’t perfect).  It’s a return to the promise and the vision laid out in the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, in the Declaration of Independence, and in the Federalist Papers.  How do we go forward?  By going back.

The same is for the Church, and for our families, and our society.  Whenever life gets off track (which is just another way of saying that life has “ruptured”), we go forward by considering the past—not just any past, but the foundations of whatever it is we’re talking about.  We take those foundations—and everything good and true that’s been built on those foundations, and we rebuild. 

That was the task of Nehemiah (the first reading): to rebuild society after the people returned from Babylon.  And that rebuilding happened (successfully) by making sure there was continuity between the present and the past.  It’s why they clung to the Law of Moses.  It’s why they rebuild the Temple.  Those things were foundational to who the Jewish people were (and are).

So, continuity is important to us.  It keeps us grounded in the truth of who we are as individuals, as a Church, as a nation.  And it gives us credibility and authority in the ways of Christ today.  May we stay true to Christ, our foundation, and live truly good and beautiful lives, inspiring others, as Christ inspires us.

Homily for 20 Jan 2019

20 Jan 2019

2^nd Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C

“Glory” is a word we use all the time.  “Glory to God in the highest.”  “We glorify you; we give you thanks for your great glory.”  “Glory be to the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”  “Glory to you, O Lord.”  “Heaven and earth are full of your glory.” 

We use the word outside of church, too.  We talk about the “glory days:” the glory days of the Packers, the glory days of youth, the glory days of the parish.  We use the word “glory” a lot, and we have some sense of what it means.  It’s something good.  It’s something brilliant and full.  It’s something full of life; something at the height of greatness. 

And we see here in the gospel that Jesus revealed his “glory.”  But, you know, there wasn’t any flash of brilliance.  There wasn’t any show of majesty or splendor.  It just happened that the water became wine—that’s all.  And yet, as St. John says, this was a revelation of Jesus’ “glory.”

Another “odd” thing with Saint John is that the high point of his gospel isn’t the resurrection; it’s the crucifixion.  That’s the pinnacle; that’s where the glory of God is most revealed to us.  And so, our sense of what the word “glory” means can maybe be expanded.

Maybe “glory” is more like: The revelation (or appearance) of something as it is in its true (and complete) form.  The revelation (or appearance) of something as it is in its true (and complete) form.  You know, when we talk about “growing up” and “maturing,” sometimes we say that we’re “coming into our own;” we’re becoming who and what we were created to be.  Or, we might say that somebody is “showing their true colors;” you know, that somebody’s true self is being revealed. 

“Glory” isn’t necessarily “brilliance and splendor.”  It’s more like: The revelation (or appearance) of something as it is in its true (and complete) form.  And Saint John is trying to get us to see God’s glory as “an abundance of giving;” “a super-abundance of giving.”  The very fact of that is the “glory of God;” that’s who God is revealed to be; “showing his true colors,” “coming into his own” there on the Cross, there at the wedding in Cana.  Good wine in abundance; love in abundance; sacrifice in abundance; life in abundance.  The overflowing abundance of God’s giving is his glory.  It’s who he is in his true and complete form. 

But, you know, that’s who God is.  The question is: Who are we? . . . because whoever and whatever we are, that’s the way we give glory back to God.  It’s like all of creation.  For instance, a tulip is created to be what it is.  The sun is created by God to be what it is.  The rain and the snow are created to be what they are.  And they give glory to God by being fully and completely what they are. 

It’s why Jesus says that the flowers in the field give more glory to God than Solomon, in all his splendor.  The flowers just are what they are, fully and completely.  Solomon, on the other hand, was always in the process of “coming into his own” and maturing.  So, we know who God is; we know what his “glory” is: it’s his overabundance of giving.  That’s who God is.

So the question still is: Who are we?...because whoever and whatever we are, that’s the way we give glory to God.

For the past twenty years or so, there’s been a lot of talk about Catholic parishes and how they should be more “vibrant.”  And that word “vibrant” is taken to mean: lively and active, engaging and attractive, humming with the Spirit, fresh and alive.  And there’s nothing especially wrong with that.  It’s even something we can aspire toward. 

But, at the same time, that word “vibrant”—when it’s applied to the life of the Church—can also be limiting.  When I think of the parish (any parish), I’m less interested in it being “vibrant,” and I’m much more interested in it being “glorious.”  And that’s simply because we’re called by God to a life of “glory,” not a life of “vibrancy.”

And that sounds a bit like I’m splitting hairs; like the difference between “glorious” and “vibrant” isn’t really all that important.  But it is.  The life of a “vibrant” parish has already been determined to look a certain way.  The music at Mass will be upbeat.  The preacher will be entertaining and very animated.  Everyone will be involved in some ministry that’s given to them on a list.  Everyone will be smiling, raising their hands in praise of God, and they will be on every street corner proclaiming the gospel.  Everyone.  That’s what a “vibrant” parish looks like.  And that isn’t necessarily bad, but it can be limiting.

A “glorious” parish, on the other hand, doesn’t expect the same from everybody.  In a “glorious” parish, every person lives up to his or her potential as a child of God—whatever and however that potential looks like.  Imagine if every flower in the world were a rose (or whatever your favorite flower is).  Well, then we’d never know the glory of the tulip, or the carnation, or the dandelion. 

God doesn’t look at, for example, a pigeon and say to it, “Well, you’re okay, but the eagle is better because it can fly higher and it just looks better.”  No, God looks at the pigeon and calls it “good;” God looks at the eagle and calls it “good.”  God looks at the elegant rose and calls it “good;” he looks at the humble daisy and calls it “good.”   

In a “glorious” parish, there’s room for everybody.  There’s room for everybody’s potential as a son or daughter of God to bloom as God intended us.  A “glorious” parish is like a garden mixed with all sorts of flowers—none trying to squash the other, none trying to give another an inferiority complex, none trying to tear the others down.

A “glorious” parish a community where each person is encouraged and nurtured along the way of self-fulfillment—as a son or daughter of God.  That’s the kind of parish I’m interested in; that’s the kind of Church I want to be a part of.  Luckily, that’s the kind of community our Lord Jesus founded.

So we know what God’s glory is.  God’s glory is the revelation of himself as he is, truly and completely.  His glory is his overabundance; revealed at the wedding at Cana, revealed on the Cross, revealed in the Eucharist and countless other ways.  That’s God’s glory.  Our glory is the revelation of ourselves as we are, truly and completely.  And who are we but beloved sons and daughters of God, in whom he delights.

And so we are “glorious” when we’re charitable, when we forgive, when we sit at the feet of God in prayer.  We are “glorious” when we follow Jesus and his poking at our conscience, even when it’s hard.  We’re “glorious” when we shut up when we’re about to gossip, or when we step away from the computer when temptation comes, or when we approach life with faith and hope, rather than drama and doom.  We’re “glorious” when we accept the fact that we need God; that we can’t and shouldn’t “go it alone.” 

And that part of our “glory” is really nothing other than our common call to holiness; our common call to be “spitting images” of God.  Other than that, our “glory” is whatever gifts and talents and dispositions God has blessed us with.

If you have the gift of, say, critical thinking . . . then use it.  If you’re good in math, then do it.  If have a talent for advertising . . . then use it.  Music, art, athleticism, woodworking, creativity—use those gifts.  Some people are good at listening, or praying, or reading . . . the possibilities are endless.  The gifts from God are endless.  And it doesn’t matter if somebody else thinks they’re worth anything . . . they’re worth something to God and they’re worth something to people who know you.

And they're what we bring here to Mass.  God’s true self is revealed to us on the Cross, on the Altar.  And our true self is shared with him in the life we live, and in the prayers we make.  May we live a life of truth and fullness—a life of glory, and then come here to give our true selves—our glory—to God.

Homily for 13 Jan 2019

13 Jan 2019

Baptism of the Lord

For as long as we can each remember, we’ve understood baptism as “necessary for salvation.”  It takes away the stain of original sin, it makes us a member of the Church, and it makes us justified in the sight of God.  And so, for sinful humanity, baptism is of the greatest importance.

But then we get to this feast day today, and our understanding of baptism seems to fall apart.  If baptism is for forgiveness of sins and reunion with God and his Church, then why did Jesus insist on being baptized?  Jesus isn’t a sinner.  And he’s the Son of God; he’s never not been in union with the Father. 

According to our understanding of baptism, Jesus doesn’t need it.  Our reaction is just the same as John the Baptist’s.  But, as usual with our God, there’s more going on here in this scene by the Jordan River.  And so, as Jesus says, we’re just going to “go with it for now.”  Jesus wanted to be baptized.

This feast of the Baptism of the Lord brings our Christmas season to a close.  We celebrated the Incarnation; God coming among us in human flesh and blood.  We celebrated God living up to his name: “Emmanuel,” which means “God with us.”  And then we celebrated the Holy Family; God coming into the home of Mary and Joseph, and into our homes as well, making them places of hope and peace. 

Last week we celebrated the coming of the Magi; God revealing himself not only to the shepherds and the Jewish people, but also to wisemen and the rest of the world, too.  We’ve celebrated “God with us;” God coming among us, sharing in our lives, raising us up in faith, hope, and love.  But there was one last part of human life God wanted to immerse himself into.  And that was sin.

If God was to be truly “with us and among us,” then he couldn’t avoid exposing himself to sin, which is so prevalent in our human existence.  And that’s why Jesus insisted on being baptized.  He insisted on taking human sinfulness upon himself.

There was John the Baptist at the Jordan River, baptizing people from “all Judea and Jerusalem.”  There was a massive gathering of sinners; a massive gathering of people who wanted to say yes again to God.  And Jesus was among them—not because he was a sinner, but because he wanted to share the life of sinners.  And what do sinners do?  They get baptized and turn to God.

So Jesus got baptized.  He said yes to God—as he’s done since before the beginning of time, and the skies opened and the Father spoke to him.  Communion with God, communication with God happens when we say yes to him.  So, in that respect, Jesus’ baptism wasn’t all that different from anybody else’s.  Baptism in faith opens up life with God.

But with respect to sin and the taking away of sin, Jesus’ baptism was very different than ours.  In fact, his baptism was like a “reverse baptism.”  When we get baptized, sins are washed away; we’re made clean.  But when Jesus got baptized, he was drenched in…sin.  Imagine taking a shower, but instead of clean, clear water coming out of the showerhead, dirty water comes out; dirty, smelly water that doesn’t wash off, but that just sort of sticks to you.  That was Jesus’ baptism.

God wanted to be “Emmanuel, God with us.”  And so he took on not only our flesh and blood, and family life, and the experiences of cultures both Jewish and other, he also took on sin.  That didn’t make him a sinner.  But it made him feel the weight, the annoyance, and the frustration of sin.  With the Baptism of the Lord, Christmas becomes complete.  God coming among us to share our human life became complete.

But Jesus didn’t do that just so he could suffer with us.  He did it to “save us,” and to show God’s love for us.  As Saint John says, “In this is love, not that we loved God but that he loved us [first] and sent his Son to be expiation for our sins” [1 John 4:10].  God loves us by becoming one of us—even to the point of his Son taking on the weight of sin, and even to the point of having those sins nailed to the cross in his own body.  The Baptism of the Lord and the crucifixion are two sides of the same coin—the coin of salvation.

It’s like taking a piece of paper, writing your sins on it, and then burning that paper up.  Jesus is like the piece of paper.  His baptism is like the writing of sins on the paper.  And his death and burial are like the paper being burned up.  That’s what it means when we call Jesus the “Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world.”  He takes them away by taking them upon himself in baptism, and then letting himself be sacrificed so that sin dies with him.

Among other things, we celebrate on this feast day—from one perspective, anyway—the beginnings of the Passion of Christ; when he let the dirty water of sin wash over him and cling to him.  It’s no wonder then why Jesus was thrust into the desert right after his baptism to be tested and tempted.  Sin does that; it tests us and tempts us. 

And this would all be very sad, except we know that Jesus willingly chose to be baptized with sin.  And he willingly came among us (and still comes among us), like he walked among the sinners and the lepers all those centuries ago.  And he does that to say to us, “I am the Way…all those sins that bother you…give them to me; I am stronger than sin.”    

Not to sound overly dramatic, but Jesus is a hero to us.  He is our Savior—if we let him be that for us.  And we let him be our Savior by dumping all our sins on him.  Now, that doesn’t sound very nice or holy, but that’s what he desires.  And we “dump” our sins on him in many ways: in prayer—not with fancy language, but with just straight-forward honest language from the heart; in the confessional with the help of a priest we trust; in a journal, in a diary; with tears; in our books of intentions; on a piece of paper that you can burn up…

There are many ways we can “baptize” Jesus with our sins.  We just have to resist the temptation not to do that.  Jesus doesn’t want to be clean.  If he did, he wouldn’t have been hanging around the Jordan River with a bunch of sinners. 

Jesus wants us to be clean; he wants us to be free today and forever.  And so, he says in so many words, “Baptized me with your sins.  Give them to me; I am stronger than sin.  And I will take them for you and with you to the place where sins die—at the Cross.”