Homily for 26 May 2019

26 May 2019

6^th Sunday of Easter, Year C

All the sacraments of the Church have one thing in common (besides God’s presence in them).  And that common thing is: unity or wholeness.  The sacraments are given to us by the Lord as helps in our efforts toward unity and wholeness.

Baptism and confirmation bring us into closer unity with God and with the community of faith.  The Eucharist does the same.  And all three of those sacraments are meant to make us more unified with Christ—such that we become Christ-like. 

The Anointing of the Sick and Reconciliation are meant to heal what is broken in body, mind, and soul.  They’re geared toward wholeness, completeness.  Marriage is meant to symbolize and to signify the covenantal power of love, that comes through the unity of husband and wife, and which is a real sign of God’s having made humanity to live in peace, harmony, and unity.

And, lastly, the sacrament of Holy Orders is meant to safeguard and to share all these sacraments of unity.  And it’s meant to image the unity there exists between heaven and earth, between the Lord and his people.  And so, all our sacraments have at least that one thing in common: they’re geared toward unity and wholeness.

And since the sacraments are such a central part of life, the idea and the ideals of unity and wholeness should characterize our common life as believers.  It’s why Jesus says, “This is how all will know that you are my disciples: if you have love for one another” [Jn 13:35].  Now, he doesn’t say “love for enemies;” he doesn’t say “love for the poor”—even though those are part of the commandments he give us.  Jesus says, “if you have love…for one another.”  And that’s not love as in warm, fuzzy feelings.  That’s love as in peace, cooperation, mutual respect, willingness to sacrifice for one another, willingness to share, and so on.

The sacraments are meant to build us up such that we have love for…one another.  Such that there is unity and wholeness within the community, within the Church, itself.  That’s basic to what it means to be Christian; that there is unity and wholeness within the Body of Christ, within the community of the faithful.

But, as Catholics, we take a very broad view of what unity means, and of what unity looks like.  In the Acts of the Apostles [9:31], we read that “the church throughout the whole of Judea, and Galilee, and Samaria had peace.”  And that phrase, “throughout the whole,” is the key to understanding what Catholic unity looks like.  And, actually, that phrase, “throughout the whole,” is the English translation of the word “catholic.”  Right there in Scripture is the word “catholic”—only in Greek it’s pronounced “kath-holays.”  And it describes the Church; it’s “catholic;” it’s spread “throughout the whole.”

Now, in the Acts of Apostles, it refers to the community spread throughout the whole of Judea, Galilee, and Samaria.  But today it refers to the Church spread throughout the whole world, even extending to heaven and whatever spiritual realms there are.  The Church is “all over the place;” it’s “kath-holays,” it’s “catholic.”  And, yet, even in spite of the Church being “throughout the whole” world, in spite of it being spread out into every corner of the physical and spiritual world, the Church is still…one.  It’s characterized by unity within itself. 

It’s why you can go to a Catholic parish in some other place, and you belong there.  When I went to Guatemala about six years ago, I went to Mass at the church of La Merced.  And I could participate in Mass there just as much as I could here in the U.S. because I’m Catholic.  When I went to Rome, and to London and Paris, and to Switzerland, I could participate in the Mass in any of those places because I’m Catholic—because it’s the Church I’m a part of.    If you go to Mass in Green Bay or Kaukauna, you can do it; you belong there, too.  Wherever you go in the world (except in the Middle East, as of late) there’s the Catholic Church.  And it’s fundamentally the same.  Different cultures, yes.  Different music, yes.  Different languages, definitely.  But the same faith, and one and the same community, all over the world.

It’s why we pay attention to the saints and the angels, too.  It’s why we remember the faithful departed every November.  It’s why we visit cemeteries.  It’s why we value our cultural and faith traditions that have been passed on through the centuries.  We’re part of an immense Church, a community of the faithful which is not limited by time or space. 

And that’s what catholic unity looks like.  It’s very colorful.  It’s incredibly diverse.  It’s high and wide.  And, yet, it exists in harmony, as one, as a unity.  And I mention this because that kind of unity is something that we as a parish are still working through.  We know what catholic unity looks like on a global scale, and on a cosmic, interdimensional scale.  But what does catholic unity look like right here, in our little corner of the world?  Right here in our 105 square miles of the parish?

And the answer is: There is no single answer.  That’s what makes us “catholic.”  About 30% of us would love to see a new, single church building as a definitive sign of parish unity and wholeness.  That’s fine.  About 60% of us would prefer to live out parish unity in some other way.  That’s fine, too.  There is no one way that catholic unity looks in a parish; it’s whatever the people involved want it to be—within certain limits.

And those “limits” are not usually physical; they’re more spiritual, emotional, and interpersonal.  For instance, love for one another is one of those limits.  In striving for unity, we cannot not have love for one another.  And if we step outside that expectation that Jesus has of us, then we step outside the basic definition of “catholic unity.” 

How many times do we say to others, “You’re in my thoughts and prayers.”  Well, that’s a way we have love for one another.  Our prayer chain is a good witness to that kind of catholic unity here in the parish.  When it comes to the need for mutual prayer and support, there are no physical boundaries.  And so, we can be witnesses to that kind of unity right now, today. 

Another “limit” that catholic unity has is the idea of co-operation, interchange, exchange, and sharing.  If we’re striving for unity, we cannot not interact and share.  If we step outside that expectation that Jesus has of his disciples, then we step out the basic definition of “catholic unity.”

Of course, any of you who know what married life is like, you know that cooperation, sharing, and so on is essential.  Without it, you don’t have much of a marriage.  But, in order for sharing to happen, we have back up a step.  In this case, before we can talk about unity, we have to talk about diversity; in particular, the diversity (the distinctness) of the husband and the wife.

I think of the Unity Candle we sometimes see at weddings.  There are the two smaller candles on either side of the big candle in the middle.  And those smaller candles symbolize the life of the individual persons; the bride and groom take those and, together, they make something new: the flame on the Unity Candle.  But those smaller candles remain…lit.  The unity of the couple does not—and cannot—destroy the uniqueness of each person.  In fact, their unity depends on their remaining unique and distinct.

And that’s simply because the uniqueness of each person is the “stuff” that’s shared with the other person.  When we think of God—the Holy Trinity—we recognize both unity and diversity.  Yes, there is one God.  But that oneness—that unity—depends on their being a Father and a Son.  And the Holy Spirit is nothing other than the Spirit of Unity, the Bond of Peace and Love between them.  God himself is both one and distinct parts, both at the same time.

When we think of the parish, and we think of “parish unity,” we cannot think about “unity through conformity;” instead, we have to think of “unity through diversity,” “unity through sharing and exchange.”  Love, peace, and unity don’t destroy individual parts; instead, they bind them together through cooperation, sharing, and so on.

This is why in the Acts of the Apostles, we can hear about a multitude of places—Judea, Samaria, and Galilee; Jerusalem, Antioch, and Cilicia—but we’re still talking about one community.  The area described there in the Bible is about the same as entire eastern half of Wisconsin.  And the community through that whole area was “at peace;” that is, it existed in unity and in Christian love. 

What is it that this person in the parish, or that person in the parish has to offer and to share with everybody else?  What do these farmers over here have to offer and share with these people over there who commute to the office every day?  What do our youth have to share and offer our more senior members?  And what do those more senior members have to offer and share with our youth? 

Our parish is incredibly diverse.  And that is a huge asset in trying to foster actual “catholic unity.”  There’s a lot of diversity to share; a variety of life experiences; a variety of histories, a wide array of talents and passions.  And, to add to that, there is a common, shared faith, and the same Lord and God of all. 

So, what does catholic unity look like, here in our little corner of the world?  Well, it’s whatever the faithful decide it’s going to look like—not just the faithful here in the parish, but the faithful throughout time and space.  The saints give us examples of unity to follow—unity with others, and unity with God.  The early Church—“spread throughout the whole” Middle East—gives us an example of unity to follow—again, unity with others and unity God.

We have all the seeds right here, today, for unity.  We have diversity, we have sharing, we have faith, we have the angels and the saints to help us, we have the faithful departed to pray for us, we have the “catholic” Church throughout the world to draw on, we have God.  And, we have the sacraments—especially the Eucharist, which steers us toward unity, love, and peace.

We have all we need for unity right here, today.  What we do with it all—well, that’s up to us.  Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.  Saint Michael, and all you Choirs of Angels, pray for us.  Saint Peter and Saint Paul, pray for us.  Saint Francis and Saint Clare, pray for us.  Saint Patrick and all you Saints and holy people of God everywhere, in every time and place, pray for us.

Homily for 19 May 2019

19 May 2019

5^th Sunday of Easter, Year C

We’ve heard Jesus say it a thousand times before: “Love one another, as I have loved you.”  But here at the 5^th Week of Easter, it maybe knocks us off kilter to realize we have to go back to Holy Thursday—when Jesus said those words—in order to grasp what he’s saying.

And so, there it was: Holy Thursday.  The tension between Jesus and the Jews had reached a climax earlier that day.  And now it was nighttime.  The sun had set, and darkness was all around; the kind of darkness that has a tinge of evil in it.  As John tells us, “The devil had already induced Judas, son of Simon the Iscariot, to hand [Jesus] over.”  In that very dark setting, Jesus and his twelve disciples gathered to celebrate the Passover meal.

And in the middle of the meal, Jesus got up and took the role of a servant, washing his disciples’ feet.  He returned to the table, and Judas left to go and betray him.  And this is when Jesus said, “Love one another, as I have loved you.”

From this we get a different image of that word “love;” different than what an internet search will give us.  Here, love is more like: “Sticking by someone when life gets rough.”  And we see Jesus loving his disciples in that way when they were stuck on a stormy sea, and he walked on the water, and calmed the sea [John 6:20].  He loved them by coming to be with them in the tough times.

Have we seen a family member, or a friend, or an “enemy” going through a rough patch in life?  One way to love them as Jesus has loved us is simply to be present to them.  Of course, Jesus loved his disciples in other ways, too. 

For instance, he spends time with them, just being with them.  We see this when Jesus and his disciples come together as guests at the Wedding in Cana [John 2:2].  We see it when they’re “spending time” together in the Judean countryside [John 3:22].  And we see it when Jesus brings his disciples up on the mountain and sits with them [John 6:3].  Jesus loved his disciples by getting to know them as a companion, but also as someone who brought them to a “higher place,” a place of holiness—which is symbolized by the mountain.

Have we ever seen someone who perhaps needed an encouraging word?  How many of our youth are in need of good, solid mentors in life?  One way to love each other as Jesus has loved us is to spend time getting to know each other—even the people we don’t especially like.  Remember, Jesus doesn’t tell us to like one another; he tells us to love one another.

Jesus loved his disciples by opening them up to a bigger vision of life, and what could be (and what will be).  This is especially true in the Gospel of John.  When he visits the Samaritan woman, Jesus is essentially saying, “It’s good and charitable (that is, it’s loving) to reach out to our supposed enemies, and to accept them as fellow children of God, if not also as friends.”  But Jesus loved his disciples not only in that way (with their neighbors), but also in trying to widen their horizons—as far as life with God goes.

Jesus tells Nathaniel about “greater things to come” [John 1:51], but he doesn’t exactly say what those things are.  And then Jesus cleanses the Temple and the disciples start to make connections between what he’s is doing and what the larger picture of the Prophets had foretold [John 2:17].  Jesus speaks about a certain “food” the disciples don’t know anything about yet—the food of doing the will and the work of the One who sent him [John 4:34].

Jesus loved his disciples by moving them forward and upward in faith; by moving them toward the vision of the Holy City, the New Jerusalem which we heard about today in the Book of Revelation.  It’s a loving thing for us to raise each other up, to something “higher” and more fulfilling.  It’s a reflection of how Jesus loved his disciples. 

It’s also a reflection of Christ-like love to challenge each other.  And Jesus certainly loved his disciples by occasionally doing that.  When they were trying to feed the five thousand, Jesus let them struggle a bit with that question [John 6:11].  He challenged them to think of another way—a “higher” way, the way of gratitude, by which there’d be enough food.  He took the bread and fish, gave thanks, and there was enough for everyone.  He loved them by challenging them, in a gentle way, but also in upfront ways, too.

When the Jews were pretty much rejecting Jesus (because of what he was saying about his Body and Blood being food and drink), he turned to his disciples (to the large crowd of disciples) and challenged them to stop complaining about what he was saying and just believe in him.  He was very upfront.  But, as we know, many simply walked away, and didn’t follow him anymore [John 6:61,66].  At that point, he turned to his twelve disciples and put the same challenge to them: “Do you want to leave me, too?”  And with that, the faith of the twelve disciples deepened.  They grew in faith because Jesus loved them enough to challenge them—very directly—on their discipleship.

All these examples, as well as the washing of the disciples’ feet on Holy Thursday, were all ways Jesus loved his disciples.  Throughout his time on earth, Jesus defined what “love” is—not spousal love, or erotic love, or filial love (which are legitimate forms of love), but “love” in the sense of “self-giving charity;” concern and care for “the other.”  When Jesus says, “Love one another as I have loved you,” he’s saying, “Be self-giving and charitable to one another, as I have given myself in charity to you—even to death.”

And there may not be a lot of warm and fuzzy feelings in that kind of love.  There may not be “intense feelings of deep affection,” or “great interest and pleasure” as there can be with filial love, or spousal or erotic love.  Instead, as Saint Paul and Barnabas said, “It is necessary for us to undergo many hardships to enter the kingdom of God,” to enter into the kingdom of that other kind of love—the kingdom of perfect charity.

Now, if you consider what we’re doing here, just like Jesus and his disciples on that Holy Thursday night, we gather to celebrate the Passover.  Around us in the world, and even in our midst, there is the darkness of: greed, corruption, hatred, despair.  Popular culture murmurs against us and our God.  The situation of Holy Thursday continues on today.  But into that, Jesus speaks again those words we’ve heard a thousand times before: “Love one another, as I have loved you.” 

And those aren’t just encouraging words; they’re a commandment.  Loving one another as Christ has loved us is not optional—if we intend to be his people on earth.  It’s been said before: Love—sacrifice—is what makes the Church run; it’s what keeps the faith alive and spreading in the world.  As Saint Paul says, without love—Christlike love—we are “nothing” [1 Cor 13]; just another corporation in the world, “in the world” and “of the world.”

But that’s not who Christ intends us to be.  That’s not what he commands us to be.  And so, we take to heart the words of the Lord—words that are very familiar, but which are life-changing when we really embrace them: “Love one another, as I have loved you.”   

Jesus has gone on ahead of us.  And the “good news” is that he wants us to be there with him.  And he’s given us love—charity—as the preeminent way to get there.  Charity amongst ourselves is what lifts us upward and onward to our God.  Charity here on earth, is what gets us to that place, that life, where there is nothing but perfect charity, perfect love, forever and ever.

Homily for 12 May 2019

12 May 2019

4^th Sunday of Easter, Year C

World Day of Prayer for Vocations

They all died.  Six were crucified.  Four were stabbed with swords, or arrows, or a spear.  One was stoned to death.  One was beheaded.  Another killed himself.  And the last one died naturally of old age.  They were the Apostles (and in case you were counting, that was fourteen, not twelve.  The two “extras” were Matthias, who replaced Judas, and Paul).  And I don’t imagine that any of them knew how their life would turn out when they heard Jesus say, “Come, follow me.”

We hear about Paul and Barnabas today, preaching to the Gentiles, while at the same time, rebuking the Jewish leaders and elders.  Being the good Jew that he was, Paul had no inkling that at some point in his life he would speaking against his own people.  And yet, there he was, preaching the gospel of Jesus—even if it meant alienation from his fellow Jews.

But consider Peter and Andrew, James and John, too.  They had all been fishermen.  They never would’ve thought that they’d be preaching and healing, being social reformers, being leaders of a new religious group.  But that’s where Jesus led them when he invited them to “come, follow me.”

Today, around the world, the Church focuses on vocations; in particular, priestly vocations.  The Fourth Sunday of Easter is traditionally known as Good Shepherd Sunday.  And so we focus on, we pray for, and we encourage the vocation, the inner calling, to be a “Shepherd” in Christ’s Church.

And we need to pray for such vocations.  Not only because we have a real shortage of ordained priests in our part of the world, but because the vocation itself demands much.  Given our culture today, given the destroyed credibility of the Church, given the variety of expectations that are laid on priests, it truly is a wonder that we still have men who are willing to listen to Jesus and “come, follow me.”

Prayers are very much needed for vocations to the priesthood: prayers for strength, for a spirit of sacrifice; prayers for humility and patience, and prayers, especially, that those who fall in love with God remain enchanted by God, above all else.  After almost 2,000 years of spreading the gospel, the situation hasn’t changed that much from what Paul and Barnabas experienced.  The gospel of Jesus—the love of Jesus—is still a hard sell, even today.  And prayers for divine assistance are especially needed.

At this time of the year (even on this very weekend), in seminaries throughout the country, groups of seminarians prepare themselves to be ordained to the priesthood in the coming months.  It’s a time of newness, of anticipation and excitement; a time of planning, making sure the new priest has all the right things, all the right liturgical books, all the garments and vestments he needs for Mass; making sure he’s got vessel for holy oil for when he anoints the sick and the dying, and so on, and so on.  Even if there’s nervousness, there’s still a sense of promise and a deep joy in placing yourself at the service of God.

But in the midst of all that, there’s still the unknown.  It’s like Jesus says to Peter: “Amen, amen, I say to you, when you were younger, you used to dress yourself and go where you wanted; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go” [John 21:18].  In other words, to really respond to the vocation of “servant of God” and “servant of his people,” one has to accept the unknown.

And so, as new priests are ordained, they’re almost like those sheep we hear about in Scripture.  Dressed in their white robes, they’re off to be...sacrificed, but...they don’t fully understand it.  But it’s like that with many vocations.

When a bride and a groom stand here at the altar, all dressed to the nines with their bridal party, do they fully comprehend what they’re getting into?  Probably not.  When a child is about to be baptized, and the parents and godparents stand at the altar and promise to raise the child in the practice of the faith, do they fully comprehend what they’re getting into?  Possibly not.  Or when we each fulfill our own vocations to be in union with union with God, and so we come to the altar and receive Communion, do we always fully grasp what that Communion demands of us—in our relationship with God, with our friends and enemies, and with ourselves?  Possibly not.

To step into any role that Christ calls us into means to step into the unknown.  But we do it anyway because of the promises we’re given by God.  We do it because we trust God.  We do it because we’re of one heart and mind with God.

It’s as we heard last weekend: Communion makes the Church.  Our personal communion with God is what makes the Church go.  And that personal communion is where vocations come from.  God may invite us into the unknown, but we don’t go into alone.  We enter that vocation with God at our side, and with the support of countless others who love us.

But, as I mentioned earlier, vocations to the priesthood don’t always have that support—for a variety of reasons.  And so, we pray for inner strength for priests and those who are considering priesthood.  We pray that their personal communion with God will not grow weak.  And we pray for men (of any age) who are considering priesthood, that they step out in faith and trust that the Lord has an important work for them to accomplish.

Now, the Church and the Catholic Faith have had its ups and downs throughout history.  That’s just the way any form of life seems to go.  But here at the start of the 21^st Century, the faith seems to be in a particularly deep fog.  And one reason why—among several—is perhaps because the faith isn’t challenging enough.  Now, it is certainly challenging.  But, perhaps it isn’t presented that way as much as it should be.

For the past fifty to sixty years, we’ve heard a lot about the love of God.  And it’s a message that needed to be heard, for sure.  Too many people had become fearful of God, rather than trustful of his tender care.  And so, the message of God’s love and intimacy was very much needed.  But, in the wake of that good message, have we also forgotten the expectations God has of us?  Has God become so much the Good Friend, that we’ve forgotten that he’s also our Lord, Shepherd, and Savior?  And that to preach and to live the gospel of God’s love requires a certain amount of commitment and sacrifice?  Has the Catholic faith become too...ordinary?  Has it ceased to be a Light that challenges, or a Word that pokes at our conscience, or a Way of life characterized by sacrificial love?

Perhaps the “important work” I just mentioned is the task of reinvigorating the faith with such basic mindsets as: devotion to God, letting God be the captain of my ship, treating the Creed as a “national anthem” of sorts, being slow to judge and quick to forgive, and so on.  Those are all radical, radical mindsets that our faith demands of us.  And who’s going to take up the charge that Jesus gave to Peter when he said, “Feed my lambs, shepherd my sheep, feed my sheep” [John 21:15c,16c,17c]?

Who’s going to take up that very important work of God?  Who’s going to preach the unpopular message?  Who’s going to call others on the carpet for poor behavior toward others?  Who’s going to let themselves be tied up and taken into places and situations they’d rather not go, but who go anyway out of devotion to God?  Who’s going to feed the sheep and tend the lambs; who’s going to love them...not as a sheep, but as a shepherd?

On this World Day of Prayer for Vocations, these are all questions we take to heart—especially if we’ve heard the Lord calling.  May the Lord hear our prayers, and may we consider his hopes and desires...for us.

Homily for 5 May 2019

5 May 2019

3^rd Sunday of Easter (First Communions)

It’s a very special day here at Saint Clare—our 2^nd Graders are about to receive Communion for the first time.  And throughout their lives they’ll receive Communion something like 3,500 more times (if they go every Sunday).  If they go to daily Mass too, it would be something like 20,000 times.  Either way, it’s a lot!  So, for our 2^nd Graders, today is the start of a new habit; it’s the start of a new way to experience the Mass and God.

But, at the same time, for them and for us, Communion is something we already know about; it’s something we already experience—even outside of Church.  And that’s because “communion” isn’t so much a “thing” that we hold in our hands; instead, it’s an experience—in particular, an experience of life and fellowship.  After all, the ideas of “communion” and “community” are practically the same.

For instance, when we Catholics talk about our relationship to the pope, we say that we’re “in communion with the pope.”  In other words, we share the same faith, we see him as both a brother and friend in Christ, and he and we live according to the same set of standards and practices.  We’re “in communion with” the pope.

And—even though we don’t usually talk this way—we could say the same thing about our circle of friends, or our family, or politicians we agree with, or with fellow Catholics around the world and those sitting in the pews next to us.  You and your friends are a “communion”; you share life, you share the same passions and interests, you journey together.  You are a “communion,” a “community.”  The same with your family; you share traditions, you share life, your lives are intertwined with each other.  Your family is a “communion,” a “community.

And, of course, the Catholic Church is a “communion”; it’s a “community” which shares common beliefs and practices, which lives according to a basic standard of conduct.  The Church is a “communion” held together by the working of the Holy Spirit, the Spirit given to each of us just the same at baptism.

And last, but not least, we can talk of God himself as a “communion.”  The Holy Trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—is a community, a “communion” of absolute love and perfect friendship and adoration. 

So, even before our 2^nd Graders receive Communion for the first time today, they’ve been living communion already with their friends and family, with Church and with God.  But today, they and we take another deeper step into Communion.  We take a deeper step into the vision God has for us and all humanity; a vision of real friendship and love, not only with each other, but with God as well.  And that’s a communion we (hopefully) step more deeply into every time we receive Communion.  And I say “hopefully” because, you know, we can receive Communion without really receiving Communion. 

When you think about it, that’s kind of an interesting idea: to “receive” Communion.  Now, obviously, we take the Host and we put it in our mouth and chew.  We take the Cup and we swallow a bit of the Precious Blood.  We certainly receive Communion into our bodies.  But there’s also receiving Communion in our heart and mind.  Remember that the Eucharist is, yes, the Body and Blood of Jesus.  But it’s also the Soul and Divinity of Jesus.  The Eucharist is the Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity of our Lord.

So, to “receive” Communion means also to let Jesus’ soul and divinity mix with our soul and humanity.  If we eat and drink Communion, but then we don’t also “receive” the rest of what the Eucharist is into our life, we haven’t received Communion with Jesus as much as we could.  That’s why someone can receive Communion, and then five minutes later they have road rage trying to get out of the parking lot.  They ate and drank, but didn’t let Jesus “soak in.”  They haven’t entirely “received” Jesus’ invitation to Communion with him.

And I imagine most of us do that from time to time—not the road rage part, but the other part: we eat and drink, but we don’t always “receive” the invitation to deeper communion with God and others (or with ourselves).  Sometimes after receiving Communion myself, I’ll be sitting in the chair, thinking about what’s coming next (the closing and any announcements).  And then it hits me: “Whoa, slow down, take a moment.” 

In fact, that’s what that time of silence is all about after receiving Communion.  It’s a time to be “in the moment”, to reflect on what just happened.  The God of the Universe, the God of all creation comes to me and to you, and he invites each of us to be in communion with him; to share his divine life, and to let him share our human life.  To actually “receive” Communion is a profound act.  To say “thank you” and “yes” to God’s invitation takes a moment.  Or, it takes many moments, repeated throughout life.

And so, we receive Communion again and again and again.  Not just eating and drinking, but also soaking in and absorbing, being affected by our communion with God, by our shared life with God.

Now, at some point, the phrase “Jesus and me” came into Catholic life.  And whenever you hear it, it’s usually said as a negative.  And those who say it mean that the purpose of what we do at Mass—what we do during Communion especially—is supposed to be about building up the community of faith.  It’s not supposed to be about “Jesus and me;” it’s supposed to be about “Jesus and us,” in other words. 

The problem with that, however, is that if there isn’t any “Jesus and me” going on during Mass—that is, if there is no real communion happening between “Jesus and me”—then there is no “Jesus and us.”  There’s just “us.”  And that’s because of something the faithful have known since the first centuries of the Church; namely, that “the Eucharist makes the Church.”  The Eucharist makes the Church.  Without my personal communion with God, without your personal communion with God, without your neighbor’s personal communion with God, then there is no communion among “us”—there is no Church.

The Church is a communion—where the most basic commonality we share is our own personal communion with one and the same God.  My personal communion with God the Father makes me a son of God.  Your personal communion with God the Father makes you a son or daughter of God.  And we are, therefore, brothers and sisters in the one God.  We become the Church—because of our personal communion with the Lord.  The Eucharist makes the Church.  Without some “Jesus and me” going on during Communion, then there is no “Jesus and us.”  There’s just “us.”  And “we” alone don’t constitute a community of faith.

And so, to actually receive Communion is essentially to our life.  Without it we don’t exist.  Without communion, Jesus isn’t in the world.  Without real communion with God, the world becomes rather chaotic.  In our world, among other issues, there’s a “crisis of communion”—or lack of communion with God.  In the church, too (and you can put the parish in there), what is the root of many problems other than not being in real communion with God?                

Just think of all that God freely gives us—especially from the Holy Spirit: wisdom, understanding, counsel/guidance, fortitude, knowledge, piety, respect and awe of God.  Of course, then there are the fruits of those gifts: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. 

Where there’s lack of patience, where people are quick to judge, there’s lack of communion with God.  Where there is no love, no forgiveness, where there is mean-spiritedness, there’s lack of communion with God.  Where there’s no real peace or love, there’s lack of communion with God.  Without real communion with God, our life as Christians doesn’t really exist.  We simply eat and drink, we go through the motions, but we don’t “take it in;” we don’t “receive” Communion and all its good blessings.

Now, today, when our first communicants come up, you’ll notice something a little different.  They’re going to line up along the sanctuary steps, and I and the deacon will come to them.  And then, after “eating and drinking,” they’re going to kneel here on the steps.  We’re going to let them linger a bit here at the Altar of God, who invites them into communion with him—because communion shouldn’t be rushed.  And we’re going to ask God’s blessing upon them, that they truly receive him, and let him be their companion for life.

It's a special day for our 2^nd Graders.  But it’s also a special day for us, too (and every Sunday), because we’re also invited to receive Communion.  Maybe even for some of us, we’ll really be receiving Communion with God…for the first time.

Homily for 20/21 Apr 2019 Easter Vigil and Day

20/21 Apr 2019

Easter Vigil and Day

Throughout the Church year we hear and we celebrate a gargantuan story—the story of how God created everything, how humans turned away from God, and what God and humanity have done to find one another again.  It’s a massive story; we call it “the history of salvation” (or salvation history).  And it’s story that exists on the cosmic level.  It involves the material world, the spiritual world, and some other world that only God knows.  And it has so many characters in it, we can’t count that high.

There’s God, of course.  There’s Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, Abraham, Sarah, and Isaac.  There’s Moses and Pharoah, Joshua and the Canaanites, prophets both big and small: Isaiah, Ezekiel, Jeremiah.  There’s David and Solomon, Judith and Ruth, Esther and Hannah.  There’s Mary and Joseph, Herod and Pontius Pilate, the Wise Men from the East, the shepherds.  There’s the Apostles (even Judas), Mary and Martha, Mary Magdelene, Elizabeth and Zechariah.

Of course, we can’t forget about all the saints.  And then there’s every believer who’s ever lived.  There are the angels and the archangels, and the rest of the choirs of angels.  There’s the devil.  And there’s Jesus.  We could go on and on.  The number of characters in this massive story of salvation is beyond count. 

And the events that make up the plot of this story are also innumerable.  But some of them we highlight, and we celebrate them in an especially meaningful way.  Today we celebrate the event we know as the Resurrection of Jesus.  But it wouldn’t be quite right to think that, with the Resurrection, the story of salvation ended.  The end of the story doesn’t go: “And Jesus rose from the dead and everybody lived happily ever after.”  As we know, the story wasn’t over. 

Now, a challenge for us with the Resurrection (and with the whole history of salvation) is to not approach it as a spectator.  And that can be a challenge—partly because the Resurrection itself happened long ago, and so it’s outside our realm of experience; and partly because the Resurrection and all the events come before and after it require us to approach it with faith, with belief in the otherworldly, with belief in the “non-scientific” and the “non-rational.” 

In short, the Resurrection and the whole story of salvation demand that we open our minds and hearts to something that “the world” has been denying for at least the past few centuries.  And that something is the unbelievable, the fantastical, the divine.

In the early 80s (1984) a movie was released that’s called “The Neverending Story.”  If you’re over 40 you’ve probably heard of it.  It’s the story of a young boy named Bastian, who is challenged to believe the unbelievable.  He basically spends the movie reading a story book.  And as he reads he becomes more and more a part of the story.  And I’m sure any of you who’ve really been “taken” by a good book know the feeling. 

But as Bastian continues to read, he discovers that he’s getting to be a little too much a part of the story.  And it frightens him.  The characters in the book begin to speak to him—not metaphorically or psychologically, but really.  And he’s challenged to believe the unbelievable; to believe that the story isn’t “just a story,” but that it’s alive and real.  And at the end of the movie, Bastian realizes that if he doesn’t invest himself in that story—if he doesn’t let himself become a living part of that story—then the story...is done.

When we celebrate the Resurrection of Jesus, when we hear the story of salvation, when we get to know all the characters involved, and all the twists and turns of the plot...when we encounter this unbelievable story, we are faced with a challenge similar to Bastian.  Are we going to approach it as “just a story,” or as “just a historical event”? Do we see the story of salvation unfold as a...spectator?  Do we let the values of “the world” tell us what to think about the Resurrection?

Or do we throw caution to the wind, and believe the unbelievable?  Do we invest ourselves in the story?  Do we become part of that story?

For 2,000 years the story of Jesus, the story of faith and hope, the story of redemption and everlasting life and happiness has lived on—not in a dry and dusty book, but through the flesh-and-blood lives of every person who ever said (in their hearts), “I believe.”  All those people at the tomb that first Easter morning started to say that to themselves: “I believe.”  And God entered their minds and hearts, and they became living characters in the continuing story of salvation.

Now, in our world today, Christianity is on the decline.  Christian values, beliefs and practices.  Christian worship.  Faith, hope, and charity are losing their appeal to the human spirit.  Sacrifice is almost a forbidden word.  The story of salvation is going through a rather uncertain chapter right now.  Now, I’m sure the faith will continue on, and that the story will continue to be lived and unfold.  But that’s only going to happen if each of us invests ourselves into the story—the story of salvation, the story of the Resurrection, the story of God being born in a manger at Bethlehem, the story of the Apostles and how they were the foundation of Jesus’ band of disciples, the Church.

The world needs people—God needs people—who will invest their whole heart into the story; who will believe, and will live and breathe this incredible story of death and life.  It doesn’t do much good to celebrate the story today, and to put it back on the shelf tomorrow. 

And so, as we celebrate today a major event in that story, we are (each of us) challenged.  Am I going to invest myself into this story?  Can I see myself as an actual, living character is this story of salvation?  Or is it just another nice story, and tomorrow is “back to the usual”?

Homily for 19 Apr 2019 Good Friday

19 Apr 2019

Good Friday of the Lord’s Passion

You can point to a lot of reasons why Jesus was crucified.  He referred to God as his “Father,” which put him on the same level as God.  So he was crucified for blasphemy.  He broke several of the Jewish laws: the ritual purifications, the law against doing work on the Sabbath, speaking in a challenging tone to the high priest, and so on.  He went against some of the Roman laws; in particular, the law about recognizing Caesar as king. 

There were a lot of reasons why they had to get rid of Jesus.  He touched corpses and lepers, which was a big no-no.  He ate with sinners, prostitutes, tax collectors, and the like—he didn’t keep very good company.  He was even friendly with people on the outside, like the Samaritan woman.  So, there were many reasons—big and small—why Jesus was crucified.

But within all those reasons, there one especially important reason.  And that is: Jesus spoke and lived the truth.  We know Jesus died out of love.  But he also let himself be killed for the cause of truth.

Everything Jesus did, everything he said was true.  Love of God and love of neighbor is basic to God’s law.  And he was simply being true to that law.  When he referred to God as his “Father,” he was simply speaking the truth.  When he opposed Caesar as king, he was simply expressing the truth of matter: God is king, not Caesar.  Jesus was crucified for speaking and living the truth. 

Now, as we know, it can be hard to relate to the Cross.  And it can be hard to live out concretely what Jesus says: If anyone would be my disciple, they must pick up their cross and follow me.  What does that mean?  After all, the Cross is this big wooden thing in front of us.  Am I supposed to carry that?  What does Jesus mean by: “pick up the cross and follow me”? 

Well, the Passion and crucifixion of Jesus gives us a great example of how—concretely—we can do exactly that.  All we need to do is to follow his cue, and to speak and to live the truth.  If we do that—if we speak and live the truth—the cross will come to us.  It’ll come knocking on our door.

For example: You’re with a group of friends, and some of them start gossiping.  Well, you can simply say, “You know, I don’t wanna gossip about so-and-so.  Let’s talk about something else.”  Well, that’s living the truth of who you are as a Christian.  Of course, some of those friends might look at you and say, “What are you?  A Christian?”  There’s the cross knocking on your door.  And all you had to do was live the truth of who you are.

As a priest, I have several occasions to speak the truth of things (and, really, this is something every baptized person has occasion to do).  When someone in the community is running especially contrary to our values, I have to speak the truth there.  Of course, it causes some discontent.  And I can feel the weight of the cross; it’s definitely there.  And all I have to do is point out to someone: “You know, we don’t treat other people like this in the Church.  You need to stop.”  Speak the truth and the cross will come visit you; you won’t have to go looking for it.

But there’s a big difference between Jesus speaking and living the truth, and us speaking and living the truth.  And the difference is that Jesus himself is the truth; whereas we are not.  We can be faulty.  And so, for us, the cross doesn’t come only when we speak and live the truth.  It also comes when we’re on the receiving end of the truth.  And that’s a hard pill to swallow.  The truth makes us humble—whether or not we like it.

An example for us in the Church would be accepting the nature of the Church itself: it’s “Catholic,” it’s “universal,” it’s spread and shared in all parts of the world, open to every person from every culture and language, open to all people from every sort of background.  Its doors are wide open to anybody who desires to be and to live as a disciple of the Lord.  And that includes everybody and anybody.

It’s the “Catholic” Church, whether or not we like it.  And every leper and prostitute, every sinner and tax collector, every person whoever and whatever he or she is, is invited to be a disciple of the Lord, and to be a brother or sister in Christ.  And the truth of that can certainly be a cross for some people to wrestle with and accept.

One other example comes to us from the season of Lent.  As we know, Lent is a time of more intense self-reflection.  And, in that reflection, we might discover faults, mistakes, sins that we’re not proud of.  And coming face-to-face with that truth of our own “ugliness of soul,” can be a cross to bear.  But the cross can also be our attempts to correct those wrongs that we’ve done, and those failings that we’ve let slide through the years. 

Those words, “I’m sorry,” can be incredibly heavy to speak.  But, as Jesus teaches us, “the truth will [also] set you free.”  And with that, we see that not only the truth, but also the Cross will set us free.  The Resurrection of Jesus on Easter points back to the Cross; it affirms and validates the Cross as that which sets us free.  And so, like Jesus, we embrace the Cross—not for the sake of suffering, but for the sake of the truth.   

Jesus was crucified for speaking and living the truth.  If we want to follow him, if we want to “pick up our own cross,” then all we need to do is speak, live, and receive the truth: the truth of who we are, the truth about our faith, the truth about God, the truth about what’s right and important in the world....  You know...the truth.  We’ll be crucified for it, but that’s not bad: to carry the Cross, to die and rise with Jesus, all for the sake of what’s good and beautiful...and true.  No wonder we talk about the “glory of the Cross.”