Homily for 10 Feb 2016 Ash Wed.

10 Feb 2016

Ash Wednesday

In the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless wasteland, and darkness covered the abyss, while a mighty wind swept over the waters.  The God said, “Let there be light;” and there was light.  And he called the light “day,” and the darkness “night.” 

And God created the skies above, and the depths of the oceans below.  And there in the sky were the two great lights: the sun to rule in the day, and the moon in the night.  And below was the fertile ground called “earth.”  And God brought forth every kind of vegetation from the earth: fruit trees and budding things in abundance.

And the waters of the sea churned with countless numbers of living creatures; and birds swooped and flew in the skies.  From the earth, God brought more creatures: cattle, creeping things, and animals of all kinds.  And God looked at all he had made and saw that is was good.  But then on the sixth day, God said: “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.”  And so, God formed man out of the clay of the earth, and blew into his nostrils the breath of life, and so man became a living being.

But God didn’t wish man to be alone, so he put him into a sleep.  And from the man’s side he created woman.  God looked upon his entire creation, then, and saw that it was “very good.”  On the seventh day, God, man and woman, and all creation rested in peace and joy.  Humanity and God were naked before each other, and there was no shame.

At the start of Lent, it’s good to remember where we came from . . . and where we’re going.  It helps us to understand why we put ashes on our forehead, and why we spend more time in prayer, and fasting, and almsgiving, and why we do penance.  We came from God, and were born into . . . paradise.  And God laid before us a beautiful vision; a vision of eternal friendship with him and all those who are good, true, and beautiful.

We started out on the right foot.  And we have God to thank for that.  But then, somewhere along the way, we took a wrong turn—many wrong turns in life.  And now, who knows where we’re going in life—except back to the earth from where we came: “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.”  But, you know, even though we’re all sinners, and we’ve each damaged our relationships with God and each other . . . even though we have done that (and still do that), God remains merciful and faithful.

God hasn’t given up on us.  He’s destined us for greatness!  He’s made us to be good, and true, and beautiful—even to the point of sharing his divine nature in heaven.  And that’s why he sent his Son to us—to “save” us, to bring us back to his bosom—to be totally honest with him and each other . . . without shame. 

And so, Lent is both a hopeful time and a time of sorrow.  Of course, God’s mercy is what gives us hope; our sins and failings do not have the final word—God’s mercy does.  And so, Lent is a time of hope.  But it’s also a time of sorrow and tears and frustration because we know we can be so much more; we know can be so much better.  God doesn’t lay a guilt trip on us to make us feel bad.  Instead, he pokes at our conscience and says: “You know you want to be a better person; after all, you’re the spittin’ image of . . . me.  You know you want to make some changes in life . . . so make them, and set things right again.”

At the last prayer we have for Mass today, we’re going to ask God to give us a “spirit of compunction.”  And that’s what “compunction” is: it’s God poking at our conscience, and giving us a feeling of real sorrow and regret for our sins—for our choices and habits that have steered us away from God and our destiny.  There’s no guilt involved in that “spirit of compunction;” just the sad (or tearful) realization that we can be so much more, so much better as sons and daughters of God.  We’ve let God down.  We’ve let others down . . . and ourselves.

And, you know, Lent would be pretty dreary if there weren’t any hope.  But there is hope.  God doesn’t shame us into oblivion; instead, he offers us forgiveness, mercy, and love.  That’s the kind of God we have.  He says to us: “Go and set things right.”  And we understand that.  You know, if we hurt somebody, what do we say?  We say: “I’m so sorry.  Please, let me make it up to you; I’m sorry, let me set things right.”

And that’s why we pray, and fast, and give alms.  That’s why we do penance and ask God and others for forgiveness.  They’re all ways we can “set things right again.”  But the Lord asks us to “set things right again” in a particular way. 

We first hear about it in the Prophet Joel when he says: “Rend your hearts, not your garments.”  In other words, pour out—gush out—all the messy intimacy of your soul and mind to God; rip open your heart to him, as he has ripped open his heart and body for you.  Share with God what’s on your mind and in your heart.  Do it in prayer.  Write to God in journal or a diary.  Tell God in the Sacrament of Reconciliation.  “Rend your hearts,” the Prophet says, to “set things right.”

But then Jesus clarifies it even more when he talks about prayer, fasting, and almsgiving.  “When you pray, go to your inner room, close the door, and pray to your Father in secret.”  “When you give alms, don’t make a big show of it.”  “When you fast, anoint your head and wash your face, so that you may not appear to be fasting, except to your Father who is hidden.”  Setting things right—making up for our sins, and showing to God we’re trying to get back on the right track is largely . . . a personal thing.  It happens in the intimacy of our relationships with God and with each other.

Now, in a little bit we’re going to have ashes put on our forehead.  And perhaps the most important thing you can do with those ashes is to look in the mirror and say to yourself and God: “I’m a sinner.  But I can be better with your help, God.  And so, help me.”  And then wash the ashes off, so as to not make a public show of it all, and then get to the work of “setting things right” with God and each other.

The spirit of Lent is summed up by the Prophet Joel: “Return to the Lord, your God.”  But it’s a call that began way back at the start of creation.  And it’s a call we hear from ahead us, too; from God on the other side of heaven: “Return to me, my beloved children,” he says.  “Return to me.”  And, in that, he’s saying not only “Return to him,” but also “return to your true self.”  God has made us in his image, and destined us for greatness; for goodness and truth and beauty of heart.  

On this Ash Wednesday, let’s ask God for that “spirit of compunction,” and begin the work of setting things right again . . . with each other, and with our God.

Homily for 9 Feb 2016

9 Feb 2016

“Tradition” is such a maligned thing today.  Some people would point to today’s gospel as a sign that “tradition” is totally contrary to the message of Jesus.  For them, anything “traditional” is just hopelessly on the wrong path.  On the flip side, of course, are the modern-day Pharisees among us who are obsessed with the “letter of the law.”  For them, “tradition” is somewhat of a god—inviolable, unchangeable.

You know, so often, we talk about hymns as “traditional” church music.  And then we talk about guitars and piano as “modern” church music.  But, really, so much of that “guitar and piano” music we’ve been singing since the 1980s or so has become . . . traditional.  And—strangely enough—a very great number of our “traditional” hymns haven’t been passed on for at least a couple generations.  A lot of hymns aren’t “traditional” anymore . . . they’re simply fading away.

But, you know, that’s actually a sign of a living tradition; customs and practices are born . . . and they also fade away, to be replaced by new practices.  And that’s a healthy thing—to a degree.  But even as customs and practices come and go, what they’re passing along remains unchanged.  It’s kind of like a ball float atop the water.  The ball remains the same . . . but the water moves and changes, and carries the ball along. 

What remains unchanging for us is the Law of God, the Love of God, the Revelation of God.  That’s the “ball” on the water.  And the “water” is like all our human traditions that come and go; they change, but they carry the unchanging truth from one generation to the next.  And this is the kind of “tradition” Jesus wants—one that’s both stable and very fluid.

And so, we don’t want to throw out the idea of “tradition”—after all, the rock-solid truth and beauty of our God is at the core of “tradition.”  But, on the other hand, we don’t want to get so married to our customs and practices that they become a god themselves.  Jesus asks us today, simply, to remember the fluidity of our human life and customs . . . and the solidness of God’s life and unchanging Law of Love.

May our human traditions open us to God.  And may God be the beginning and end of all our efforts.    

Homily for 5 Feb 2016

5 Feb 2016

Memorial of St Agatha, Martyr

It’s a perennial image in human history: A powerful leader who makes things happen by strength.  But that’s just an image.  Hitler was powerful, but he wasn’t strong.  Saddam Hussein was powerful, but he wasn’t strong either.  Thugs and murderers and rapists are powerful, but none of them are strong.  They’re all like Herod: powerful, but very weak.

After all, they have no resistance to temptation; they fall prey to the influence of the devil quite easily.  They live in fear: they’re always afraid of losing power.  And they’re constantly on edge that somebody else is going to overthrow them.  The image of a powerful leader who makes things happen by strength is just . . . an image.  They’re really very weak.

But the martyrs, well they’re just the opposite.  They appear to be weak, but they act and they live with strength—even supernatural strength.  John the Baptist is an obvious example: there he was in prison—defenseless, weak.  But I imagine the executioner lopped his head off so quickly because John freely handed over his head . . . with strength of faith.  Something similar could be said of St Agatha, a young woman who accepted torture and mutilation—not because she was weak, but because she was strong in mind and heart.

The executioners and the tortures have long since died, and their names are forgotten.  But John the Baptist, Agatha, and all the martyrs and saints who lived and died with strength . . . they continue to live on.  Their names are remembered.  They were not powerful people, but they were strong . . . strong in their faith in God’s abiding care. 

Whenever we’re tempted to think we’re too weak, that’s the time to embrace our weakness and say to the Lord: I need you.  That’s the time to sing our psalm today: “The Lord live!  And blessed be my Rock!  Extolled be God my savior.”  Praise be to God who makes the strong weak . . . and the weak strong.  

Homily for 4 Feb 2016

4 Feb 2016

One reason we remember our history is that it gives us a sense of identity and belonging.  We might look at our family history, or the parish history.  Maybe the history of America and what it means to be an American.  Or we might look at the first disciples and Apostles as a reminder of who we are as Christians.

Jesus summoned them and sent them.  And they did wonderful and good things—not by their own power, but by Christ who lived in their minds and souls.  And that’s fundamentally who we are.  We, too, are summoned by Christ.  We let him into our minds and hearts.  And he sends us out.

But, you know, the world has changed.  We’re still a people sent on mission; but the mission field has changed—dramatically.  Two thousand years ago nobody had ever heard of Jesus.  Today, however, his name is all over the place . . . and the name of Jesus carries a lot of baggage.

Just think of all the killings—past and present—done “in the name of God.”  Think of how Jesus’ name has been tarnished by, say, Christian Fundamentalists, or by Christian hypocrites who judge others and condemn others and say they’re going to hell . . . all in the name of Jesus.  And how many friends or family members do we know who’ve been shamed or put down by a well-meaning, but very misdirected Christian . . . and have written off God and the Church because of it? 

The very name of Jesus carries a lot of baggage—but it’s the name and the person we’re entrusted to share with others.  And that underscores the importance of being an authentic disciple of Christ; a disciple who speaks and acts on his behalf . . . from a place of humility and prayer.  A disciple who speaks and acts with gentleness, with truth, with compassion.  If we fail to represent Jesus faithfully, people should reject us and the message we bring—because it isn’t Christ we bring; it’s something else.

We’re very much like the Apostles: summoned and sent.  And even though we have an uphill climb, we can still do good things . . . by being authentic disciples of Jesus—just like our ancestors, the Apostles.

Homily for 3 Feb 2016

3 Feb 2016

Without faith, God can’t do too much.  The people there in the synagogue not only didn’t have faith in Jesus—they were offended by him.  And so, Jesus could only cure a few sick people—even though he could’ve cured a lot more.  And King David, by calling for a census, was putting more faith in the power of an army than in God.  Ironically, the thing David put faith in was partially destroyed by God.  Without faith—in God, God can’t do too much.

And that’s a hard lesson to learn, for sure.  You know, with all the abuses against human dignity and innocence in the world, it’s hard to have faith in God when our prayers for peace and justice seem to go unanswered.  But to that, God says: “Have faith.” 

When a loved one is ill, and the sickness is getting worse instead of better, we might wonder why God doesn’t hear our prayers.  Or we might think of the parish and the Church in general.  “God, help your people,” we pray.  But, again, God says: “Have faith.  I can’t do anything if you don’t have faith."

And so, today, let’s renew (again) our commitment to be a people of faith . . . because with faith, God can work in us, and through us, to be his presence in the world.

Homily for 2 Feb 2016

2 Feb 2016

Feast of the Presentation in the Temple

God is always moving from “promise” to “fulfillment;” God promises and God fulfills those promises.  And the Presentation of the Lord in the Temple is a fulfillment of that promise, that prophecy we heard from Malachi: “And suddenly there will come to the temple the Lord whom you seek.”  The Lord’s coming is even foreseen, somewhat, in the psalms.  Psalm 24 refers to him as “the king of glory:” strong and mighty, mighty in battle. 

But, perhaps, the people of God didn’t think “the king of glory” would come in so little and ordinary a package as an infant.  There he was, the Lord, the awaited Messiah, coming to his Temple . . . and next to no one noticed.  There was Simeon and the prophetess, Anna; they recognized him.  But that seems to have been it.  God fulfilled his promise . . . but not quite as everyone expected.

And then we think of the promises Jesus has made to us.  Among them, he said: “I am with you always, until the end of the age.”  God made a promise to his faithful people.  The question is: How is fulfilling that promise?  We know he is.  But how is he doing it?

Well, if learn anything from our ancestors in the faith, it’s that we shouldn’t put too much stock in our own expectations.  If we’re looking for God to do something for us, he may do it in a completely different way than we expect.  And so, what seems best, but to be open to . . . anything.

Jesus says: “This is my Body.  This is my Blood.”  Okay, we’ll go with it.  Our human senses fail to understand that, but we’ll believe him.  It looks like ordinary bread; looks like ordinary wine.  But if that’s how Jesus wants to fulfill his promise, we’re open to it.  And then Jesus says: “When you helped the least of my brothers and sisters, you helped me.”  Ok, so Jesus is presented to us through the poor and the poor in spirit.

His glory is presented to us . . . in creation, in the innocence of a child, in the love between friends, in the correction made by a parent or teacher.  Jesus promised to be with us always; he promised—in effect—to make his Presentation at the Temple last until the end of time.  And we are that Temple—temples of the Holy Spirit.  Our Lord comes to us; he fulfills his promises.  But will we recognize him?  Will we accept him with open arms in whatever way he comes to us?  Will we be satisfied with that little, understated package of delight which is our Lord?  Or are we waiting for something . . . more like what we expect?

Homily for 1 Feb 2016

1 Feb 2016

People don’t respond to Jesus (or Christianity) in the same way; that’s obvious.  Just go out into public and start talking about Jesus, and you’re probably going to get a nice variety of reactions.  Some people might just look at you weird, and keep walking by.  Others might stop and have a friendly conversation.  And for some people, it might set off an explosion of annoyance and disdain.  People don’t respond to Jesus in a uniform way.

And we see this in the gospel.  There’s Jesus, doing his thing, exorcising a demon from somebody, and then letting the demons possess a herd of swine instead, which ends up drowning in the sea.  Who could be bothered by that?  He’s doing a good thing. 

Of course, the owner of all those pigs might be annoyed.  And the people there in the countryside, living a relatively peaceful life, were suddenly disturbed.  They were “fearful” and, essentially, told Jesus to leave them alone—“Stop disturbing the peace!”  Even the person possessed by the demon might have been disappointed with Jesus.  After all, he begged Jesus to let him follow him.  And Jesus said no.

But, in the midst of all that, Jesus just keeps going.  And, with that, he gives us an example to follow.  When we stumble and sin, or when those demons of self-doubt and hopelessness creep in, we keep going—not by our own power, but by the power of the Lord.  He is, after all, the Lord of heaven and earth, the Lord of the skies and the sea . . . the Lord of all.