Homily for 28 Feb 2017

28 Feb 2017

It never fails that, at Christmas and Easter, the churches are packed.  Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday and, again, we would expect the churches to be rather full.  And that’s fine; it’s good to see that many people remember what the heart of these seasons are, and they come to church to celebrate that.

However, the challenge for those who go to church all the time is to not think they’re better just because they go to church all the time.  We hear a lot in our readings today about sacrifice and offerings, following the law of God.  We Catholics even carry those sentiments on through our centuries of ritualistic tradition.  And they’re really rather beautiful traditions and rituals. 

The challenge, however, is to keep the ritual real and to offer a sacrifice acceptable to the Lord.  Sirach describes some of how that might look.  He says, “To refrain from evil pleases the Lord, and to avoid injustice is an atonement.”  Well, those are sacrifices: to refrain from evil and to avoid injustice—except those sacrifices are made within the heart.

Sirach also talks about having a generous spirit and a cheerful disposition in our giving.  Again, those are sacrifices made within the heart.  They aren’t necessarily things we see with our eyes in the course of our rituals.  But God sees them.  God sees our rituals; but he also sees into the heart and he knows what’s there.  He knows if we give the Sign of Peace, but yet in our heart we would wish ill on others.  He knows if we receive the Eucharist, but yet in our words and actions we live contrary to what the Eucharist stands for.

It’s a very great privilege to be called to worship God.  But the privilege is never a reason to boast.  For at the moment we boast in ourselves and our fidelity to our rituals and traditions, we empty our rituals and traditions of their meaning, and we become self-righteous.  And that’s the last thing we want to do, or to be.

Again, it’s a very great privilege to be called to worship God.  May we never lose sight of that; may we enjoy our life in God and a pure gift from God.  And when Easter and Christmas and Ash Wednesday come around, and the churches get filled, may our prayer be simply a prayer of thanks that God has called all these brothers and sisters to his altar.  A sacrifice of praise; a sacrifice of thanks from the heart.  That is a sacrifice pleasing to the Lord. 

  

Homily for 26 Feb 2017

26 Feb 2017

8^th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A

“You cannot serve both God and mammon.”  But this isn’t a commandment Jesus gives us; he’s not saying “You will not serve both God and mammon.”  He’s saying, “You are unable—it’s not possible—to serve both God and mammon.” 

Imagine walking along a path and you come to a fork in the road.  Now, you can straddle both paths for just a little bit, but pretty soon you’re going to have to choose one or the other.  If you want to keep moving forward, you have to pick one or the other.  “You cannot serve both God and mammon;” it’s not possible.  And if we try, we just end up dividing ourselves—in mind and spirit.

And this is something we experience when we really want to follow God but, at the same time, we want keep enjoying what we enjoy, even if it isn’t exactly what God has in mind for us.  And there’s a whole laundry list of things we could talk about: gossip, self-pity, addictions, gluttony, pride (and a lot more).  We know we shouldn’t do those things, or go down those paths; we know that they go against our Christian values of: charity, neighborliness, self-control, humility, and so on.  But we still keep at least a toe on those paths, don’t we.

And so, we can end up like Saint Paul who says, “I can will [and desire] what is right, but I cannot do it.  For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do” [Rom 7:19].  Paul could be a very divided man within himself.  And so can we, if we try to serve both God and mammon.

In the Mass, right after the Our Father, we pray that “we might be safe from all distress.”  And it’s the same prayer Jesus has for us in the gospel.  He says, in so many words, “Don’t worry about anything; don’t get anxious about this or that.  Don’t be overcome by distress.”  The word St. Matthew uses here for worry and anxiety is μεριμνᾶτε (merimnátay).  It’s an ancient Greek word that means to be “divided into parts,” to be pulled apart. 

And so, when we pray that “we might be safe from all distress,” we’re praying that we not be pulled apart . . . by trying to serve both God and mammon.  We’re praying that God keep us focused on the heart of the matter; that he keep us focused on who we are and what we’re about as Catholic Christians.  We’re praying that God keep us from getting distracted.

And we know that we humans can get distracted.  This seems to be what the little reading from Isaiah gets at.  God asks, “Can a mother forget her infant, be without tenderness for the child of her womb?”  And what we’re supposed to say is “Yes.”  It happens sometimes; just listen to the news.  But Isaiah continues, “Even should she forget, I [God] will never forget you.”  We humans get distracted from what’s important and true and good, but God is never distracted. 

God is very single-minded in his love of all creation, of which we are a part.  Even when we start to worry about this or that, and we turn from God to find reassurance and life in other things—even while we’re doing that, God is still looking at us; God is still focused on what and whom he loves.  He just wishes that we would stay focused on him in the same way, and be at peace within ourselves.

We heard it so beautifully in the psalm: “Only in God is my soul at rest; from him comes my salvation. He alone is my rock and my salvation, my stronghold; I shall not be disturbed at all.”  That’s the voice of someone who doesn’t try to straddle both paths in a fork in the road, but who goes down the one path of simply trusting God.  That person, who is not distracted, is not worried about the ups and downs of life, or what tomorrow holds.  That person is at peace within him- or herself—and is also the most alive and free.

And that’s the direction we want to go; we want to go down that path of being “not distracted,” but focused on the heart of the matter.  Now, ironically, in the church we worry about a lot of things.  We worry about death, and life, and the future, and the sins of our past.  We get anxious about: money, budgets, worship, politics, fewer and fewer priests, and so on.  We worry a lot.  But all that worry and anxiety and distress only distracts us from what’s important; namely, God.

Prayer is at the heart of our Christian life, not a revenue and expense report.  Love of neighbor is at the heart of our Christian life, not “who said what to whom, and what side of an issue they’re on.”  God’s plans are at the heart of our Christian life, and not my own. 

You know, when we compare our own church (here in the US) to so many megachurches that are all over the place, a major difference is that at the heart of the megachurch is the desire to encounter God; whereas at the heart of our church life, too often there’s just an ongoing argument over church politics or finances, or whatever.  God is in the heart of our church, for sure, but so is a lot of other stuff that shouldn’t be there.  We worry a lot.  We worry too much.  And all that anxiety and distress doesn’t leave much room for God.

Jesus was right when he said, “You cannot serve both God and mammon—you cannot give all your attention to God and all your attention to other things at the same time.”  We have to choose.  And it’s a choice we make every day, even every hour of the day.  It’s a choice to let God be the foundation, and the highpoint, and the peace within our life.  But it’s always a choice—to go down the path of worry and anxiety and distress, or the path of simply trusting God and being at peace and free. 

You cannot serve both God and mammon.  Regardless of the choice we make today, we can always make a better one tomorrow.  No need to worry about that. 

Homily for 24 Feb 2017

24 Feb 2017

Jesus says (in the Gospel of John 15:15), “I have called you friends, because everything I have learned from my Father I have made known to you.”  Jesus shares himself with us completely: his wisdom, his compassion, his words of truth, his unconditional love and acceptance.  He’s totally honest with us about the reality of the cross in our lives, but also about what waits on the other side of the cross: heaven.

Jesus is a truest of friends to us.  And, as we hear in Sirach this morning, “A faithful friend is beyond price, no sum can balance his worth.”  The friendship of Jesus is beyond price.  But, again, as Sirach tells us, “He who fears God (who pays attention to God) behaves accordingly, and his friend will be like himself.”  In other words, friendship with the Lord goes both ways.

Jesus shares himself with each of us.  He is the truest of friends to us.  But, do we share ourselves with him?  Do we tell him our joys and struggles?  Do we walk with him by our side and in our hearts?  Are we open and honest with him?  Jesus came down from heaven to lift us up: are we letting him do that for us? 

Jesus is the best of friends to us.  The question always is, however, can we be a better friend to Jesus?  And, if so, how?  Jesus is a friend to us.  Are we a friend to Jesus?

Homily for 23 Feb 2017

23 Feb 2017

(School Mass)

Jesus says to “keep salt in yourselves and you will have peace with one another.”  And when he says “salt” he means just regular salt—like what we put on our food.  And the reason he says this is because, a long time ago, when people would sit down and eat a meal together, the salt they used all came from the same bowl.  They would “pass the salt” around.  And so, sharing the salt was a symbol of their friendship with each other.

That’s why Jesus says to “keep salt in yourselves and you will have peace with one another.”  And, you know, this is basically what happens here at Mass and with the Eucharist.  Now, we don’t pass a bowl of salt around.  But, we do pass

something else around—the Body and the Blood of Christ. 

And there’s only one Christ.  He’s the one “thing” we all share.  Just think about it: When communion is done, there’s a little bit of Jesus inside each of us.  And so, when you look at your friend or your neighbor, or even somebody here you don’t know, you can say, “That person has Jesus inside them—the same Jesus who’s inside of me.”

And that affects how we treat each other because then we see each other as friends, as brothers and sisters in Christ.  Jesus said, basically, to “share a bowl of salt with each other and you will have peace.”  And we would also say, “Keep Jesus in yourselves, see Jesus in each other, share Jesus with others, and you will have peace with one another.”    

Homily for 22 Feb 2017

22 Feb 2017

Feast of the Chair of Saint Peter

From its beginnings, the Church has been a hierarchy.  Christ is Head and Shepherd, of course.  But, still, to some people he gives the responsibility of being a shepherd, teacher, and guide for others.  It’s a distinguishing mark of the Church: that there’s always somebody else who is responsible for us; somebody else who’s always keeping watch over the flock.

In Peter’s letter from today, he gives some advice and counsel to his fellow shepherds.  He cautions them against being distracted from their task.  He reminds them not to “lord it over those assigned” to them but, instead, to be an example.  And, finally, he encourages them to be ever mindful of Christ the chief Shepherd.

No matter who we are and what our role is in the Church—whether it’s as a shepherd or as one of the sheep—there’s always somebody “over us,” somebody trying to guide us to Christ.  And we need to pray for those people: priests, bishops, the pope.  We need to keep them in prayer, hoping that Christ will shepherd them, and that they will allow themselves to be shepherded by Christ, so that, in turn, they will shepherd the flock along the right path.

There’ll always be some shepherd looking out for us.  But we can also look out for our shepherds, and keep them and their ministry in prayer.

Homily for 21 Feb 2017

21 Feb 2017

Once again, the gospel—the “good news”—leaves a bad aftertaste.  First, he tells his disciples that he’s going to be eventually killed.  And then he highlights, again, the importance of welcoming the lowly and, indeed, becoming one of them.  The gospel oftentimes flies right in the face of what we think is important.  And so, sometimes it’s hard to see the “good news” in the good news.

But the deeper direction Jesus is trying to take us is the direction of commitment.  This past weekend, we heard about how the Christian commitment to love is what sets us apart in the world; the commitment makes us holy, and God’s brand of love is what moves the world in a positive direction.  And so, the “good news” behind the bad aftertaste in today’s gospel is that Jesus is encouraging us to be loving people—ahead of everything else.  And the good news is that our God knows we can do it.  Our God has faith in us . . . if we have faith in him.

And to be loving is hard work sometimes.  It means that, sometimes, somebody else’s wants and needs are more important than our own.  It means that, sometimes, we need to set aside our own cleverness so that God can do his thing.  It means looking into a neighbor’s eyes, into a stranger’s eyes, and simply welcoming him or her; being curious about those around us, and letting their love mold and shape us. 

To actually be loving is hard work and, let’s face it, it can be scary.  That’s the bad aftertaste of the gospel.  Love has a price.  But the price is worth it because, in the end, the only thing we’ll be left with—for all eternity—is love.  And that is good news.   

Homily for 19 Feb 2017

19 Feb 2017

7^th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A

If you were to ask a random person to describe the Catholic Church, chances are they’d mention things like: the pope and bishops, the rules, the rituals, the rules, and they might make a face or something like that.  When people hear about the “Church,” they oftentimes think of the institution first.  And everything else is secondary, things like: the community of believers, and the gospel, and love.

And that’s actually rather tragic, because love is what we’re all about (or, at least, it’s what we’re supposed to be all about).  Love should be the Church’s defining characteristic.  If you were to ask a random person to describe the Catholic Church, the first thing that should come to mind for them is, “Ah, that’s those people who know how to love.  From the pope to the bishop to all the faithful, that’s those people who know what love is.”  Of course, in reality, that’s probably the last thing you’d hear someone say.

That’s not to say there aren’t loving Catholics around; there are lots of them around—wonder people; people who visit the sick, who try to encourage others when they’re going through a tough time; people who are humble, who are ready to listen and learn and be awed by the world around them; people who are forgiving, who are slow to anger, who are kind and merciful, like the Lord.

And there are perhaps just as many Catholics who would rather not be loving, for whatever reasons.  The Church really is a mixed bag.  But that’s who Jesus calls to be our neighbors, isn’t it.  He calls everybody to himself: sinners and saints, people getting on the right track, people falling off the wagon, people who are loving, people who are less than loving.  When God gives that commandment to “Love your neighbor as yourself,” he’s telling us to love everybody in the mix, not just the ones we like.

At Easter time when I’m eating Jelly Beans, when I’m done there’s usually a little bunch of black ones left sitting there—because I don’t like the way they taste.  Well, if humanity is like that bag of Jelly Beans, Jesus would say, “Make sure there’s not a pile of black ones left.  Eat ‘em all, not just the ones you like.”

Imagine for a second, picture in your mind, someone who just annoys you; someone who just gets under your skin, and gives you about as much happiness as the thought of going to the dentist for a root canal.  Put that person in your mind for just a second . . . Now there’s your black Jelly Bean!  That’s the one God is talking about when he says, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

Love can be a beautiful thing.  It can also be a major pain.  But what sets us Christians apart is that we go right into that pain and we love those who are the hardest to love.  All humans have the capacity to love; after all, we’re all made in the image of God who is love.  But we Christians pledge to actually do it; to intentionally love others as best we can, following the example of Christ. 

That’s what sets us apart in the world; it’s what makes us holy.  To be holy is to be set apart; to be distinct.  The items we use here at Mass—the Chalice, the Paten, the vestments, the buildings, the music—they’re all holy.  They’re set apart, and used only for Mass.  And we come here to Mass for several reasons, one of which is to be made holy.  When we leave Mass, we should be a little different than when we came in.  We should leave here more committed to our Christian calling, the call (and the command) to love our neighbors as ourselves.  That commitment to love—even when love is a pain—is what makes us a holy people.  The commitment to love sets us apart.

And the commitment is worth it.  Life is so much better when there’s peace, when you can work through difficulties, come to a resolution, and then get on with living again.  And that’s what most people want: We just want to live.  We don’t every day to be a trial and a burden and a headache; we just want to live and be free.  Happily, God wants the same thing for us; after all, Jesus came so that we “might have life, life in abundance.”  He came to set us free.

And life and freedom start with that basic Christian commitment to “Love your neighbor as yourself.”  Of course, the challenge is to make that love a reality and not just a nice idea.  And that is a challenge, for sure.  But Saint Paul offers us some help with that.

He writes, “Brothers and sisters: Do you not know that you are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?”  Every believing Christian, from the pope to the most obscure sinner, is a temple of the Holy Spirit of God.  And not only that: every person is a creation of God.  That black Jelly Bean?  He or she is a temple of God; God is within that person really and truly.  That’s reason enough to love that person.

Saint Paul continues, “If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy that person; for the temple of God, which you are, is holy.”  When Jesus got out his whip and cleansed the Temple in Jerusalem, he was a little perturbed.  God does not like his temple to be treated with disrespect; he demands that our lives be characterized by love.  He didn’t say, “Well, if you’re feeling generous and things are going your way, then why don’t you try to love your neighbor.”  No, he says pretty plainly, “You shall—you will—love your neighbor as yourself.”  You will respect my temples—your neighbor and yourself who are my dwelling places.

Saint Paul cautions against choosing sides and picking favorites.  He writes, “Let no one boast about human beings, for everything belongs to you, Paul or Apollos or Cephas, or the world or life or death, or the present or the future: all belong to you, and you to Christ, and Christ to God.”  Our neighbors—and, really, everything that is—is part of us.  It’s as we talked about in the homily last weekend: our lives are necessarily intertwined with everybody else’s. 

For instance, if we hold a grudge, we’re only hurting ourselves.  It’s often said that when we hold a grudge, it’s like drinking poison and expecting the other person to get sick.  Grudges and resentments only cheat us from experiencing life and freedom.  And while we’re being held down by our own unforgiveness and mercilessness, our neighbors are unable to get to know us.  It’s hard to get to know somebody in prison because . . . they’re in prison.

Saint Paul is basically saying that, in order to be fully alive as human beings, we have to be open to our neighbors and the world around us.  We have to love it all, because it’s all part of us.  It just comes with the territory of being the one Body of Christ, the Church.  And it goes for families and friends, too.  It goes for our country as well.  Our lives are necessarily intertwined, and so, we rise and fall together.  If love is our basic philosophy, we’ll be just fine.  But if we’re unable to love—especially the black Jelly Beans in our lives—well, then it’s going to be tough road. 

Saint Paul is basically saying, “Don’t pick and choose who you’re going to love, because whenever you love your neighbor (if your neighbor rejects that love) you will be a more complete person, you will have more freedom and life, you will be a more authentic Christian for having loved.”

And so, we love our neighbors because they are temples of God—no ifs, ands, or buts about it.  We love our neighbors because they’re part of us; we share the same life.  And we love our neighbors because that’s what Christ does.  If we’re going to call ourselves followers of Christ, then loving our neighbors is not an option.  Love of neighbor must be our defining characteristic.

If you were to ask someone to describe you, what would they say?  Would they know you as a loving person? a forgiving person? a generous person? someone who is quick to listen and slow to judge?   Would they see the Spirit of God dwelling within you?