Let us go also to die with him.

Homily: Palm Sunday – Cycle A

“Let us also go to die with him.”  These were the words of Thomas the Apostle from last Sunday’s Gospel reading.  You’ll recall that it was the recounting of the miraculous raising of Lazarus from the dead.  Lazarus, who with his sisters, Martha and Mary, was a great friend of Jesus’, fell ill and died.  Martha and Mary had sent word to Jesus that he might come and cure him (for surely, as great friends of Jesus, Jesus would come quickly to heal him).  Jesus, however, delays and Lazarus dies.  It is only then that Jesus turns to go to Bethany, announcing to his disciples that Lazarus’ death will be for God’s glory and so that he, the Son of God, would be glorified, too.  Thomas—the one whom we often deride as the “doubter”—is quick to believe what Jesus has said and courageously announces that he, too, is ready to go and to die so that God might be glorified and Jesus, too, might be glorified.

When he and his fellow disciples, along with Martha and Mary and the Jews who were accompanying them in their grief, saw Lazarus—the man who was surely dead after spending four days in the tomb—walk out alive, he, along with them, must have had a profound sense that he was part of something big: something, perhaps, that he couldn’t quite comprehend at that moment.  Then, some time later, when he and the other disciples accompanied Jesus as he made his triumphal entry into Jerusalem, I imagine that he looked with wonder and delight as great crowds of people acclaimed Jesus as the Messiah.  Perhaps for him and his fellow disciples, it was the final confirmation that he was, indeed, part of something big—the biggest, in fact: the definitive restoration of the throne of David, their great king, and the ushering in of God’s eternal kingdom.

Soon after, however, their assurance would begin to wane as they came to know that not everyone in Jerusalem was convinced that Jesus was the Messiah.  The religious elite, in fact, were so unconvinced that Jesus was the Messiah that they were plotting ways to arrest Jesus and put him to death for the sin of blasphemy.  Thus, by Holy Thursday night, the joyful, triumphant spirit of Sunday had turned into a spirit of tension and uncertainty, which then would quickly transform into a spirit of shock, fear, and grief as Jesus was arrested, condemned, tortured, and crucified.

As we recount the Passion of our Lord today, we see this kind of rapid change in spirit in Jesus.  We can imagine the excitement, the joy in Christ’s heart as he entered Jerusalem to the shouts of “Hosanna” from the great crowds.  We can imagine him feeling very energized by this display.  Then, as the events of Holy Thursday night unfold, we find Jesus’ spirit turn and he becomes emptier and passive.

Jesus “emptied himself”, Paul says in his letter to the Philippians, and he took “the form of a slave.”  Typically, a slave is someone who is very passive and who will often speak as if he has no voice of his own.  Multiple times in this account from the Gospel, we heard Jesus respond as he was pressed to give an answer: when Judas asked if he would be the betrayer, when Caiaphas ordered Jesus to say whether he was the Messiah, and when Pilate asked whether he was the king of the Jews.  In each, Jesus said, passively, “You have said so,” instead of directly responding to their questions.  In fact, most everything in this account of Jesus’ Passion is showing us how completely Jesus emptied himself, making himself a slave, and becoming obedient even to the point of the most shameful kind of death: death on a cross.

Friends, every year Lent is a time in which we are called to “empty ourselves”.  This year, we’ve been called to an emptying that, perhaps, we never imagined.  A spirit that I’ve had to fight in the last couple of days has been the spirit of “let’s just get this over with”.  This is a bad spirit.  Bad because it causes us to step out of the present and into a future that isn’t yet real.  But God isn’t in the future.  God is here, right now, in this mess with us; and he wants to encounter every turbulent emotion that you are experiencing so as to speak into them: “Do not be afraid, I am with you”.

Friends, if you heard my homily from the first Sunday of Lent (remember? way back when “normal” was still normal?) you'll remember that I said that the physical discomforts that we voluntarily embrace during Lent—that is, the things we enjoy that we give up or the things that we do not enjoy that we take up—are meant to create a space in us in which we can encounter our spiritual discomforts: mainly, the realization that we are not yet fully the disciples of Jesus that he has called us to be.  Our challenge this week, therefore, is to embrace the words of Thomas the Apostle: “Let us go also to die with him.”  Friends, let us let go of our anxiety to wrest control over this situation and instead empty ourselves, like slaves, and bear the cross of this pandemic in solidarity with our brothers and sisters throughout the world; and let us go also with Jesus to die with him, so that we might glorify God—and be glorified by him—on the day of Resurrection.

Given at Saint Mary’s Cathedral: Lafayette, IN – April 5^th, 2020

Trust in God in times of distress

Homily: 3^rd Sunday in Lent – Cycle A

It’s news to no one here that the “novel coronavirus” has upended our lives and is causing great deals of distress.  Distress about individual health, anxiety about the uncertainty of how this virus will spread and if we’ll be able to contain it.  Distress about how to deal with the “novel” situations of having kids home from school for an extended period of time, of providing care for them, of providing food for them, and of facing any financial insecurity because we either must take time off of work or spend unbudgeted money on caregivers.  Distress, finally, (and possibly especially) about whether or not our healthcare system is equipped to respond to widespread exposure.  The number of you who are NOT here today is a sign that this distress is affecting all of us.

This distress is not unlike the distress that the Israelites were experiencing as they began their journey in the desert after being liberated from Egypt.  After having emerged triumphantly from the Red Sea, they set out towards the land that God had promised to give them (the Promised Land, in which they would live free from slavery).  A couple of days into that journey, however, (led, as they were by the cloud in the day and fire by night), having seen no water and with no signs of any ahead, they all begin to experience distress.  Insecurity always gives birth to anxiety and being without something as necessary as water for more than a day is certain to heighten one’s sense of insecurity.  It’s no surprise, then, that these folks begin to cry out to Moses, God’s point man leading them on this journey.

This journey was not only practical, however, but rather catechetical also.  The practical was to get them out of Egypt and into a land in which they could live as a free society.  In the absence of trains, buses, or planes, a journey on foot was necessary.  The catechetical, however, was to teach them complete reliance on God and his providential care for them.  In other words, the catechetical journey was to increase and solidify their trust in God alone.  Thus, the way that they followed from the Red Sea was a way on which there was no water.  God, through Moses, then provided them water in a miraculous way, just as he had already provided them with food in the form of manna and quail.  Through this, God shows himself worthy of their faith.  They were in distress, the called out to God, and God responded.

The Samaritan woman whom Jesus encounters at the well is also someone who learns to put her faith in God, but in a different manner.  She was not necessarily looking for help, but the details of this story indicate that she was certainly in distress.  She came to the well at midday: the time when, because of the midday heat, no one else went to the well.  In other words, she was avoiding others.  She encounters Jesus there and he reveals his knowledge of her and her life.  She has had five husbands and is living with someone to whom she isn’t married.  Women couldn’t live on their own at that time and if a woman was married and divorced, she couldn’t return to her father’s house and so would either have to marry again or would end up destitute.  We can’t know for sure, but it seems like this woman may have struggled to be in a stable marriage, but continued to seek it out so that she wouldn’t become destitute.  She certainly would have been looked down upon in that society and so she worked to avoid contact with others.

This day, however, she encounters Jesus, who peers into her soul and speaks to her in a way that opens her eyes and lets her see that relief from this distress is possible.  In other words, he helps her to see that there is hope for her on this journey, that the promises of the God of the Israelites could be fulfilled, and that even the Samaritans—even she, herself—could receive their benefits.  Her life was out of order, but her encounter with Jesus gave her supernatural hope that God was leading even her to freedom from this distress.  Her response was to go off and tell of what she learned to all of the people in the village.  Let that sink in for a moment: before her encounter with Jesus, she wanted to avoid all contact with the people of her village.  Now, she goes to them to share what she learned.  This is a person who has found hope and who has placed her trust in God and in his promises.

Our newly Elect, who will now intensely prepare for baptism at the Easter Vigil, are on this same journey.  Over these next three weekends, they will be called to encounter Jesus through what is called the rite of scrutiny, in which they will be challenged to see their lives, disordered as they have been by sin, and encounter the hope that, through Jesus, they can be set free from this disorder and receive all of the blessings that God has promised to those who are united to him.  Having encountered this hope, they will be exhorted to put their faith in God and to follow the path to holiness that has been laid out by Jesus.

This, of course, is not only their Lenten journey, but each of ours as well.  Every year, each of us is challenged to recognize the distress under which the world places us (this year, it is particularly apparent) and to allow ourselves to encounter our Lord, who names our distress and provides an answer to it.  This, for sure, is not always relief.  Rather, it is often a challenge to trust and to order our lives to more closely follow him.  In other words, it is the challenge to respond in faith to the distress of our lives.  One of the ways that we do that is through our intentional engagement of our increased giving program.

Last weekend, we heard from parishioners who have all had this experience of distress and have responded to it with faith and so have grown in trust of God.  Part of their experience was finding support and resources through the many ministries and programs that we at Saint Mary’s provide: ministries and programs made possible by your generous financial support.  Today, I am asking you to continue to put your faith in the fact that God is responding to the needs and distresses of peoples’ lives through the ministries and programs of Saint Mary’s by continuing and even increasing your financial support for our parish.

You know, all of us are on a journey through the desert and at different times and for different reasons we may each find ourselves in distress.  Your ongoing financial support of the ministries and programs at Saint Mary’s means that we’ll be able to respond and to help assure you in your trust in God who, like he did with Moses for the Israelites, works through us to relieve our distresses.

I hope that you brought your commitment cards with you today.  As I mentioned before Mass began, we WON’T be passing around the collection basket as a precaution against spreading germs.  If you’ve already dropped your commitment card in the box by the entrance, great.  Thank you for doing that.  Please hold in your heart your commitment as your offering to be united to the sacrifice of Jesus here at the altar.  If you still have your commitment card with you, I encourage you to keep it close to you during the Eucharistic Prayer as a reminder to unite your commitment to the sacrifice of Christ on the altar.  You may drop the card in the box near the entrance on your way out today.  If you did not bring your card, but would like to complete one today, please feel free to use one of the blank cards in your pew and do the same.  In other words, however you brought your commitment with you today, please make an intentional effort to unite it to the sacrifice of Christ that we will offer here at the altar.

As I said earlier, this “novel coronavirus” has upended our lives and caused a great deal of distress.  Very quickly, however, I saw signs that God is working among us to relieve it.  On Friday afternoon, I received an e-mail from our “Saint Mary’s Cares” ministry coordinator asking if it was okay for them to contact other parishes to formulate a plan to assist anyone, like our homebound parishioners, get groceries, prepare meals, etc. so that no one feels alone or abandoned during this time.  I’m grateful for their dedication and for the support of all of you that helps make their ministry possible.  Thank you, again, for your courageous commitments.  May they lead us to trust God even more as he leads us to our reward in heaven: the reward foreshadowed by the Passion, Death, and Resurrection of our Lord, Jesus Christ.

Given at Saint Mary’s Cathedral: Lafayette, IN – March 14^th & 15^th, 2020

True and Lasting Happiness Restored

Homily: The Nativity of the Lord (Mass During the Day) – Cycle A

I’ve been a priest for over seven years now and if there’s one thing that I’ve learned it’s that only the most sophisticated folks show up for Christmas Mass.  Looking out over the congregation, it appears that my observations hold true.  Therefore, I feel like it would be pretty safe to bring up the Greek philosopher Aristotle without getting too far above anybody’s head, and so here we go.

          One of the core things that Aristotle taught was that all living things have an end for which they are striving—a telos in Greek.  For example, by his observation, a plant is striving for the sun.  He could see this by the way that a plant will stretch out its leaves way beyond its roots in an effort to reach the rays of the sun.  We, of course, know that the plant needs the rays of the sun to hit its leaves for photosynthesis to happen, in which it converts the energy from the sun’s rays into nutrients to help it grow, but it doesn’t change the fact that the living spirit in the plant—the anima, if you will—is striving always towards the sun as if reaching it was its ultimate purpose.

          Now, I think that we can all agree that we human beings are little more complex than a plant.  Nonetheless, Aristotle still thought that we have a telos: an end to which we are striving.  When Aristotle observed human beings in order to determine for what it is that we are striving, he concluded that the end we are all trying to reach is happiness.  In other words, when he looked at the reasons why human beings do anything, he could see that all of them boiled down to one thing: happiness.  Simply stated: everything that we choose to do, we choose because we think that it will make us happy.  We, of course, could be wrong about whether or not it will make us happy, but the fact remains that we choose it because we think that it will make us happy.

          Saint Thomas Aquinas lived a little more than 1500 years after Aristotle, but he was one of the first to truly synthesize Aristotle’s philosophy into Christian theology.  Saint Thomas agreed that human beings have a telos, and that this telos is happiness.  Because Thomas was a Christian, however, he could tell us that the truest and fullest happiness for which we can strive—the happiness for which we were made—is what Christian theologians call the Beatific Vision: that is, standing face to face with God, in perfect communion with him.  Therefore, because of Saint Thomas, we now have a criterion from which to decide whether or not what we choose is what will truly make us happy: because if what we choose moves us closer to the Beatific Vision, then it truly will make us happy; and if it doesn’t, well then it won’t.

And so, why do I bring this up here today?  It’s because of this.  For the last month, we’ve covered our lives with the sheen of “Christmas Spirit”.  Lights, trees, shopping, parties, lots of food, lots of drinks... in other words, we’ve covered our lives with a spirit of celebration.  Yet, in spite of what all of the songs on the radio, your spotify playlist, or in stores and restaurants say (…It’s the most wonderful time of the year...) … in spite of what all of these songs say, underneath it all we realize that we really aren’t happy.  Sure, for a few days (maybe even a few weeks) we’ll feel good: connecting with family, reminiscing about old times, enjoying the exchange of presents (especially watching the joy and excitement of children opening gifts), and a day or two (or more) off work can truly give us a sense of comfort amidst the toils and labors of our lives.  By the time January 1^st rolls around, however, all of those good feelings have mostly vanished, and we’re left with the toils and labors, perhaps with few “fleeting flashes of perfect” mixed in.  When this reality settles back in, once again we’ll have to confront the fact that we really aren’t happy.

My friends, this is really important to say on this Christmas Day, because the truth of the matter is that, since the fall of man (the first sin of Adam and Eve), NOBODY HAS BEEN TRULY HAPPY!  Ever since the fall, mankind has sought his happiness in the world and has always come up short.  While we can be temporarily successful, none of us is capable of achieving true and lasting happiness by our own efforts.  Why?  Well, because (as Saint Thomas taught us) our only lasting happiness is the Beatific Vision—seeing God face to face.  This means a return to the Garden of Eden, where Adam and Eve walked in communion with God.  Sin caused them to be expelled from the garden, and a great chasm between us and our happiness appeared: a chasm that mankind can never bridge himself.

Therefore, if, underneath all of this “holiday sheen”, there’s a gnawing in you that says, “Is this all there is?” or “It’s too bad that this is all going to end soon”, well then I’ve got good news for you: You’re normal!  You’re a human being, searching for your telos, your true and lasting happiness, and no amount of tinsel and lights and cookies and egg nog and corny songs and tacky sweater parties can satisfy the longing for happiness in you!  Only perfect communion with God can provide that.  To this, I have still more good news: “God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life.”  This is what we celebrate tonight: not that we made it back to God, but that God came to us to bring us back to himself—to save us from our unhappiness so that we could return to life with him.

This, my brothers and sisters, is why we are bold to speak the words of Isaiah in the Mass: “How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him who brings glad tidings, announcing peace, bearing good news, announcing salvation, and saying to Zion, ‘Your God is King!’ … Break out together in song, O ruins of Jerusalem! For the LORD comforts his people, he redeems Jerusalem … all the ends of the earth will behold the salvation of our God.”  My friends, God our Lord has come to comfort us, his people, by redeeming us from our sin which separated us from him!  Why, then, do we keep looking for happiness in the ethereal... in the aesthetic... in the “sheen” of Christmas?

My friends, the prologue to John’s Gospel, which we heard today, reminds us of this wonderful truth that God, who existed before all time, made all created things through his Son, the Divine Word; and, when his creation went astray and in the fullness of time (meaning, when the time was right), his Son came into the world to be our redemption and, thus, to restore us to our true and lasting happiness.  In the generations since his birth, however, we have often allowed ourselves to forget that it is through him, Jesus Christ, that we find our true and lasting happiness and thus begin to seek our happiness by our own frustrated efforts again.  The season of Advent reminds us to turn back to the Lord and say, “Come, Lord Jesus!  Save us from this unhappiness!”  And today we gather to say to him, “Praise to you, Lord Jesus, for you have come and you have saved us!”

Friends, I am going to say something to you here and I want you all to look at me and listen.  (Are you looking?)  Nothing—absolutely nothing—that you do this Christmas matters more than what we are doing right now in this church: giving praise to God that he has sent his Son to save us from our unhappiness so that we can find our telos, our true happiness in him.  Let us, therefore, let the wonder and awe of this great mystery—the Son of God appearing in our humanity—envelop us today, so that the happiness of this time might remain with us, even after we return to the labors and toils of our lives, and thus preserve us in faith until Christ, our Mighty King, returns to take us home.

Given at Saint Mary’s Cathedral: Lafayette, IN – December 25^th, 2019

The obedience of faith

Homily: 4^th Sunday of Advent – Cycle A

Although it may not be the first thing that you think of when you think of a king/queen, every king/queen is called to be a servant.  What I mean by that is this: the authority that a king/queen possesses is given to him/her so as to govern the people of the kingdom in such a way that they might flourish.  We all know, however, the old saying that “power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely” and so we all know how often kings/queens are corrupted by the power that they wield and seek to have their people serve them, instead.  Nonetheless, this doesn’t change the fact that the role of the king/queen is to serve; and if they serve well, then they rightfully receive the honor and homage of the people.

Still further, throughout history being a king/queen almost always included a religious component.  Royal lineage was often seen to have been appointed by God and royalty have often held positions of authority in religious matters.  This continues today.  For example, the Queen of England is also the head of the Church of England.  As such, she must be not only a servant of the people, but also a model for religious piety and practice.  To do otherwise would discredit the Crown and the religion that she leads.  Sure, the Archbishop of Canterbury is the de facto head of the Church of England, but the Monarch of England still stands as the model for all.

This, of course, was true of the ancient Israelites, which gives color to our first reading today.  The brevity of this reading gives rise to the thought that the Church included it primarily to recount for us the source of the prophecy of the virgin birth (which is very important, obviously), but the broader story also provides us with some insight and so I’m going to incorporate some of it here.

Ahaz was not a good king.  I don’t know whether he was a good guy, but he wasn’t a good king.  He let being a king get to his head.  If we remember back to the prophet Samuel, when the Israelites demanded that he anoint a king for them (for they had never yet had their own king), he first rebuked them for suggesting that they didn’t already have a king (for the Lord God was their king) and then he predicted that most of the kings that they would have would be corrupt or weak (or both) and that the people would suffer because of it.  The people insisted, anyway, and God instructed Samuel to anoint a king for them.  Many hundreds of years later, Samuel’s predictions would come true and Ahaz was one of those weak kings who let being a king get to his head.

Ahaz forgot that he was king so as to serve the people for their flourishing.  He also forgot that the true King of the Israelite people was God.  And so, when God allowed the insanely powerful Assyrian army to amass themselves against the Israelites (because the Israelites had fallen away from faithfulness to God under the rule of Ahaz), Ahaz sought a worldly solution to the problem (he was brokering and alliance with the Egyptians).

Isaiah brings him God’s message that said, “The Assyrians are here as a punishment for your lack of faithfulness; but surrender to them and I won’t let them destroy the city or kill you.”  Ahaz didn’t like that answer because he didn’t trust God and thought that he needed to rely on himself.  Isaiah clapped back and said, “No, for reals: God is going to take care of you. He’ll give you a sign, anything you ask for.  Just ask him.”  Ahaz, not wanting the sign because he wanted to make his alliance with Egypt, invokes some false piety and says, “oh no, it would be improper to put the Lord to the test.”  Isaiah, frustrated for God, responds that God will give him a sign, anyway, and predicts the virgin birth of a son who will be “Emmanuel - God with us” for the people.

In the end, Ahaz would make his alliance with Egypt and the Assyrians would conquer him anyway.  He would die, Jerusalem (including the temple) would be destroyed, and the people would be exiled for 70 years.  Ahaz, as the king and religious leader of God’s people, refused to get behind God’s plan and the people suffered.  And the sign that God called for wouldn’t be seen until hundreds of years later.  By refusing to acknowledge God as the one King, and by refusing to be an example of right religion, God’s plans for his people were disrupted.

In contrast we heard of the “annunciation” to Joseph in today’s Gospel reading.  Joseph was a man with no worldly power.  He was a laborer in a small town in a seemingly inconsequential region of the world.  Yet, he was a righteous man: which means that he was just and followed God’s law closely.  We hear also that he was merciful, for although he knew that he couldn’t take Mary into his home after the discovery of her pregnancy, he decided to divorce her quietly so that she wouldn’t have to suffer any more indignation than what she would already suffer by being a single mother in that culture.  For Joseph, God was Lord; and when he heard the message of the angel that told him to do something that every righteous and merciful bone in his body told him not to do, he obeyed.  Through his obedience, God’s plan for mankind was finally fulfilled.  Joseph placed himself, in the state of life and situation that he was in, completely at God’s service, and God’s good will for mankind was fulfilled.  In this way, Joseph was a much better king than Ahaz.

My friends, I’m certain I will surprise no one here when I say that there is a lot more Ahaz than Joseph in our world today.  In other words, there’s a lot more people—especially those in authority—who refuse to acknowledge that there is an authority higher than themselves to which we owe obedience.  For this reason, the kingdom of God is disappearing among us.  Sure, there is still plenty of goodness among us, but it’s dwindling into smaller and smaller pockets of our public life.  While it is important that we recognize that and seek to put in authority persons who recognize God as the ultimate authority and seek to obey him, it is just as important to recognize that there is probably more of Ahaz than Joseph in each one of us.  I mean, isn’t it true that we each want to be Lord of our own lives and, thus, act like we know better when God asks something uncomfortable of us (for example, surrendering to forgiveness of someone who has hurt us)?  Because of this, just like king Ahaz, much of God’s will doesn’t manifest itself among us.  Friends, we do not get to lament the state of society without asking ourselves how we have each played a small or large part of it becoming as it is by our refusals to allow God to be Lord of our lives.

On this fourth Sunday of Advent, therefore, we are reminded that, as we prepare to celebrate the anniversary of Christ’s birth among us (and the fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy!), we are preparing also for the coming of our King.  And so, the question comes to us, “Have I given my preparations over to Him (like Joseph)?  Or am I expecting that he will make my plans successful, in spite of what he may want (like Ahaz)?”  In other words, “Am I the king/queen and expect, thus, God to serve me?  Or do I see myself as a servant before the true King?”  My brothers and sisters, I charge you to reflect on these questions over these last days of Advent: for judgment will be merciless on those who made themselves king, but full of mercy for those who acknowledged the true King and sought to serve him.

Friends, the true King is coming.  May he find us ready to honor him with our obedience of faith so that his will for bringing forth the full flourishing of his kingdom might be known in our time.

Given at Saint Mary’s Cathedral: Lafayette, IN – December 21^st & 22^nd, 2019

Submitting to God's mercy

Homily: 30^th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Cycle C

          A few years before I entered the seminary, I had hit what I would call a “personal low-point”.  Things in my life seemed to me to be unraveling.  I had been working as an engineer for a few years and was very disappointed in the way my career was already shaping up.  I had also just been through the disastrous breakup of a relationship that had lasted nearly three years (with the disastrous part being completely my fault).  On top of that, I found myself questioning the faith in which I was raised.  Basically, the foundation rocks of my future—career, marriage, religious faith and practice—seemed to be crumbling in front of me and I was in crisis.

          By God’s grace, in the midst of all of this, I was moved to participate in the mission my parish was having.  At that mission I came to recognize that the things that I thought were the rock foundation of my future were really just sand, because I had ignored God’s commandments and was building them of my own accord.  I felt ashamed and for the first time in my life truly knew what it meant to ask for God’s mercy.

          From that point on, however, I began to build.  I tried to learn more about my faith and began to study the Bible and the Catechism.  I began to attend Mass daily and started to get very involved in my parish.  I made many positive friendships with people who helped support my desire to live virtuously and, two years later, I was feeling pretty good about myself.

          At that time, I also met a wonderful young woman and we began to date.  I was so excited about this relationship because I felt that it was the first time that I was truly dating according to God’s plan and not my own.  The only problem was that I had started to become complacent and self-assured in the daily practice of my faith.  So much so, that I started to exhibit some self-righteousness.  This woman who I was dating began to see through that and when she called me out on it I was shocked, then angry that she had done so, but then, once again, I found myself ashamed and in desperate need of God’s mercy.

          And so, for me, I find a lot to relate to in the Pharisee from today’s Gospel reading.  He had mastered all of the regulations in the Law of Moses, which was no small feat!  The Law contains over 600 regulations and, just to be sure that they never encroached even on those, the Pharisees added their own “safeguard” regulations on top of them.  Thus, to master all of these laws, one had to be very disciplined and conscientious.  His problem, however, was that he let all of that get to his head and his self-assuredness became self-righteousness.  And so, we see in the Gospel reading how he came before God not to lay his work before God’s judgment, but rather to crown himself with a crown of righteousness.

          I relate to him because I feel like I had been acting similar to him.  I was following all of God’s commandments and often found myself judging myself righteous in comparison to others.  I boasted of always “striving to do God’s will” even though I was not actually prayerfully discerning what God was calling me to do.  I knew that I wasn’t perfect, but I had become complacent in being “better than most”.

          Nonetheless, I also find a lot to relate to in the tax collector.  On top of being a job that other Jews would despise him for doing, the job itself didn’t pay a salary; and so, the only way that he could earn money would be to tack on fees to each transaction.  Well, he quickly realized that he could make a lot of money doing that and so he began to tack on exorbitant fees that were inconsistent with the taxes being paid, which he knew to be unjust.  Thus, he knew that he wasn’t perfect and so it was clear to him that only the mercy of God could earn him any semblance of righteousness.  Therefore, he came before God in the Temple not to proclaim his own righteousness, but rather to accuse himself before God and to beg for his mercy.

          I relate to him because both at the beginning and at the end of this time that I have been describing, I found myself in a similar state: recognizing my own failure to be righteous and thus turning to God to beg for his mercy.  In the first instance, I could accuse myself.  In the second, however, I needed another to accuse me.  In both I either saw or came to see that I needed God’s mercy in order to earn any semblance of righteousness.

          “Ok, so I’m a little confused, Father.  Are you saying we should or shouldn’t strive for righteousness? because it sounds like you just said that the better thing is to remember our need for God’s mercy, but that when we are achieving righteousness we’re apt to forget it.”  Yes, we still need to strive for righteousness; and no needing to constantly remember our need for God’s mercy is no excuse for continuing to commit your favorite sins (useful, perhaps, but not a good idea).  What we need to do is follow Saint Paul’s example, who was righteous in every way according to the Law, following all of the Lord’s commandments, yet who never counted it to be more than rubbish compared to what God’s mercy could do (and did do) in him.  Or how about Pope Francis, who when asked by a reporter to describe himself replied firstly, “I am a sinner whom the Lord has looked upon.”  Yes, my brothers and sisters, we must strive for righteousness, for it is what God has made us for.  But we must also acknowledge our inability to crown ourselves: that is, that we, too, are indeed “sinners whom the Lord has looked upon.”

          Recently I visited one of our homebound parishioners.  When I arrived, he asked almost immediately if I would hear his confession.  He said that he couldn’t really think of any specific sins that he had committed, but that he realized that it had been a long time since he last went to confession; and, acknowledging that God could call him home soon, he didn’t want to have to explain to God why his short memory or weak conscience kept him from receiving His mercy.  “I try to be good,” he was basically saying, “but I know that I’m not perfect.”  “You know what,” I thought, “he gets it.”  This is the humility that Jesus is talking about: the humility that, although he couldn’t accuse himself of any particular sin, nonetheless still acknowledged his need for God’s mercy.

          My brothers and sisters, we are all constantly in need of God’s mercy.  Let us, then, humble ourselves here today before the one who alone can exult us.

Given at Saint Mary Cathedral: Lafayette, IN – October 27^th, 2019

The effects and consequences of being God's prophet

Homily: 20^th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Cycle C

          Friends, this week our scriptures give us a glimpse of both the effects and the consequences of being God’s prophet.  In the first reading from the book of the prophet Jeremiah, we enter the scene after Jeremiah has been making his prophecy.  The Babylonians had laid siege to Jerusalem (meaning, they had surrounded the city and had cut off all supplies from outside, like food, from coming in).  Jeremiah had been called by God to proclaim that the Babylonians had been sent by God as a punishment against them for having grossly sinned against his commandments.  This message had demoralized the soldiers and so none of them wanted to go and fight the Babylonians.  Then, to top it off, God prompted Jeremiah to declare to the king that it was his will that they surrender to the Babylonians without a fight: saying that, while the city would be lost, the people would be mostly saved.

          Well, neither of these things sat well with the king and his closest advisors.  The Babylonians were absolutely despised by everyone and so the thought of surrendering to them was unconscionable.  Further, they were convinced that God was still with them and so could defeat the Babylonians if they engaged them in battle.  They knew that Jeremiah was a true prophet of God.  Thus, his prophecies unnerved them, leading them to seek to silence his voice.  And so, we see that the effects of his prophecy were to disturb his hearers, creating division among them, and the consequences were that he suffered severe punishment at their hands (being thrown in a cistern and left for dead).

          In the gospel reading, we hear Jesus declare both the effects and the consequences that his own prophecies will have.  He declares that his teaching will both disturb and cause division, and that this division will not be into broad, loosely connected groups, but rather that it will cut to the very core of every family (a father against his son and a son against his father...).  And the consequences of his teaching will be that he will be baptized in a “baptism with which he must be baptized”, which we know to be an allusion to the Crucifixion.  As we know well, his teaching did disturb and cause division, leading the prominent persons of the day to seek to silence his voice.  Thus, the consequence of his teaching was the severe punishment of the cross.

          So, why is it important for us to hear these readings and, thus, to understand the effects and consequences of being a prophet?  Well, simply stated, it’s because the world is in desperate need of prophets: that is, men and women who will listen to the word of God, observe the world around them, and then be bold enough to speak God’s truth into the world, calling out those who are living contrary to God’s commandments, announcing to them the consequences if they continue, and then calling them to repentance, that is, to turn back to God so that the announced consequences might not be realized.  They are desperately needed because so many people today are turning away from God because they think that the pursuit of him will lead to a dreary and sullen life and so turn to a life of pursuing personal satisfaction, often to destructive ends.  In hearing this message today, each of us is being reminded of our call to be prophets to those around us.

          This “glimpse” of the effects and consequences of being a prophet can be used as an examination of conscience of sorts as to how well we are fulfilling our role of being prophets in the world.  Believe it or not, the first question of this examination has nothing to do with whether I’ve disturbed and caused division, but rather with whether I’ve spent time listening to the word of God.  Are we spending time praying with and studying the scriptures and the teachings of the Church (which are derived from the scriptures and the Tradition of the Apostles), or are we spending more time watching Fox News or CNN (or, worse yet, endless mindless shows on television or Netflix)?  If we are not spending time every day listening to God’s word in this way, then how can we know the message that God is calling us to announce to others?  The answer, of course, is that we can’t; and so, when we (inevitably) observe the world around us (because we’re watching too much Fox News or CNN, remember?), although we may recognize that things are off-kilter, we do not know how to respond.  At first, we may feel frustrated since we sense that we should do something.  After some time, however, that sense of frustration without action hardens our hearts until we no longer feel even the frustration.  Friends, let me tell you: This is a bad place to be.

          The hearts of those to whom God is calling us to share his prophetic message have hardened themselves against him (like King Zedekiah and his advisors and the Pharisees in Jesus’ day).  When we fail to listen to the word of God in our daily lives, we, too, allow our hearts to harden against him, thus rendering us useless as prophets of God and, quite frankly, putting us in danger of losing heaven for having failed to love him.  Letting your heart become hard is the easier way to go, however, since we all know (at least instinctually) that the effects of being a prophet are to disturb and cause division (which nobody likes) and that the consequences of being a prophet are to suffer severe punishment.  Having a hardened heart may lead to a more dispassionate and unfulfilling life, but at least it’s a quieter one.

          Friends, I’ve struggled a lot with heart hardness over these last few years.  I’ve allowed the busyness of the world to over-occupy my mind and my heart and I’ve allowed my fear of the effects and consequences of being a prophet to lead me, at times, to stop listening to God’s word.  Thus, I realize that, if I’ve been a lousy prophet for God, it’s because I’ve stopped loving him; because if I really loved him, nothing would ever stop me from speaking his truth into the world.  The prophet Jeremiah never stopped listening to God’s word and so never stopped loving him, in spite of all that he suffered because of it.  Thus, in a lament after much suffering, he could write: “I say to myself, ‘I will not mention him, I will speak in his name no more.’ But then it becomes like fire burning in my heart, imprisoned in my bones; I grow weary holding it in, I cannot endure it” (Jer. 20:9).  One who has a hard heart, who has stopped loving God, does not have this experience.

          Brothers and sisters, the question that faces us today is this: am I willing to open myself to being God’s prophet in this world that so desperately needs it?  Am I willing to open myself to speaking God’s truth to the people closest to me, knowing that it will disrupt them and cause division as well as cause great suffering for me (itself the purifying fire that Jesus came to set ablaze!)?  If your answer is not “yes”, then it’s time to check your heart; perhaps you’ve allowed it to become hardened and, thus, your love for God to grow cold.  If so, don’t worry.  God’s love for you is still a burning fire and the evidence of this is soon to be made present to us on this altar: the Body and Blood of Jesus, his Son, whom he sacrificed for us.  As you approach this altar, ask him to take from you your hardened heart and to give you a heart of flesh that will burn with love for him again: the love that has the power to overcome every trial and suffering on earth and so prepare us for the eternal life of peace which Christ, himself, has won for us.

Given at Saint Mary’s Cathedral: Lafayette, IN – August 18^th, 2019

Who is my neighbor? The one who needs mercy.

Homily: 15^th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Cycle C

As human beings, we love a good argument, don’t we?  Now, I don’t mean that we go out looking to pick a fight, or anything, but simply that, given the chance to make a point and defend it, we almost readily jump in.  Perhaps we’re on the side of a conversation and we only hear the topic being discussed.  Sometimes, if it’s a topic we think we know something about, that’s all the spark that we need to get our motors running!  Soon, we’re inserting ourselves into that conversation to show our knowledge and make our point.  It doesn’t take much to “bait” us into an argument, either.  A provocative question asked of us can launch us right into an argument: whether that be about something noble and important, like politics, faith, or family life, or something mundane, like sports, fashion, or home maintenance.

Why?  Well, because it’s so easy!  We human beings are so full of pride that we almost can’t resist an opportunity to boost our pride by jumping into an argument to prove our point.  Sometimes, it’s the vice of pride, outright.  Most of the time, it’s our own need to bolster our sense of self-worth: that is, our need to feel like we had something important to say and that what we said was valuable to others (which is a different sort of pride).  Either way, these natural impulses make it so easy to “bait” us into arguments.

Thus, the scene in our Gospel reading today should feel very familiar to us.  This “scholar of the law” approaches Jesus—the “upstart” rabbi—to see whether he really knows his stuff, and he tries to bait him into an argument.  On the surface, the question “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” seems innocent enough.  We must remember, however, that this was THE question that rabbis constantly debated.  For a “scholar of the law” to ask it of a rabbi was to say “I’m ready to spar.  How about you?”

Jesus’ response, however, demonstrates that he “practiced what he preached”.  At one point he taught his disciples: “Be shrewd as serpents, yet simple as doves”.  Here he’s being shrewd.  The scholar wants to invite him into a debate on the finer points of Mosaic Law, but Jesus doesn’t want to go down that rabbit hole.  Thus, shrewdly, he turns the bait back on the scholar: “You know the law, don’t you?  What does it say?”  The scholar takes the bait, hook, line, and sinker, and rattles off the highest of all the Mosaic laws: Love God and love your neighbor.  Jesus, with the simplicity of a dove, affirms him and says, “Yep, that’s it!  Do this and you will have eternal life”.

The scholar, however, was not satisfied that he hadn’t gotten the better of Jesus (see how our pride can get the best of us!) and he makes another salvo: “Who is my neighbor?”  Again, he’s asking “Who does the Law say is my neighbor?”  The scholar knew the answer, of course, and Jesus knew that he already knew the answer.  Therefore, again, shrewdly, Jesus responds not by giving the scholar the knowledge that he challenged Jesus to produce, but by giving him a “case study” in which his answer can be found: the parable of the “Good Samaritan”.  For Jesus, there wasn’t a black-and-white legal definition to the question of “who is my neighbor?”, rather, there was only the definition of compassion.  “Your neighbor” is the one whom you encounter who is in need of mercy.

In the question “Which of these three, in your opinion, was neighbor to the robber’s victim?”, the scholar recognizes that Jesus’ shrewdness has defeated him and so concedes his argument about the finer points of the law to acknowledge what the law looks like in application.  Realizing that Jesus is a legitimate rabbi and, thus, with his pride deflated, the scholar no longer challenges Jesus with these “debate” questions.  Being an optimist, I like to believe that eventually he accepted Jesus as the Messiah and put into practice what Jesus had taught him. ///

“Who is my neighbor?”  What a question for our time!  And Jesus’ response is the message that we need to hear today.  Look no further than the news and you’ll see that this question is at the center of a debate that, literally, is raging around the world right now.  Nations all over the world are arguing over the question of what to do with immigrants, especially those seeking refuge from oppressive living conditions in their native lands.  I don’t presume to know an answer; but I think that if we could find the compassion to call these persons “neighbor” instead of “immigrant”, we’d be more apt to find a common answer.  Perhaps closer to home, still: in cities all over the U.S. (and even here in Lafayette), the question about what to do with the homeless in our cities is a difficult one.  I am certain, however, that if we could find the compassion to call them “neighbor” instead of “homeless”, we’d be more apt to find a common answer.

This parable of Jesus challenges us to leave our comfort zones and to encounter those around us in need of mercy.  If you’ve been paying attention at all, this has been the constant message of Pope Francis since the beginning of his pontificate, which is a particular form of the message of the Second Vatican Council: that is, to take the Gospel and go out into the world.  Out from our churches, schools, and offices.  Out to encounter those who need not only to hear this message of salvation, but to experience it through our merciful love of them.

We know this, of course, but Jesus’ challenge to the scholar confronts us again today: “Go and do likewise”.  As Moses told the Israelites before crossing into the Promised Land, “You know what God expects of you; you have only to do it”, so Jesus challenges the scholar (and, through him, all of us): “You know now what is expected.  Only if you do it, however, will you live”.  Friends, knowledge of this is not enough.  Necessary, of course, but not enough!  Rather, we must put this knowledge into action: showing that God is merciful by loving those whom he loves, those in need of merciful help around us.

This all starts somewhere deeper, however, and our Gospel reading reveals this to us.  The story begins with the scholar of the Mosaic Law looking to bait Jesus into an argument.  Jesus, however, looked at him and treated him with mercy.  He saw the scholar’s pride and shrewdly countered it.  He did not rub it in the scholar’s face, however.  Rather, with the simplicity of a dove, he challenged him to go beyond his knowledge and put it into practice.  My friends, we must do the same.  We must stop our polarized bickering whose only conclusion is “my side must win or all has been lost”.  Rather, we must call each other “neighbor”—even and especially when we disagree with each other—and, thus, treat each other with mercy.  Like Jesus, we must be “shrewd as serpents”, for he is not asking us to roll over to every person with wicked intent, but we must also be “simple as doves”, treating each other as Jesus treated the scholar: with a humble and compassionate hand.

My friends, this is the mercy that we encounter here in the Mass.  We come here, convicted of our sinfulness and of our unworthiness to receive God’s grace.  Yet, we are invited to this feast of God’s grace.  God does not ignore our sinfulness; but, because we demonstrate our desire to turn away from it, he offers us his merciful love in spite of it.  In other words: yes, we are sinful, but here our sins are not rubbed in our face.  Instead, God has compassion on us, cares for us, and then gently challenges us to go beyond our sins to bring his compassion and mercy to others.  May the mercy that we receive today here in this Mass fill us with every strength to be ministers of God’s mercy in our world today.

Given at St. Mary’s Cathedral: Lafayette, IN – July 13^th & 14^th, 2019

Our noble and necessary bodies

Homily: The Ascension of the Lord – Cycle C

          Friends, today we celebrate this great feast of the Ascension: the final, culminating act of our redemption. This is not, of course, the crucial act: that was Jesus’ Passion, Death, and Resurrection.  Rather, it is the culminating act: the ultimate reason for which Jesus took on our human flesh; and that is, to re-unite our humanity to God. This, of course, is a joyful thing. I mean, just think about your humanity for a moment. Think about what happens when you don’t take a shower or a bath for a couple of days. Think about changing diapers on babies or when they spit up on your shoulder. Our humanity—as we experience it in this world, at least—is a messy (and, quite frankly, often gross) thing. Yet the Divine Son of God, the Second Person of the Holy Trinity, took on our humanity, in all its grossness, suffered all of the worst things that it can experience in this world, and glorified it in his resurrection so that it could be restored to its perfect communion with the Holy Trinity: which is to say, into an existence of perfect and eternal bliss.

          This is something astounding!  And if you aren’t astounded by this, then you should be!  In the early centuries of the Church, Christians argued about the true nature of Jesus’ humanity: Did he truly have a human nature, alongside his divine nature, or did his divine nature simply “reside” in a human body while he walked on earth?  The fact that, after his resurrection, Jesus still had a human body, made of flesh and bone, and that he took that body with him as he ascended into heaven shows us, those early Christians argued, that Jesus’ divine nature was truly united to a human nature; and that this human nature, while always remaining distinct from his divine nature, can never be separated from him.  It’s truly mind-blowing to think about this because, even with all of our scientific achievements, we have no way of conceptualizing how our human bodies can exist outside of space and time.

          Nevertheless, what Jesus proved for us when he ascended in his human body is that our bodies are noble, and that they have a noble purpose.  In fact, I would say that our bodies are truly sacramental, in nature.  If you remember your catechism well, you’ll remember that a sacrament is an “efficacious sign of grace”: it’s something perceivable by our senses that makes imperceivably things happen.  For example, in baptism, the person is washed with water while invoking the Holy Trinity, which effects the grace of the cleansing of the person’s soul from sin (Original Sin and any personal sin) and marking it permanently for God.  In other words, the physical, perceivable washing makes a spiritual, imperceivable washing happen.  Thus, another way to define a sacrament is to say that it is “a visible sign of an invisible reality.”  A sacramental, in this sense, is something that does a “sacrament-like” thing.

          Our human bodies are sacramentals in that they are visible signs of invisible realities.  What is that “invisible reality”?  The presence of a human soul.  Subconsciously we get this, because whenever we see what appears to be a human body without a soul, we know it’s something less than human, a monster, right? (Any “Walking Dead” fans out there? Zombies are monsters because they are human bodies without souls.) Our bodies are more than just signs, however, they are integral parts of who we are as human persons.  This we also understand, fundamentally, because when someone does violence to our bodies, we rightly see it as an attack on the person, who cannot be known except through his/her body.

All this is to remind us today that the restoration of our communion with God could not be accomplished through spiritual means alone: it had to happen with our bodies.  This means that, any restoration that could have been effected without bodily communion would have been incomplete.  Jesus came, however, to restore our communion with God completely: thus, the Incarnation; the Passion, Death, and Resurrection; and, now, yes, the Ascension.  Real communion with God requires our bodies, as well as our soul.

          This message is also why, I think, that the Church has transferred the celebration of this great feast to Sunday.  Technically, 40 days after Easter happened last Thursday, but we celebrate the Ascension on Sunday so that the vast majority of us might be able to celebrate this important feast.  It is the feast of the culmination of our salvation and a reminder that our human bodies have a noble purpose.  The world tells us that our bodies are something to be used and thrown away.  Through Jesus, God reveals that our bodies are valuable and necessary.

          These valuable bodies are not meant to be static, however.  Rather, they are meant to move.  In Luke’s Gospel “movement” is the sign of a disciple: that is, someone responding to grace.  If we think about the parable of the Prodigal Son, we see that the prodigal responds to grace and moves to return to his father, and the older son stands still—he will not move—and refuses his father’s graces.  This is a common theme in Luke’s gospel.  Thus, it feels a little weird when, at the beginning of the Acts of the Apostles, Luke writes that Jesus told the disciples to “stay and wait”.  This, of course, is only to prepare them for the next big movement that will come with the arrival of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost: then they will move—and move big time—to take the Gospel message to the ends of the world.  We, who celebrate this feast, must be ready to move when the Spirit comes to us.

          Friends, Let’s use this time to meditate this week on this great mystery of the Ascension: that through Christ’s body, which has entered the eternal sanctuary in heaven on our behalf, we too will one day ascend bodily into full and perfect communion with God in heaven.  As we do, let us also pray and prepare to use these bodies that we have been given not only to be outward expression of ourselves—the visible signs of our invisible souls—but also to be expressions of God’s love that has been poured into our hearts: in other words, the visible sign of that invisible reality.  In doing so, we will be proclaiming God’s kingdom: the kingdom of heaven to which all men and women are invited and over which rules Christ, our risen Lord and king.  Alleluia!

Given at Saint Mary’s Cathedral: Lafayette, IN – June 1^st & 2^nd, 2019