The reality of God is bigger than our perceptions

Homily: Solemnity of the Most Holy Trinity – Cycle A

          I love science!  As a former engineer, my brain is wired for science.  What I mean by that is that it is wired in such a way that, when I see something that I don’t understand, I automatically begin to wonder about it and try to figure it out.  Quite frankly, most of us are wired for science in some way: usually in a very practical way.

          Here’s what I mean.  Say that you enter a room with which you are unfamiliar.  It’s a little bit warm in the room and you observe that there is a ceiling fan.  You know a thing or two about ceiling fans, but you’ve never turned on this particular fan, so you set yourself to figuring out how to turn it on.  You think, “Maybe the wall switch will turn it on”, and so you flip the wall switches.  If that doesn’t work you think, “Maybe I need to pull the chain on the fan to turn it on”, and so you reach up and pull the chain.  If that doesn’t work you think, “Maybe there’s a combination of the wall switches and the chain that need to be aligned to turn it on”, and so you begin to turn switches on and off, pulling the chain at each setting.  If that still doesn’t work, we think… what?  That it’s broken… of course!  We’ve observed, hypothesized, tested each hypothesis and observed some more, and when we’ve run out of hypotheses we draw a conclusion.  That, my friends, is science; and we do it almost every day.

          As much as I love science, because I love figuring out how to make things work, I have one big problem with it.  You see, the problem with science is that it equates perception with reality.  In other words, science makes conclusions about reality based solely on what it can perceive.  In my example above, we concluded that the fan was broken because no switches or combination of switches would start it spinning.  We made a conclusion about reality based solely on what we observed.  The reality, however, could be that the fan functions perfectly well, but that the switch may be broken or maybe electricity wasn’t flowing at all to the system.  In other words, there could be factors beyond our perception that could contribute to the reality.  Science does not admit these factors and so sometimes draws incorrect conclusions about reality.

          For people of faith there is no other proof of the limitations of science than when we think about God.  Imagine for a moment that you didn’t know much about God (and let’s assume that you at least give credence to the fact that there is a God: that is, an all-powerful, all-knowing creator of the universe).  What would you do to figure out more about him?  Well, you’d observe, I suppose: you’d listen to what people said or wrote about him.  Then you might hypothesize about what he’d be like, followed by observing to see if you’re hypothesis was correct.

          Doing that you’d find out that people say that God is loving, kind, and merciful; that he has the power to control everything that happens in the universe; that nothing happens without his knowing about it and either making it happen or, at least, permitting it to happen.  Then you’d say, “Well, if that’s the case, then things should be pretty good around me.  People ought to be living in harmony with one another and there should be peace, because a God of love and kindness, who can control what happens in the world, would surely desire there to be love and kindness throughout the world.”  Having formed your hypothesis, you then observe the world and what would you see?  Love and kindness in many places, for sure; but also hatred, violence, and discord in as many, if not more places.  Having observed this, your conclusion might be: “God is not who people say he is, because what I perceive does not conform to that proposed reality.”  This is the error that many people in our society make today: they perceive a world broken by sin and they conclude that if God was who people say that he is, he wouldn’t allow the world to be like this.  Since the world is this way, God must not be who people say that he is; rather, he might be nothing more than a mythical creature meant to make people feel better about living in this broken world.

          The problem with this, of course, is that there are factors outside of one’s perception that contribute to the reality.  In other words, reality is greater than our perception.  Thinking theoretically, we can somewhat easily come to the conclusion that there must be a God: an all-powerful being—the uncreated creator—who created all things.  In order to know that God is benevolent, however, we would have to do a lot more work.  To see that all creation works towards the propagation of life, instead of against it, and that this propagation is a good thing, could lead us to conclude that God is good and has the good of creation in mind.  But to know God as we know him, as loving, kind, and merciful—or, as we celebrate him today, as a communion of persons—is something that we can know only if he, himself, has revealed it to us.

          Thankfully, this is something that he has revealed to us; and it is not something that he has revealed by some sort of divine declaration (even though he has done that).  Rather, he has revealed this to us by his actions.  In the book of Exodus, we read that God declared himself before Moses to be “a merciful and gracious God, slow to anger and rich in kindness and fidelity” and he proved this as time and again he spared the Israelite people from destruction, even though they had repeatedly offended him.  So gracious and merciful is he—and so deeply in love of his creation—that, as we read in the Gospel, he “gave his only Son so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life.”  In doing so, he not only proved, once again, that what he said about himself is true, but he also revealed that he is a communion of persons within himself.  And how do we know that Jesus truly is the Son of God and, thus, God himself?  Because of the works that he did: most prominently his resurrection from the dead.

          Thus, the celebration that we come to today: the Solemnity of the Most Holy Trinity.  Today we celebrate who God is in himself: not because we somehow perceive this with our senses, but rather because of the gift of Faith that has been placed in our hearts and because of the works that he has worked in the past (and continues to work today) that go beyond our ability to test scientifically.  In celebrating God as Trinity, we not only celebrate who he is, but also what that means for us.  We know that God is Love and so is a community of persons.  Because of this we know that, when God creates, he creates in love.  We know that, having created human beings to be persons, like himself, he created us solely so that we might share in his divine life, which is love.  Finally, we know that, when we turned away from him in sin, he did not shun us, but rather came close to us, becoming one of us in his Son who would make atonement for our sins and, thus, make it possible for us to share in the divine life once again.

          And so, my brothers and sisters, as we celebrate today who God is in himself, let us rejoice also in who we are in him: beloved sons and daughters destined to spend eternity with him; and let us commit ourselves, therefore, to follow the admonition of Saint Paul to the Corinthians and “mend our ways, encourage one another, agree with one another, and live in peace” so that “the God of love and peace will be with us” and all those scientific skeptics might begin to see the truth that we proclaim: that the reality of God is much bigger than their perceptions, but that he nonetheless cares about each and every one; and that he desires that each and every one dwell with him in eternal light, happiness, and peace: the very same light, happiness, and peace that we experience, under sacramental signs, here at this altar.

Given at All Saints Parish: Logansport, IN – June 10^th & 11^th, 2017

God with us in our thirst

Homily: 3^rd Sunday of Lent – Cycle A

          In the summer of 2009 I was in Guatemala studying Spanish and immersing myself in Hispanic culture.  There were students from many walks of life studying Spanish alongside me at the school.  A couple of students were, literally, a couple: a husband and wife pair named Kris and DiDi.  Kris worked for Lipscomb University in Tennessee as a teacher in Engineering Technology and every year, he would arrange a trip for his students to Central America so that they could apply their studies to a practical problem: in this case, capturing fresh water from mountain springs and transporting it to villages so that the people would have clean water with which to drink and cook.

          Kris and DiDi were not on one of these trips that summer, but were studying Spanish to make it easier for Kris to make these trips in the future.  Nonetheless, Kris was taking the opportunity to explore potential project sites for the future.  I expressed an interest in visiting one of these sites with them and they were gracious enough to invite me along on one of their trips.  This particular trip was to the northcentral part of Guatemala, near the city of Coban.

          While there, our local guide, Gabriel, explained some of the challenges in securing project sites.  He said that there were a couple of potential springs that were on a property that we weren’t able to access.  We would have to pass through certain pieces of property and the owners wouldn’t give us permission to do so.  He said that there were often fights between the owners and the surrounding villagers as the owner would often cut-off access to the road by locking a gate and would hire an armed guard to keep people out.  I remember clearly how Gabriel remarked that, when faced with such adversity, people’s ugliest side tended to show.

          But it’s true, isn’t it?  That when we are most stressed (and what is more stressful than worrying about whether you will have food, shelter, or clean water to drink?) we tend to get very defensive and we begin to treat those around us more like our enemies than our neighbors.  All of our good upbringing can sometimes go out the window, it seems, when adversity sets in and our basic needs are threatened.

          This fact was on display in today’s first reading.  In spite of all that God had done for the Israelites—in spite of all of the powerful signs he had worked while they were slaves in Egypt and when he led them out of Egypt—as soon as they run out of a certain necessity on their way to the land in which God promised to settle them, they begin to grumble against God.  No, the powerful miracles that God worked did not solidify in them an unbreakable trust in God.  Rather, when faced with adversity, instead of trusting in God’s care and making acts of faith that God would provide for them in their need, they gave into their fear and began to verbally attack Moses, accusing him of leading them out into the desert to die.
          Moses, on his part, gives in to fear, as well.  Instead of assuring the people that God would provide and then turning and asking God for a sign, Moses immediately turns and cries out to God to be saved from their violent threats against him.  God, of course, provided a miraculous flow of water to satisfy their worldly thirst, but the damage had been done.  So much so that they named the place, not for the miraculous flow of water, but for the doubting and testing of God that took place there.  The Scriptures even record the question that was on their lips in this time of adversity: “Is the Lord in our midst or not?”  Adversity, it seems, caused them to forget even the most powerful works of God and in their fear, they turned against him.

          A few millennia later, we can look back and ask, “After all that God had done for them, how could they fall into fear like that?”  The reality is, however, that we often do the same.  Even though we enjoy so many advantages in our lives—advantages for which, perhaps, we regularly take time to give thanks to God—when adversity hits, we suddenly forget how God has provided for us and we assume, rather, that he has abandoned us.  Perhaps we lose our job (or maybe our house… or maybe both), or a relationship disintegrates, or a tragedy takes the life of one of our loved ones, or maybe even a combination of these things… All of these things threaten our most basic necessities and so cause us to experience great anxiety and stress.  And instead of turning to God and making acts of faith that the one who has always provided for us will continue to provide for us, we rather turn against God: perhaps even asking ourselves “Is the Lord in our midst or not?”  Adversity, it seems, causes us, too, to forget even the most powerful works of God.

          In our Gospel reading, however, God gives us a definitive answer to our question in adversity.  The Samaritan woman comes to the well.  Why?  Because she’s thirsty of course.  There, at an obscure time of the day when she didn’t think that she’d encounter anyone, she meets our Lord and he makes a simple request: “Give me a drink.”  Over the centuries many a scholar and many a preacher has taken these words of the Lord and interpreted them to mean that our Lord was really expressing his thirst for her salvation; and this is a beautiful interpretation that I wouldn’t dare deny to be true.  But today I want us to hear these words in the context of accompaniment—as an answer, that is, to our question in adversity: “Is the Lord in our midst or not?”  In this exchange with the Samaritan woman, our Lord reveals himself as the Christ; but he first reveals himself to her as one who thirsts with her.  In this way, when he reveals himself as the Christ, he then also reveals himself as Emmanuel—that is, God with us: thus, definitively answering the question “Is the Lord in our midst or not?” with “Yes.  Here I am.”  As we heard, from this revelation, the woman no longer sought to fill her jar, but rather left it to go tell all of her fellow townspeople this incredibly good news.

          In our own lives, how often do we overlook our Lord in our midst because, instead of looking for him in our adversity with us, we are trying to find him outside of it?  We’ve stumbled and fallen into a deep well and the whole time we are looking up and crying out “Lord, why aren’t you here to help me?”, when often all we need to do is look to our right or our left to see that he is right there at the bottom of the well with us.  We think that, because we fell in the well that he was not with us and we forget that he has always revealed himself to be Emmanuel—God with us.  We think, “He couldn’t possibly be here in this mess with me”, completely forgetting that this is exactly what he decided to do when he became one of us, in the flesh.

          My brothers and sisters, God does not stand far off from us while we are suffering adversity.  No, he is with us in our adversity and, perhaps, much to our chagrin, he is not always with us to take the adversity away!  Rather, he is with us to remind us that none of us have been abandoned by him, even when, by all appearances and according to worldly standards, it appears to be so.  This is because faith was never meant to be a force field to shield us from adversity, but rather an inner strength to trust that God—the all-powerful God who, in one word, could wipe the whole universe from existence—has come to us, is in our midst, and remains with us, and that, therefore, we have nothing to fear: not even the complete loss of our most basic necessities.

          Back in 2009, among the many things that struck me about the adversity with which the people in those small villages lived, I remember noticing that in every house into which I walked, there was a little altar to God: a reminder that, in their adversity, the Lord was in their midst.  By our presence and, I expect, by the work that Kris would eventually accomplish in their villages, I pray that they also knew that God’s merciful love was leading them through it.

          My brothers and sisters, as we continue this Lenten journey towards Easter, let us remember that, in so many ways, our Lord Jesus is truly in our midst—not only thirsting with us, but also longing to slake our thirst with the living waters that flow from his heart—so that, turning away from sin, we may be renewed and ready to rejoice whole-heartedly when Easter comes: a joy that we taste even now here in this Holy Eucharist.

Given at All Saints Parish: Logansport, IN – March 19^th, 2017

From Catholic Nerd to Martyr

          Thanks to Melissa Keating of Denver Catholic for her article on Blessed Marcel Callo.  For those of us who ever wondered if we'd be strong enough to handle a challenge to our faith, he is a great witness!

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Homily: 28^th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Cycle B

          By all accounts, Blessed Marcel Callo was what we might call a “Catholic Nerd” in his youth.  You know, the one who’s so into all of the “Catholic” things that he becomes a little obnoxious.  One writer has said of him, “He would have been the modern equivalent of the teenager who wears 50 saints medals at once and has the techno remix of [the worship song] ‘Oceans’ as [sic] their ringtone”.  If he had been a seminarian, he would have been the one that other seminarians labeled a “POD”: “Pious and Overly Devout”.  When his coworkers would make jokes about women, Marcel refused to have anything to do with them. He refused to date, saying, “I am not one to amuse myself with the heart of a lady, since my love is pure and noble”.  That same writer said that this last comment is the kind that would make her “want to take his lunch money”.

          As he progressed through his teen years, Marcel involved himself in his local youth group, which in France at the time was called the “Young Christian Workers”.  Through this group Marcel lightened up.  He still took his faith and his Catholic identity very seriously, but he learned to live it more joyfully.  He would eventually become a leader in the group, from where he could then pass on the good graces of formation that he had received from the group.  He met the love of his life there and, although he waited some time to ask her out, they eventually became engaged.  Marcel’s piety had paid off, it seems.  He had found his vocation in Christ and was ready to enter into it.

          This was the time of the Second World War, however, and Marcel and his family had to face the reality of the German invasion.  While helping to clean up debris after a German bombing in his town of Rennes, he discovered the body of his younger sister.  Later his family was told that they had to send Marcel to the forced labor camps and that if they didn’t, the whole family would be sent.  Marcel went willingly; reportedly telling his family that he was “going as a missionary, because there was an urgent apostolate waiting for him in the barracks”.  (Perhaps he hadn’t quite yet purged his “overzealous Catholicism”.)

          What he found there was beyond his imagination.  Everything that once supported his strong Catholic identity—and, thus, his faith—was stripped away from him.  Aside from the deplorable conditions (intense physical labor, unsanitary living quarters, and starvation rations for food), there was no Catholic Church in that town.  After three months without his family, his fiancée, and the Eucharist—all the while living in inhumane conditions and being forced to produce the very same weapons that killed his sister—Marcel sunk into a deep depression.

          As I reflected on today’s Gospel reading, I couldn’t help but wonder if the man who approached Jesus wasn’t a little like Blessed Marcel.  He comes to Jesus, probably because he had heard of the way that Jesus spoke with great authority, so as to “double-check” to see if he was truly living his life in such a way so as to be made worthy of eternal life.  In some way, you could almost imagine him saying, “Am I Jewish enough?”—that is, “Am I doing all of the right things? Are my saints medals in the right order? Am I saying the right novenas?” etc.  He must have felt relieved when Jesus confirmed that what he had been doing were the right things.  Then Jesus blindsides him: “You are lacking in one thing” he says, “Go, sell what you have, and give to the poor … then come, follow me”.  The Gospel tells us that he went away sad because he had many possessions.

          I imagine that this man from the Gospel and Blessed Marcel both thought that, because they had been diligent to order their lives according to God’s commandments, they wouldn’t be tested beyond their strength.  Yet, in both of their stories we see not only that they were tested, but also that when they were tested the fell into despair at what had been asked of them.  In times of peace and security, they could be bold about their religion.  Confronted with trial, however, they faltered.  Their religious convictions had not prepared them for this challenge.

          I, myself, have often wondered if I would be able to face a strong challenge to my faith without faltering.  I like to think that I would be able to face it, but I’ve never had to face it, so I can’t know how I’d react.  The secret, I suppose, to knowing can be found in taking a look at how we are using our religious practices.

          If the substance of our faith is our encounter with the person of Jesus, and, thus, our religious practices serve to bolster that faith, then we should be able to weather any storm that comes our way (even if we don’t weather it very gracefully).  If, however, our religious practices are the substance of our faith (that is, “I’m Catholic because I go to Mass and pray the rosary”, instead of “I’m Catholic because I believe in Jesus and the communion I experience with him in the Catholic Church), then our faith will crumble when storms come and wipe those things away.

          The man in the Gospel faced this challenge.  His security was in his religious practices and material things.  When Jesus challenged him to leave those things behind, he fell into crisis because he didn’t know how to deal with it.  Blessed Marcel also faced this challenge.  His security was in his religious practices and the community he formed in his youth group.  Sent to the work camp, all of these securities were stripped away and he, too, fell into crisis.  Now, although we don’t know what happened to that rich man in the Gospel, we do know what happened to Blessed Marcel.

          After three months in the camp, he discovered that Sunday Mass was being offered in an obscure room in the camp.  He managed to get there one Sunday and, for the first time in months, he received Holy Communion.  He profoundly felt Christ in that Communion and in it that he discovered hope.  Christ was not far from him in the camp, he discovered, and so there was no reason that he couldn’t live with the same sense of joy and purpose that he had when he lived at home.

          Marcel began to organize sports and other activities like he was used to organizing in his youth group back home.  They prayed together as a community in the barracks and he even found a French priest to come and offer Mass once a month.  His efforts, however, got him noticed by the S.S.  He was arrested and when the other prisoners asked why he was arrested the officers simply replied: “He’s too Catholic”.

          Marcel was convicted of operating a “clandestine operation” in the camp and so was sent to a different concentration camp where the conditions were so deplorable, and he was so neglected, that in less than one year he would die.  He never lost his joy, however, and he continued to pray with and encourage his fellow prisoners until the end.  For this, John Paul II beatified Marcel, calling him a “martyr for the faith”.  The pope said that like Christ, Marcel “loved until the end, and his entire life became the Eucharist.”

          My brothers and sisters, none of us can ever prepare ourselves for the ways that life might challenge us and our faith.  Our religious practices must be more than ornaments, however, if we hope to have the strength to overcome these challenges.  Rather, they must be outward signs of our inner convictions.  If they’re not—or if those inner convictions could use a little workout—don’t waste another second!  This time of peace and security is a time of preparation—a training camp, if you will—for any and every challenge that may come.  While we may never be asked to face what Blessed Marcel faced, we are daily being challenged to confront our attachments to this world, like the man in the Gospel was, and, thus, our readiness to follow Jesus with undivided hearts.

          If you find yourself unready for such a challenge, then don’t go away sad.  Rather, turn to our Lord today, encounter him here in this Eucharist, and let him transform your heart.  He will strengthen you with a supernatural grace to overcome every challenge and to be a true witness of his grace and mercy in the world.  May our Blessed Mother Mary protect us with her prayers and guide us with her motherly care; and may Blessed Marcel Callo, patron of Catholic Nerds everywhere, inspire us all to take up our crosses and follow Christ.

Given at All Saints Parish: Logansport, IN – October 10^th & 11^th, 2015