Forty Hours

I now have some photos to share with you from our Forty Hours Eucharistic Devotions--a venerable tradition revived during this Year of Faith--which began on Divine Mercy Sunday (April 7) and concluded with a Votive Mass of the Holy Eucharist (April 9).

Eucharistic Adoration began at noon (after Mass) on Sunday, and continued until midnight.  At the "Hour of Mercy" (3:00pm), Fr. Stitt preached, the Chaplet of the Divine Mercy was sung, and Benediction was given.  On Monday and Tuesday, Adoration began with Morning Prayer, and the Holy Rosary was recited at both days at noon.  Fr. Tom celebrated Mass and preached Monday evening for the Solemnity of the Annunciation of the Lord, with Adoration resuming until midnight.  These pictures all come from the final evening: Adoration, Holy Mass, Eucharistic Procession, and Benediction.  

We've since learned that the last time Forty Hours was observed in Malone was in the the fall of 1978.  Given the incredible response of folks that night and ever since, we certainly won't wait that long before scheduling these devotions again...

Love One Another

No homily for you this Sunday: our deacon was preaching.  I'll be back in the pulpit next Sunday.

   Fifth Sunday of Easter   C 

Readings

"I give you a new commandment: love one another.

As I have loved you, so you also should love one another.

This is how all will know that you are my disciples,

if you have love for one another."

John 13:34-35

  

Calling...

Ironically appropriate to find in today's Sunday comics...

What to do?

I saw this for the first time on a card Fr. Stitt had the other day.  It really spoke to me, and it only seems appropriate to share it on this World Day of Prayer for Vocations...

If you are wondering what to do with your life, 


if you feel you want to do something really great with it, 


if you don’t want to fall into a conventional, self-centered existence, 


if you want to help other people in the deepest way possible, 


where they most need help, 


then think about the service of the Gospel in the priesthood. 


If you become a priest, 


you will never be rich;


you will have to give up the love of a partner 


for the love of everyone you meet; 


you will have to give up your family commitments; 


you will often be on the move; 


you will never have a mortgage; 


you will be under obedience to the leader of the Church 


just as Jesus was obedient to the will of the Father. 


But if you are faithful to the ideal of the priesthood, 


you will have the deep happiness 


which Jesus gives to those who are his friends. 


One last thing: 


you don’t have to be perfect to think of being a priest. 


Jesus chooses ordinary people, not moral heroes. 


You just have to want to serve him; 


he will give you the rest in due course.

Most Rev. Maurice Noël Léon Couve de Murville (1929-2007)

Archbishop of Birmingham (England)

  

Sing

When you live in the same house as the Vocations Director, you really have to do things up for the World Day of Prayer for Vocations...

   Fourth Sunday of Easter   C 

Readings

In the midst of all the other news—

so sad and distressing—

coming out of Boston these past several days,

I suspect many of you have seen some footage

of Wednesday night’s Bruins-Sabres game. 

It was the first major sporting event in that city

following last Monday’s bombing of the Boston Marathon. 

Before play got underway,

teams and fans both paused for a moment of silence

in tribute to the victims. 

And then Rene Rancourt 

stepped forward

to sing the Star Spangled Banner—

just as he has done 

whenever the Bruins

have taken the home ice 

since 1976. 

But only a couple of lines 

into the song,

Rancourt lowered his mic 

and let the crowd take over,

in one of the most beautiful 

and moving renditions

of our beloved national anthem

that anyone has ever heard.

It began with one voice—

strong, recognized, and reliable.

It was then picked up by just a few.

But soon, 17,000 people—

including, no doubt, 

many who would otherwise

claim that they can’t sing a note—

were belting out those lyrics 

penned in battle

not quite 200 years ago.

It was loud—very loud—

but the song echoed not only because of the volume.

The familiar text was clear,

but it conveyed a message far greater than it’s words.

On this Good Shepherd Sunday, Jesus says:

My sheep hear my voice;

I know them, and they follow me.

During this Year of Faith,

we’ve been encouraged to look back

at all the many examples of faithfulness who have preceded us.

As a whole, we look to the Saints.

But as individual believers,

we can look back to people much closer to home.

I’m sure we could all give names of men and women—

family members, friends, and neighbors;

priests, religious sisters, and lay teachers—

who built up the Church, often in the face of many hardships.

I—for example—think of my grandparents.

Like John in his vision, we see a great multitude,

of every nation, race, and tongue,

who have survived times of great distress,

trusting always that the Lamb will shepherd them.

But during this Year of Faith,

we are also encouraged to look ahead.

I think of my nieces and nephew.

I think of our young parishioners soon to be confirmed

or receive their first Holy Communion.

With so many voices in the world

contradicting or rejecting the Gospel of Christ—

much as it was when Paul and Barnabas preached in Antioch—

I wonder:

What will become of them?

What will become of their faith?

What will become of these parishes—of this Church?

There’s great comfort in knowing
that we stand on the strong shoulders

of those who have gone before us.

Yet there’s also great danger in growing complacent.

How do we make sure that the Good Shepherd’s voice

is heard—loud and clear—in our world today?

For 50 years, this 4^th Sunday of Easter

has been designated as the World Day of Prayer for Vocations.

In particular, we are encouraged to pray

for vocations to the priesthood,

since without priests none of the other vocations can stand.

(Without the priesthood, there can be no Eucharist…

…and without the Eucharist, there can be no Church.)

In his message for this annual observance,

now-Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI

cited these striking words of Pope Paul VI from back in 1964:

The problem of having a sufficient number of priests

has an immediate impact on all of the faithful:

not simply because they depend on it

for the religious future of Christian society,

but also because this problem

is the precise and inescapable indicator

of the vitality of faith and love

of individual parish and diocesan communities,

and the evidence of the moral health of Christian families.

Wherever numerous vocations

to the priesthood and consecrated life are to be found,

that is where people are living the Gospel with generosity.

When I arrived as your pastor almost three years ago,

I was in for quite a culture shock:

I was leaving two relatively small parishes

in a rather quiet corner of the Adirondacks;

I was coming to now shepherd four parishes,

which together form the largest Catholic community

in the entire Diocese of Ogdensburg.

As I’ve described it, I went from basically being a one-man-band

to conducting a major symphony orchestra!

That musical metaphor 

continues to speak to me.

The Catholic priesthood—you see—

is not about being a soloist.

Yes, we priests are charged 

by Christ and the Church

with teaching the words 

and starting the song…

…but we’re never intended 

to be singing it by ourselves.

As the challenging words of two Popes make clear,

we must all join in the singing.

The vocation of each one

depends on the vocations of all the others—

whether to holy orders or marriage,

to religious or single life.

In the Church, there can be no casual bystanders.

Everybody’s got a part to play, and every part is essential.

Use the voice God gave you—

no exceptions, no excuses!

And we need to make sure

we’re all on tempo and in tune.

We all know what it’s like

when we’re singing or saying the various parts of the Mass,

and someone in the crowd’s a little fast or a little slow,

or slips back into the old translation of the Missal:

it quickly throws the whole thing off.

So, too, when we willingly stray from Church teaching.

To try and croon to our own beat

only serves to compromise the music

and draw attention to oneself.

But while we need to sing together,

we must also realize that

we can’t and we shouldn’t all sing the same way.

Some sing bass while others sing soprano,

and if there weren’t any diversity

then there wouldn’t be any harmony, either.

We’ve all been made and remade in God’s likeness,

yet we’re not all cut from the same mold.

And so we must listen closely to each other

if we hope to achieve the right blend.

On this Good Shepherd Sunday,

we must all recommit ourselves

to calling forth young men 

(and maybe a few older ones)

to conduct the music taught us by Jesus.

But we must also recall

that this isn’t really about a chosen few—

as if preaching to the choir.

We’re talking about a melody

which ought to resound 

beyond these sacred walls

and be heard in our daily living.

In the midst of a frightening 

and tragic week,

a single patriotic song 

sung at a single hockey arena

brought comfort and hope 

to many, far and wide.

Then just imagine what can happen

when we all—

with full heart and mind and voice—

join in that unending hymn

which alone has the power

 to save the world!

So sing—

that the Shepherd’s voice 

might be heard.

  

Breakfast

...served all day, just like in the very best diners.

   Third Sunday of Easter   C 

Readings

A mother was making breakfast for her two young sons

when they began to argue over who would get the first pancake.

The mother saw an opportunity to teach them an important lesson.

“If Jesus were sitting in this kitchen,” she said, “he would say,

‘My brother can have the first pancake.  I can wait.’”

Which is when the older boy turned to the younger

and said, “Tommy, you be Jesus!”

With our busy and unpredictable schedules,

the one meal Fr. Tom, Fr. Stitt, and I

are most likely to eat together on any given day

is breakfast.

It’s generally a pretty simple event:

cereal or toast, milk and orange juice,

a warm, caffeinated beverage, 

the radio and morning newspapers.

About once a week, 

we try to “do it up” a bit more,

with bacon and eggs or pancakes.

But on very special occasions—

in particular, when we have company—

and there’s nothing too heavy on the morning’s agenda,

we like to have what we’ve taken to calling,

“High Pontifical Breakfast.”

High Pontifical Breakfast is eaten in the dining room

instead of in the kitchen.

I’ll make crepes, and serve them up on the nice plates.

We take the extra time to linger 

over a second cup of coffee.

There’s breakfast, and then there’s breakfast.

This Sunday, we hear Jesus say

some of the most ordinary, down-to-earth words

found on his lips anywhere in the gospels:

Come, have breakfast.

It was not a fancy affair.

No porcelain teacups. 

No linen napkins.

Just a little toast and some freshly grilled fish

shared among friends on the beach.

Anytime we find Jesus breaking bread in the Scriptures,

the Eucharist ought to come to mind—and rightly so.

This seaside picnic at sunrise,

like the multiplication of loaves for the thousands

or—of course—Jesus’ Last Supper with his Apostles,

has something to teach us about our regular appointment

for Sunday breakfast with the risen Lord.

He is here, really and truly, in his Body and Blood:

both the unseen Host who calls us together

and the abundant Feast that’s spread before us.

During these past several weeks,

we’ve had many celebrations centered on the Most Holy Eucharist

which have been marked by extra solemnity:

our liturgies of the Easter Triduum;

our devotions for Divine Mercy Sunday;

our Eucharistic procession marking the end of 40 Hours.

They’ve all been—to borrow the expression—

“High Pontifical Breakfasts” with Jesus.

With gleeming candlesticks and clouds of incense,

with ministers in flowing white robes and golden sashes,

with crowds of people singing out their praises

and kneeling in worship before the Lamb of God on his throne,

they’ve borne a strong—and purposeful—resemblance

to the visions of John in the Book of Revelation,

from which we hear during this Easter season.

One of you said to me that these rich and beautiful ceremonies

have been a “little taste of heaven.”

This is, of course, only “right and just!”

We ought to do our best for the One

who, in order to rescue us, gave his all.

But you can’t have High Pontifical Breakfast every day.

Which is why we mustn’t forget just how “ordinary”

is this third time when Jesus is revealed to his disciples

after being raised from the dead.

He’s come to see them at work.

Remember: these men were fishermen

before Christ called them to leave their nets and follow.

He’s come to visit with them over a simple meal.

It’s something which happened so regularly

during the years they’ve known him

that no one feels the need to ask, “Who are you?”

And Jesus has come to restore his relationship with them—

their leader, in particular—

at the moment when they’re feeling least worthy

to keep company with the Son of God.

Simon Peter doesn’t rush to cover his nakedness

because he’s suddenly feeling modest;

no, Peter, like Adam and Eve, covers himself

because he’s feeling ashamed:

ashamed, since the last time he saw Jesus,

he was publically denying three times over

that he even knew the man.  (cf. R. Barron)

As the Acts of the Apostles makes clear,

Peter will go on to prove beyond doubt the love he triply professes,

choosing to obey God rather than men

and willingly suffering dishonor for the sake of Jesus’ name.

We expect to encounter the risen Lord

in those exceptional ritual moments

which take place over the course of the Church’s calendar.

But Jesus also desires

to take part in the lives of his followers—then and now—

in ways not possible before his resurrection.

He’s constantly breaking through our locked doors.

He’s constantly appearing on life's beaches.

He wants to be with us, not only at Sunday Mass,

but in the middle of our daily lives—

in moments both great and small.  (cf. C. Jamison)

Allow Christ in, and the ordinary is transformed:

once empty nets are filled to the breaking point.

Let’s not be like those seven disciples on the Sea of Tiberius—

unable to recognize Jesus when he’s standing on our shores.

Instead, let’s live with eyes wide open,

fully expecting to see him here at church,

present in Sacrament upon our altars,

but also during breakfast at home,

sitting right across the kitchen table.

  

Old & New

As we went for our walk with the Lord through the park and the heart of downtown Malone last night, I was really struck by something.  In the Gospel, we heard about two disciples on the road who could see anything but Jesus (despite how very, very close he'd come) and because of this, they nearly lost their way.  As I carried the Blessed Sacrament in procession, I couldn't see anything but Jesus (with the monstrance only inches from my nose) and because of this, had to trust completely that he was the Way.  Isn't this what it's all about: letting Jesus be our only guide?

   Forty Hours: Votive Mass of the Most Holy Eucharist   

Readings - Rev 1:5-8 / Ps 34:2-11 / 1 Cor 10:16-17 / Lk 24:13-35 

40 Hours.
The first time I heard anything about it

I was a “tween,“ as they say these days.

It was in this little black prayer book,

which was my mother’s during her childhood before it was mine.

(I’m so glad my mother 

was able to join us tonight.)

“Devotion of the Forty Hours,” it says

at the head of a few pages of prayers.

But I had no idea 

what happened during those 40 hours—

or why 40.

The next time I heard something about 40 Hours

was during my time in the seminary and first years as a priest.

My elder brothers in the priesthood

would speak nostalgically of the good ol’ days

when many priests would come together from far and wide

to take part in 40 Hours.

But the stories they shared

often had very little to do with anything that happened in church,

and much more to do with the card playing and carousing

that took place over in the rectory.

I’m so pleased that a number of my brother priests—

some of them with faces very familiar to you—

have joined us here tonight.

Welcome!  You honor us with your presence.

You should know that we did enjoy

a nice meal together earlier this evening…

…but I can assure there wasn’t too much carousing!

But the one who finally gave me a fuller picture

of what 40 Hours is all about is our own Fr. Tom,

who experienced it annually while in the seminary in Philadelphia.

As we began to make plans for the Year of Faith,

it was at the top of his list to suggestions.

And so here we all are, 40 hours later.

We’re indebted to you, Fr. Tom,

for inspiring these days of prayerful renewal.

Reviving this venerable tradition—

which hasn’t taken place in Malone

or anywhere in the Diocese of Ogdensburg, 

as best we know,

for at least 30 or 40 years—

has meant dusting off and polishing up

a whole bunch of stuff 

pulled from our sacristies and attics.

The more careful observers among you 

will have noted that different monstrances 

were used over the last three days:

Sunday from St. Joseph’s, 

Monday from St. John Bosco,

and today from St. Helen’s.

The monstrance we will use for tonight’s Procession

is from here at Notre Dame;

we have photos from 60 to 70 years ago

showing that very same vessel 

(and the same candelabras, too,)

used for Benediction 

out on the front steps of this church.

And the embroidered ombrellino

which will be held over the Blessed Sacrament

during the first steps of the Procession

has been graciously loaned to us

by St. Patrick’s Church in Hogansburg—

the “mother church” of Malone 

and of Catholic parishes all the way 

from Massena to Churubusco.

Many more than 40 hours 

have gone into the preparations

for these grace-filled days,

on the part of our staff, choirs, servers, and others;

to any and all who played a part:

our deepest thanks.

40 Hours.

For 40 hours those two disciples on the road to Emmaus

had been keeping quiet vigil over the Body of the Lord—

much as we have been in this church for three days—

40 hours being the traditional period of time Christ lay in the tomb.

And they concluded those 40 hours

by walking with the Risen Lord along the way,

by inviting him to their wayside table —

much as we are about to do.

Those two disciples spent 40 hours looking back, 

conversing about all the things that had occurred.

It had the potential to stop them in their tracks,

leaving them downcast;

instead, they found their hope restored.

We have spent these 40 hours

paging through the old books, reminiscing about the ol’ days,

dusting off the relics of years gone by

not as a lesson in history,

but because they hold promise for the future.

You see, for the Church,

Tradition isn’t about being old fashioned;

it holds the mysterious power to keep things novel and fresh—

and that’s because it comes to us from God,

who is Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end,

ever-ancient and ever-new.

Our 40 Hours are coming to an end,

but they are really only a beginning.

May we not be like those disciples on the way to Emmaus:

slow of heart to believe,

our eyes prevented from recognizing the Lord,

alive and present here in our midst.

Have we not felt our hearts burning within us?

Instead, let us set out at once and recount

to our families, our coworkers, our friends,

all that has taken place.

Jesus Christ is made known to us once more

in the breaking of bread!