Second Sunday of Easter - Divine Mercy B
since
I got involved with Camp Guggenheim—
our
diocesan youth camp on Lower Saranac Lake.
Every
week, every year, it’s almost exactly the same:
on
Sunday afternoon, 80 shy and awkward teenagers arrive,
not
too sure about what’s coming;
on
Friday afternoon, the same bunch of teenagers
are
hugging and sobbing because the never want to leave.
Is
it the place?
Yes,
it’s beautiful…but it doesn’t have any sort of magic.
Is
it the staff?
Sure,
they’re gifted…but this transformation isn't their doing, either.
Kids
come to summer camp from every possible background:
boys
and girls, from city and country, rich and poor,
in junior
and senior high, many Catholic but not all.
Most
of them have never met
prior
to their being thrown together.
But
over the course of five days—
whether
on the beach, at Arts and Crafts, around the bonfire,
or
during Mass and other moments of prayer—
they
come to know themselves better,
and
they come to know each other better,
and
they come to know God better,
and
so they come to truly care for one another.
This
doesn’t happen to everyone, of course:
one
or two get homesick and don’t make it through the week;
some
have decided before they even arrive
that
they’re just “too cool” for all of this;
a
few break off into cliques and have a rather narrow experience.
But
the vast majority discover something
they’ve
rarely—if ever—encountered before:
what
it’s like to be part of a community.
It
might only be temporary, but it’s no less real or powerful.
Yes,
these young people are given a safe place
to
be good and do good,
and
they have a great staff to support and encourage them,
but
ultimately it’s their choice, their decision,
to
let their differences dissolve
and
something new and beautiful arise:
a
community to which they’re rightly proud to belong.
Throughout
these 50 days of the Easter season,
our
first readings are taken from the Acts of the Apostles.
This
Sunday, we hear a description of the first Christians in Jerusalem,
just
a few months after the Resurrection of Jesus.
We’re
told that they share everything with each other—
even
their material possessions—
making
sure nobody ever goes without.
We’re
told that the believers were “of one heart and mind.”
In a pretty
short time, like kids at summer camp,
they’ve
formed a true community.
Is
that your experience of the Church?
One
of the great joys of being a Catholic
is
that you can go to any Catholic Church in the whole world
and,
even if you don’t speak the local language,
you
can pretty much know what’s going on at Mass.
It
really the planet’s only truly global network.
In
a sense, wherever you are, you’re “home.”
But
this reality also comes with a danger:
since
we can “fit” just about anywhere,
it
can give the impression that we Catholics
are
only so many interchangeable parts.
Does
anybody really notice if I’m there?
Does
anybody really notice if I’m absent?
This
is a particular problem here in the United States.
For
one thing, American Catholicism
has
become a lot like the rest of the nation:
divided
into political factions.
Even
here in Malone,
history
has often led us to accentuate our differences:
making
a bigger deal of whether we’re Irish or French,
from
uptown, downtown, or out-of-town,
rather
than that we’re all Roman Catholics.
And
we Americans also like to think of ourselves
as
rugged individualists—“lone ranger” types—
who,
even spiritually, want to stand on our own two feet.
Settle
into this sort of thinking,
and
a parish becomes a disconnected group of individuals
who
happen to come to pray at the same time in the same place,
but
who could just as easily do so elsewhere.
For
decades now, study after study has shown
that
when Catholics leave—and many do—
it’s
not generally because of a scandal
nor
difficulties with doctrine nor a dispute with their parish priest,
but
because they’ve found a stronger sense
of community
and fellowship somewhere else.
I
hear complaints and concerns in this department
from
time to time—
that
the parish isn’t as warm, welcoming, and friendly as it ought to be.
Unfortunately,
this isn’t something I have the ability to fix,
other
than giving encouragement, like I’m doing right now.
This
is not a change that can be made from the pulpit;
it’s
one that must come out of the pews.
It’s
up to you!
Are
you content to have a parish that works like a fill-up station,
where
religious consumers come to get what they’re after, then go?
Or
are you willing to make the effort to be a real family,
where
members become companions who seek to give and to grow together?
In
the priorities and goals
he
announced for the Diocese about a year ago,
Bishop
LaValley made it quite clear
not
being built of bricks and lumber, but of living stones.
Toward
that end,
he’s
requiring every parish
to take up a door-to-door census—
to take up a door-to-door census—
an
initiative that I think is perfectly timed for us
still
in our first year here at St. André’s.
We
need to know who’s out there—
to
learn their names and needs, to hear their concerns.
We
need you to go out—
to
have those conversations and make those connections.
Fr.
Stitt tells me that in his little parishes
in
Bombay and Fort Covington,
they’ve
got more than 90 volunteers
signed up as home visitors;
signed up as home visitors;
here,
in the largest parish in the Diocese,
we’ve
got less than 20 so far.
I’ve
heard folks say,
“But
people like to be personally invited,
they like to be asked…”
they like to be asked…”
I
understand. So do I!
But
that misses the point a bit, doesn’t it?
Your
parish needs you to step forward,
to make the first move.
to make the first move.
Don’t
wait!
See
the insert in this Sunday’s bulletin for more information.
It’s
quite hard—almost impossible—
to try
and be a disciple all on your own.
Just
look at the apostle Thomas:
when
he’s away from the rest,
he’s
plagued with serious doubts,
but
when reunited with his brothers,
he meets
the risen Jesus and comes to faith.
We
rely on the steadfastness of the good Lord,
whose
loving mercy is everlasting.
We’re
touched by it in the Sacraments
We’re
formed by it in the Church’s authentic teaching.
But
we also ought to experience it
simply
by being part of the community of believers—
by
the genuine support, compassion, and concern we show each other.
Jesus’
Easter gift of the Holy Spirit is a bond of unity.
(That’s
why the Spirit is the life-breath of forgiveness.)
The
Holy Spirit is imparted
in
order to draw us more intimately into relationship
with
God and with our neighbor.
The
Spirit has the power to unite us in true community…
…but
he won’t ever force himself upon us.
What
80 kids a week experience each summer at Camp Guggenheim
isn’t
meant for just a few;
it
should be our common experience of the Church.
It’s
not so much because of a special place.
It’s
not even because of a gifted staff.
It’s
because we’ve made a decision—every one of us—
to
remain open:
open
to God’s gift of the Holy Spirit
and
all that he would teach us—about himself, about ourselves;
open
to our neighbor—
taking
the blessed risk to become one in heart and mind.
It’s
happened before.
Let’s
make it happen here!
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