Nothing

On his way out of church this morning, a visitor stopped to say, "Thanks for nothing, Father!"

Stay cool...

   Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time   B 

Readings

I had several ideas for a homily 

floating around in my head

when it hit me:
since it’s so blasted hot around here this weekend,
I ought to preach about nothing.
Now, before you get too excited,
I don’t mean no homily at all;
I mean a brief one on nothing.

St. John Vianney—
the patron saint of parish priests
whose image is right here beside the pulpit—
once said:
I have been privileged to give great gifts
from my empty hands.

You’ll notice in the gospel

that Jesus sends out his twelve Apostles—

his first priests—empty handed: 

no food, no money, no change of clothes. 

(Jesus did, however, say they were to wear sandals…

…so I’m carefully following 

his instructions this morning!)

Given the crucial nature of this mission,

why are they sent—apparently—with nothing?

Fr. Tom (right, with modern "sandals") and I in the
sacristy before Mass yesterday evening at 90° F

Well, because they are sent to preach…

…but theirs is to be 

Jesus’ own message of repentance,

and not some new teaching

which they themselves have devised. 

And because they are sent to drive out demons…

…but they can only do so in Christ’s name,

rather than their own. 

And because they are sent out to heal…

…but they are to use an intermediary—

oil for anointing—

since they, too, are but instruments

of Another’s power to cure both body and soul. 

You see, the Twelve go out with nothing—

nothing of their own, at least—

to make it perfectly clear 

that what they have to give

does not in any way come from them.

And just what is it they have to give?

Every spiritual blessing in the heavens,

lavished upon us 

out of the riches of God’s grace.

Like the Apostles, all of us—

yes, we priests in a particular way,

but every single follower of Jesus, as well—

are summoned and sent out to proclaim his gospel,

to drive out the spirit of evil from this world,

and to restore the sick to health.

So if you’re feeling inadequate

or ill-equipped for the job at hand,

have no fear;

you’re probably right where you should be,

since what’s most needed to accomplish this mission is nothing:

not our talents or skills or abilities,

not popularity or power or pedigree,

but our nothingness.

What a privilege to be chosen to give such great gifts

from these, our empty hands!

   

His & Hers

In honor of this blog's anniversary, I've got a little present to share with all of you.  You may recall that my friend Dan had been serving a tour of duty over in Afghanistan and sent me a most fascinating gift. Well, Dan has safely (thank God!) returned home to his family...and sent me another care package about a month ago--this time, with a piece of headgear that I could be photographed wearing without causing either cross-cultural or cross-dressing scandal.  The hat is called a "pakul" (or "mujahideen cap") and, together with the accompanying "man scarf," is as popular in Afghanistan as a baseball cap is here in the States.  Dan was kind enough to include directions on how to properly roll the cap and wear the scarf.  I could not, however, find instructions on how to take a picture of me in them that didn't look either rather frightening or mostly ridiculous...

Thanks again, Dan!  I miss your blog...but we're so glad to have you back safe and sound!
     

A Prophet?

It was a year ago this past week that I started blogging.  One can clearly see from the counter below that there've been nearly 18,000 visits to the blog since then.  What you can't see is that nearly 2,000 of those visits have been from people searching for Bart Simpson.  Whodda thunk mentioning him would open such doors for evangelization?

However you got here, thanks for visiting!

   Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time   B 

Readings

A bishop was interviewing a seminarian,
asking where he might someday like to be assigned as a priest.
The seminarian said, rather boldly,
“Oh bishop, anywhere but Smallville.”
“Well, why not there?” the bishop inquired.
“You see,” the seminarian answered, “that’s my hometown—
and we all know that ‘a prophet is never honored in his native place.’”
“Don’t worry, my friend,” the bishop replied.
“Nobody is ever going to mistake you for a prophet.”

I quite clearly remember

during my days as a student at Wadhams Hall Seminary

going on a mountain climb in the Adirondacks

with several other students and members of the faculty.

When we’d reached the summit

and were resting there on the warm rocks,

the conversation somehow turned to particular challenges in ministry.

One of the priests shared—

I can still hear it like it was yesterday:

“One of the hardest things to do as a priest

is to be priest for your family.”

And in my experience, anyway, time has proved him right.

Some of it’s just plain practical.

I have a whole bunch of cousins,

and every time I turn around another one of them is getting married,

another one of them has had a baby.

Very early in my priesthood,

I had to make it clear that I simply could not be present

for every wedding and every baptism,

since I have weddings and baptisms aplenty in the parish.

Now, they’ve never complained to my face…

…but I’ve heard it through the grapevine

how this one or that has been less than understanding of my absence.

Of course, there are deeper issues, too.

My heart breaks as I see family members and close friends

who have stopped going to Mass;

or who have moved in with a partner—or even started a family—

without the benefit of the sacrament of Marriage;

or who have adopted a way of life

openly at odds with the faith in which they were raised—

the faith to which I’ve devoted my entire life.

Without a doubt, my love and affection for them endures…

…but what should I say?  What shouldn’t I say?

How can I lovingly be their son, brother, nephew, cousin, friend…

…and also faithfully be a priest of Jesus Christ?

It’s a challenge, indeed!

And it’s one I’m not sure I always get right.

A recent exchange with a friend was a good reminder

that this isn’t only a struggle for us

who are “professionally religious.”

I’ll call him “Adam.”

I met him when he was getting ready for his wedding.

Adam wasn’t raised in a very religious household—

and hadn’t been going to Mass for many years—

but his finacée was a rather devout Catholic.

And to his credit, Adam realized

that if he was going to ask the Church to give its blessing to his marriage,

then he’d ought to become a better member of it.

To see him reconnect with his faith

was a truly wonderful thing to behold!

Now—a number of years later—Adam’s father is dying.

He wants for his dad the same thing he found for himself:

to rekindle a relationship with God,

especially in this crucial hour.

Adam freely admits: he’s not as good a Catholic as he could be.

He doesn’t always make it to Sunday Mass with his wife and daughter.

So he’s not coming at this from some position of great self-righteousness.

He just knows—firsthand—what a difference faith in Christ makes.

Adam has tried to talk his dad into a visit from a priest…

…but without any success just yet.

Needless to say, he’s pretty disappointed.

But at my urging, Adam’s praying…and hasn’t given up hope.

We might all marvel at the way missionaries travel to far distant lands

and proclaim the gospel to nonbelievers.

But it’s an even trickier thing, I think,

to share our faith with those who are closest to us.

We can see in the gospel how Jesus’ own relatives and neighbors

were at first astonished by his teaching…

…but their astonishment quickly turned to taking offense.

They thought they knew everything about him.

Maybe they also thought Jesus owed them some special favor,

since they shared a hometown and a history.

He was amazed at their lack of faith—

not mad, I don’t think, but sad:

disappointed, like me and like Adam,

because he loves them so very deeply,

and wants only what’s best for them,

and knows full well what they’re missing.

The challenge that faces the Church today

here in the western world

is of reacquainting people with faith in Christ—

not people who have never known him at all,

but people who have never really known him well

and who have to come to take him for granted.

Our society has become a lot like Jesus’ native place.

We think we’ve got him all figured out…

…when, in fact, Jesus is little more than a “familiar stranger” to most.

Not because we’re any better than anybody else,

but because we love those who are near and dear to us

and because we love our faith,

let us recommit ourselves—each and every one of us—

to this critical work of the new evangelization.

With all gentleness, and with great compassion,

let us speak and act out of the courage of our convictions.

Then maybe—just maybe—we’ll be mistaken for a prophet.

  

Let Freedom Ring!

Freedom 
is not the right 
to do what we want, 
but what we ought.

       —Abraham Lincoln

Almighty God, Father of all nations,

for freedom you have set us free in Christ Jesus.

We praise you and bless you for the gift of religious liberty,

the foundation of human rights, justice, and the common good.

Grant to our leaders the wisdom to protect and promote our liberties;

by your grace may we have the courage to defend them,

for ourselves and for all those who live in this blessed land.

We ask this through the intercession of Mary Immaculate, our patroness,

and in the name of your Son, our Lord Jesus Christ,

in the unity of the Holy Spirit,

with whom you live and reign, one God, for ever and ever.  

Amen.

Sandwiched

I'm still a little sleepy from this weekend's celebrations...but it was worth it!

   Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time   B 

Readings

I spent Friday evening and all day yesterday

at Camp Guggenheim—our diocesan summer youth camp

on the shores of Lower Saranac Lake.

(That’s why I’m a little more bleary-eyed than usual this morning.)

This is the fortieth anniversary of the camp program,

and staff members from every season since 1972

gathered together to celebrate.

I was a counselor there myself from 1994 to 1996,

and this year will be the seventh

that I serve for a week as chaplain.

I count it a great privilege to be part of Guggenheim’s history;

I count it a great blessing that it’s been part of my own.

It was fascinating these last couple of days 

to watch the mix of people during the festivities.

I, of course, enjoyed catching up with old friends

with whom I worked so closely almost two decades ago.

But it was also good to hear firsthand stories

from those who had been there in the beginning—

to see how the original dream was still coming alive.

And it was good to visit with more recent counselors

whom I had previously known as my campers

(…although doing that makes me feel kind of old).

From where I stood, anyway,

this overlap and exchange among the different generations

was a rather beautiful thing to watch unfold.

Many of us had never met before,

but we had so very much in common—

and not just the shared experience of a special place.

Our talk wasn’t particularly pious,

our time not all spent in prayer,

but it was our mutual faith in Jesus Christ

that lay beneath all the laughter and reminiscing—

the faith which has been Guggenheim’s very reason for existence

throughout these forty years.

No one can be a stranger

when they share that connection.

This Sunday, our gospel is two-for-one:

two stories, two healings.

In some ways, the central figures couldn’t be more different:

one a little girl, the other an adult woman;

one the beloved child of a fairly prominent family,

the other marginalized by her illness

and the poverty it has brought her.

But their stories are put together in a sort of sandwich:

one inserted between two pieces of the other.

This is a mark of good storytelling;

consider of how often—in a novel or on TV or in the movies—

the plot cuts back and forth between one scene and another.

But I think that what we have here in the gospel

is more than a technique for increasing the drama;

I think that what we have here
is a way of revealing a much deeper bond.

                                                                                      Jesus wants to be sandwiched into our lives:

                                                                                      to be inserted between all the other ordinary pieces of them.

                                                                                      He wants to be very personally connected with us.

                                                                                      This is so clear in the way that Jesus interacts with the sick.

                                                                                      When Jairus begs that his daughter be healed,

                                                                                      Jesus could have simply said, “Let it be done!”

without ever following this man to his family

and entering into their home and into their grief.

And when the hemorrhaging woman touched his cloak,

Jesus could have easily let her quietly “steal” this cure,

instead of searching her out 

in the midst of the pressing crowd.

Yes, their prayers—in both cases—

would still have been answered…

…but there would have been no real connection,

no personal rapport, no building of relationship.

And since Jesus’ ministry

wasn’t so much about the health of the body

as it was the health of the soul,

this simply would not do.

Jesus had come not only to rescue us 

from human sickness;

he had come to rescue us 

from the isolation, the division, the separation,

which are the result of human sinfulness.

                                                                                      In the beginning, God created and fashioned us for life;

                                                                                      in Christ Jesus, God re-creates and raises us

                                                                                      to a new and more abundant life—one which is undying—

                                                                                      by connecting us with himself

                                                                                      and likewise connecting us with each other.

Here at Mass, we do more

than brush against the hem of Jesus’ robe:

we hold his risen Body in our hands.

Here at Mass, Jesus does more

than pay a brief visit under the roof of my house;

he comes to stay under the roof of my heart.

As he once did for those two women—

one young, one old—

Jesus does for you and me:

sandwiching his way into our everyday lives,

healing those parts of us touched by death,

and putting us together with him 

in a way not easily undone.

In so doing, we find ourselves deeply connected—

not just with Christ, but with one another;

our stories, our lives, become completely intertwined.

What I saw playing out 

at Camp Guggenheim this weekend—

what has touched and transformed

thousands of young people there these last forty years—

is, in truth, the reality played out

again and again in the Eucharist.

Look carefully, and a deep bond is revealed:

uniting us in a common faith, 

and so too in our responsibility

to see that each member of the human family

has everything it takes to be really and truly alive.

Even if we have never met before,

we who follow Jesus have the most essential thing in common.

No one can be a stranger here

when we share this Holy Communion,

when we share this connection.

From where I stand, anyway,

the overlap of relationships and exchange between us

is a rather beautiful thing to watch unfold.
  

Free for All

Bonne fête à tous!

   The Nativity of St. John the Baptist   

Readings

June 24^th is a big day for our neighbors to the north,

as the province of Québec celebrates la-Saint-Jean-Baptiste.

No one’s quite sure how John the Baptist

became so beloved among French Canadians.
Saint Joseph has been the official patron of what would become Canada

since the 1600’s…but his feast day is in March,

and it’s not the best time of the year to have a party.

So with John the Baptist’s birthday

happily coinciding with the start of summer,

I guess he was an obvious choice for a fun-loving people!

The early observances of the feast in Québec

carried over traditions from Europe:

lighting bonfires, for example, during the night preceding June 24^th—

one of the shortest nights of the year.

But the celebrations grew over time—

in particular, during the mid-1800’s.

Festive parades began to spring up,

often including a small boy 

dressed up as a young Saint John,

escorting a lamb through the town.

A flag was designed for the festivities,

which looks an awful lot 

like the provincial flag of Québec today,

except with a large image 

of Jesus’ Sacred Heart at its center.

(You can still see this flag 

in one of the stained glass windows

upstairs at Notre Dame.)

Everything, of course, led up to the celebration

of a solemn, sung High Mass 

in the principle church of each region.

But times have changed.

The stirring sermons of old began to be replaced

by patriotic speeches concerning national identity and pride.

The sung Masses in the churches faded away

as concerts and dancing sprang up in the parks.

The flag of fleur-de-lis still waves…

...but lacks the Sacred Heart.

And the parades continued…

...but without a little John the Baptist.

In fact, since a government decree of 1977,

June 24^th is now officially known 

as La Fête nationale du Québec—

the National Holiday of Québec.

Even in name, 

it’s become a pretty thoroughly 

secular observance.

Faith, it seems, 

has gradually given way to politics.

This past Thursday, Catholics in the United States—

at the urging of our Bishops—

began observing a “Fortnight for Freedom,”

leading up to our own national holiday on the 4^th of July.

Most people who’ve heard of it

have scratched their heads wondering,

“What in the world is a fortnight?”

That’s an old-fashioned word for fourteen days.

But we’d do much better during these two weeks

—in my opinion—to spend our time considering, 

“What is freedom?”

We live in an age 

that often confuses liberty with license.

Despite popular notions to the contrary,

everybody getting to do everything they want

is not the definition of democracy;

it’s the definition of anarchy—

a proven recipe for chaos.

A truly free people is governed not by the principles of majority rule,

but by the principles of the common good.

According to its founding documents,

our nation was intended to be one

where the law of the land is determined

not by what will help keep our elected officials in power,

but by what’s in accord with our human nature—

and our human nature, of course, is determined
by the God who made us.

The current troubled nature

of the relationship between faith and freedom

is not—though some who portray it so—

because religion is under violent political attack.

If that were the case,

then both the enemies of the Church and her plan for defense

would be abundantly clear.

The real danger we face today is one of neglect.

Many of the Catholic faithful in America

are—to put it bluntly—unfaithful.

They do not come to Mass with regularity;

they do not give Church teaching much influence over their lives;

they are overwhelmingly uneducated in the faith,

whether from lack of information or from misinformation.

Ignorance and apathy are the real enemies the Church now faces…

…and they are some of the most difficult to defeat

because they do not launch a full frontal assault,

but foster a slow, downward slide.

The goal of the prayer and penance, the education and action

that make up the current Fortnight for Freedom

isn’t that the U.S. become a Catholic nation,

nor even an explicitly Christian one.

This is not an attempt to impose our religious doctrines or discipline.

(A quick look around the world reveals

how such efforts regularly degenerate into violence.)

But what the Church hopes for American Catholics

is that we’ll make an honest examination of our national values:

how they’re established, and then how they’re expressed in law.

It’s a rather foolish—though frequently repeated—thing to say

that faith and politics must never meet.

We can’t give God sway—as he desires—of every aspect of our lives

and then make an exception for this one.

And I don’t think it’s too much to aim for

a respectful and reasoned dialogue between the two.

In the history of Israel,

prophets arose at the same time 

as did kings.

Even divinely anointed rulers 

had a tendency to forget

that their kingdom was to be governed by the law of God

rather than selfish human interests.

Prophets were appointed 

to remind kings of this.

Needless to say, 

it’s always been a tense relationship!

John the Baptist—

even from his birth—

arrives on the scene

as a prophet to the nations 

and a light for Israel:

preparing a way for the Lord 

who comes to set all people free.

But the freedom announced by John 

and won for us by Christ

is clearly not primarily 

a political reality—

not a matter of self-rule;

not the elimination of all government interference and restrictions.

The Baptist, after all, 

died at the hands of a puppet king,

and Jesus himself was sentenced 

under the laws of Roman occupation.

Thus the freedom for which 

we are to work and pray 

during these days

is not simply the ability to choose the manner in which we worship—

even whether we worship at all.

It’s an inner freedom—a freedom of conscience—

which naturally seeks outward expression:

the freedom to pursue the truth and live our lives according to it.

True religious liberty is not so much a matter of what we’re free from.

(Faith, you’ll remember, has generally best flourished

when it’s been most aggressively oppressed.).

No, true religious liberty is a matter of what we’re free for:

free for virtue; free to live by a higher law;

free to do good, and free to be good;

free to know God, and free to love and serve God in all things.

Such a freedom ought to always be protected by civil authorities…

…but even when it isn’t,

such a freedom can never really be taken away

because it’s part of our innate human dignity—

a freedom which has been granted,

not by the Constitution, but from above.

It is of this freedom that we—like Saint John the Baptist—

are called to be courageous prophets in the world today.

Unlike our neighbors in Québec,

our national holiday was never an explicitly religious one.

And it’s not the purpose of our Church to make it so.

But during this Fortnight for Freedom leading up to Independence Day, 

we are reminded of our duty as Catholics

to be a real force for good in our beloved country.

Following in the footsteps of Saint John the Baptist,

let us courageously seek and speak the truth

which alone has the power to set all people free.