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!

  

Have Mercy

If you're in the neighborhood, be sure to join us for 40 Hours!

   Second Sunday of Easter - Divine Mercy   C 

Readings

A politician—getting ready for his next campaign—

went to have his portrait taken.

After receiving the proofs,

he stormed back into the photographer’s studio screaming:

“These pictures don’t do me justice!”

To which the photographer replied:

“Sir, with a face like yours, what you need isn’t justice, but mercy.”

Most of the time, finding something empty

isn’t cause for very much celebration.

An empty refrigerator, or empty gas tank, or empty wallet

bring us down, not lift us up.

But the paradoxically good news of Easter

is news of an empty tomb.

Most historians—and not just those who are believers—

will concede that a tomb was indeed found empty

on that first Easter morning.

But nobody ever claimed to have seen

exactly what happened before dawn

on that first day of the week:

nobody took a picture with their iPhone;

nobody wrote a story for the Jerusalem Times.

And so, over the centuries,

a number of theories have developed

which explain that empty tomb,

but which also deny that it had anything to do

with resurrection.

There’s the conspiracy theory

(and don’t we all just love one of those!),

which claims that some of Jesus’ disciples hid his body

and concocted the accounts of seeing him alive again.

There’s the theory that the women got confused

and mistakenly went to the wrong tomb.

There’s the theory that Jesus

wasn’t actually dead when he was buried,

but just appeared to have died.

There’s the theory that the whole thing

was nothing more than wishful thinking:

a massive shared hallucination.  (cf. W. L. Crag, America, 4/1/13)

Now, none of these theories

are anywhere near as convincing as the gospel account:

that Jesus’ tomb was empty

because he had been raised from the dead.

Based on what evidence? 

On the changed lives of Jesus’ disciples.

The men and women

who had followed Jesus before his crucifixion

are positively transformed after his tomb goes empty.

Those who had been hiding behind locked doors

are now found preaching and healing openly among the crowds.

They will go on to travel 

to the four corners of the earth.

(Thomas himself, 

infamous for his initial doubts,

is believed to have taken the gospel 

all the way to India.)

Of the eleven remaining Apostles,

ten of them would later 

willingly die as martyrs.

People won’t generally go to such extremes

for a fake, or a mistake, 

or a figment of their imaginations!

The best evidence, then, 

of why Jesus’ tomb is empty

is that men and women 

who had experienced Divine Mercy

then went out as witnesses and agents

of the same Divine Mercy for others.

Those who had—by-and-large—

abandoned Jesus on his way to the Cross,

clearly experienced something

which causes them to believe that Jesus

will never abandon them.

For their infidelity,

they knew that justice 

demanded punishment;

instead, Jesus—raised up from the grave—

returns to give them peace.

The wounds of his Passion—

in Christ’s hands, feet, and side—

which could have been used 

as proof against them,

have become, rather, the sign 

of the greatest love

this world has ever known.

When Luis Montesano—

once a lawyer and a professor of law—

entered the seminary four years ago 

in Buenos Aires,

Cardinal Jorge Bergoglio was his Archbishop.

(He’s now better known, of course, 

as Pope Francis.)

Luis recalls taking part in 

the “Night of Charity,”

during which Catholic parishes 

of the Archdiocese

go out one night each week

to bring food to those who live on the streets.

Cardinal Bergoglio was always perfectly clear

on how the nights should unfold:

first, there would be Eucharistic Adoration,

and only then going out to the poor—

giving them something to eat

and engaging in conversation with them.

The Archbishop informed his people:

“Don’t be hasty.  This isn’t fast food.

The order is, Christ first, then Christ, 

and Christ last of all.”

First, meet Christ in the Eucharist;

then seek Christ in the poor;

and finally bring Christ to the poor.  

(cf. Zenit, 4/5/13)

Is that not the pattern we see

among the Apostles and first disciples?

To first experience, to receive, the Divine Mercy,

and then to go and put it into practice?

And is that not what’s expected

of disciples still today—of you and me?

Today, on this Divine Mercy Sunday,

we begin our 40 Hours Eucharistic devotions.

For 40 hours over the course of three days

we are called to come and sit at the feet of him

who once was dead, but is now alive forever:

to plead and adore before the risen Christ,

really and truly present in the Most Holy Eucharist.

(You can find the full schedule of liturgies and devotions—

and a beautiful note of personal encouragement from Bishop LaValley—

inserted in the bulletin.)

But we cannot—we must not—stop there!

Which is why the 40 Hours will conclude

with a procession through the streets of Malone.

Having experienced mercy ourselves,

we will go out as its witnesses and agents

in our own spiritual “night of charity.”

Both you and I are all-too-aware

of the many people here in the North Country who are materially poor.

And we do well to make every effort to meet their bodily needs

through the Corporal Works of Mercy:

feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty,

clothing the naked, sheltering the homeless,

visiting the sick and the imprisoned, and burying the dead.

I’m moved by the generosity with which parishioners

strive regularly to accomplish these charitable works.

But there are even more folks across our region

who are spiritually poor—destitute, in fact.

And what are we doing for them?

During this Year of Faith in particular,

we are being challenged by the Church

to recommit ourselves to the Spiritual Works of Mercy—

to meeting the deep needs of the soul:

by admonishing the sinner, by instructing the ignorant,

by counseling the doubtful, by comforting the afflicted,

by bearing wrongs patiently, by forgiving offences willingly,

and by praying for the living and the dead.

My friends,

in the way we worship, 

in the way we live each day,

in the way we reach out to needy neighbors,

we ought to be saying before the world, “We have seen the Lord!”

We must be the convincing evidence today

that Jesus is in fact risen from the dead;

that Jesus has entrusted to his Church and her priests the power to forgive sins;

that Jesus remains very much alive and present among us in the Sacrament of his Body and Blood;

that Divine Mercy is flowing freely and desires to fill every soul.

But if we aren’t willing to be those witnesses,

if we aren’t able to give that testimony,

then more than Christ’s tomb will remain empty.

So come—come to 40 Hours!

And then, go—go to announce the good news.