Authority Issues

   Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time   B 

Readings

Who are some of the authority figures you encounter in your ordinary, day-to-day life?  Police, judges, teachers, doctors, parents, spouse—the list could go on and on.  From where do they get their authority?  Some from the law or an election, some from their superior knowledge, some from a “higher power.”  But none of them have authority on their own; it’s borrowed, if you will, from another.

Such was the case among the rabbis and scribes of Jesus’ day.  When preaching and teaching, they would always make an appeal to the authorities.  “My mentor, Rabbi Frank, used to say…”  “Rabbi Bob, at the next synagogue over, has always taught…”  Of course, beyond citing other scholars, they would also invoke the authority of the Sacred Scriptures—the Law and the Prophets—with especial reverence for the words of Moses.  The people in the synagogue that Sabbath were astonished because “he taught them as one having authority.”  We don’t know the details of that particular sermon, but on a number of other occasions we hear Jesus say, “You have heard it said…but I say to you….”  His authority was all his own.

When someone speaks with that sort of authority, you sit up straight and pay attention.

Does Jesus still have that same authority?  Yes.  Is he still speaking?  Yes.  But are we paying attention?

When was the last time you heard the voice of the Lord?  (You might be thinking, “I’d better be careful how I answer this question or I’ll end up in therapy!”)

There are some usual, dependable, recognized places where we can always hear the Lord speaking. 

One of them is through the Scriptures.  We don’t believe that the Bible is just ink on a page, preserving dead words from the distant past; instead, we believe it is the living word of God, which still has plenty to say to you and me today.  That’s why, as a parish priest, one of the most distressing things I regularly see is people reading their bulletins during the first part of the Mass—preferring to browse the announcements rather than give their full attention to God as he’s speaking.  When God speaks, we should sit up straight and listen.

Another dependable place to hear the Lord’s voice is in the teaching of the Church.  The Church is not merely a human institution, but is in fact the Body of Christ, guided by the Holy Spirit.  Now, I’m not referring here to mere offhanded comments or the personal opinions of the clergy—whether it’s a deacon, a priest, a bishop, or even the pope.  But when the Church officially teaches on matters of faith and morals, she does so with an authority given her by Jesus Christ.  With Jesus’ own authority the Church applies what the Lord has said in the past to our lives today.  And so when the Church teaches, we ought to really pay attention.

Yet another place we can expect to regularly hear the voice of the Lord is in the lives and writings of the saints.  The friends of God, who have given flesh and blood to the words of Scripture and the teaching of the Church, are a loud and clear message to you and me of the holiness to which we have all been called.  Get to know the saints and you’ll come to recognize the sounds of God’s voice.

But God also can—and often does—speak to us in some unexpected, unusual ways.  Maybe it’s through the words of the book you’re reading or a song that comes over the radio; maybe it’s in conversation with a stranger or while gazing upon a sunset; maybe it’s in silence or in the sound of a baby’s cry (which is why I think we ought to let the children speak, even if it’s loudly and in the middle of the homily).

But we won’t ever hear the voice of the Lord if we aren’t listening for it.  And what we hear won’t matter a bit if we don’t take his authority seriously.

Who in that synagogue in Capernaum takes the authority of Jesus most seriously?  The demon!  The unclean spirit knows who Jesus really is and fully recognizes his absolute authority.  The spirit hates to do it, but he can’t resist.  For the forces of evil, this is a losing battle.  They must obey.

But we have a choice when we stand before Jesus, when we hear his word.  Jesus came to destroy the sway of the devil and his minions.  But us?  Jesus came to save us.  Yet we can only be saved if we’re willing: willing to acknowledge Jesus identity; willing to recognize his authority; willing to follow him; willing to obey.

Jesus is still speaking.  Listen carefully, and you’ll be amazed.

* * *

After Holy Communion:

Jesus is just as present to us here and now as he was on another Sabbath long ago in that synagogue in Capernaum—present to us today in the Sacrament of his Body and Blood.  And Jesus is still speaking, Jesus is still teaching.  During these few moments of silence, let us still our hearts and minds so we can give our full attention to the voice of the Lord as he speaks to us again.

  

Have You Heard the News?

   Third Sunday in Ordinary Time   B 

Readings

The news these days often has you shaking you head, doesn’t it?  But sometimes, news has an even greater power: to make us drop everything and stop us in our tracks.

I think of the evening last July when I got a phone call telling me my family’s farm was on fire.  Within ten minutes I was in the car and heading fast for home.  And it only took me ten whole minutes because I needed some time to get my head wrapped around what I’d heard and to tell Fr. Scott I probably wouldn’t be back until very, very late.

But it’s not only bad news that can make you drop everything.  In 2015, not long after Pope John Paul II had died, I was in Washington visiting a priest friend who was studying there.  He was dropping me off to spend the afternoon at the Smithsonian as he headed off to class at Catholic University.  I literally had one foot already out of the car when we heard coming over the radio: “Breaking news from Rome—there’s white smoke at the Vatican!”

“Shut the door!” my friend shouted as he hit the gas.  “Where are we going?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he said, “but we’ve got to find a television fast!”  We ended up at a bar (sounds like a joke doesn’t it?—“two priests walk into a bar…”), waiting for the good news of just who the Cardinals had elected as our new Pope.

In the gospel reading this Sunday, St. Mark tells us that Jesus came “proclaiming the gospel of God.”  But what does that word, “gospel,” mean?  And where does it come from?

Literally, the word “gospel” means “good news” or “glad tidings.”  In Greek—the language of the New Testament—the word is euangelion.  In Old English, that became good spiel, which then became godspell (remember that musical from the ’70’s?), and eventually gospel.

The word euangelion existed before Christians began to use it in relation to Jesus—and it didn’t point to just any ol’ happy message.  In the first century, it was specifically connected to good news in connection with the Roman emperor.  (Even way back then most of the news was political.)  If Caesar had a son, if an heir was born, that was shared throughout the empire as an euangelion, as good news.  When a new emperor ascended to the throne, it was an euangelion.  When the emperor won a military victory, it too was an euangelion.  And since Caesar couldn’t tweet his good news to the four corners of his vast realm, he sent our flesh-and-blood messengers known as “evangelists” to start spreading the news.

So consider how that word sounded when it was used by the first Christians.  Think back a month to Christmas.  What was the message of the angel?  “Do not be afraid, for I bring you good news of great joy—euangelion—for all the people!”  This was an announcement that didn’t come from Rome, but straight from heaven.  And it hailed the birth, not of Caesar’s son, but of the Son of God.  Now that’s good news!

Then think a couple of months ahead to Easter.  The apostles—some of whom we begin to meet this Sunday—will go forth from Jerusalem to spread a joyful message—an euangelion: that this Son of God took upon himself what we deserved—he died for our sins on the Cross—and has risen from the dead.  The emperor may have had the power to take life, but Jesus had the power to give it anew.  Caesar might have been victorious on the battlefield, but Christ has conquered even greater enemies: no less than the devil, death, and hell.   Now that’s good news!

How ought we respond to such news from the Lord?

In our first reading, the prophet Jonah is sent to the city of Nineveh with a less-than-cheery announcement: “Forty days, and your city will be wiped out!”  What do the people do when they hear this news?  They stop in their tracks.  They drop everything.  They repent of their evil ways and their city is spared.

In our reading from the Gospel of Mark, Jesus encounters Simon and Andrew, James and John, along the shores of the Sea of Galilee.  He proclaims the gospel, the good news, to them, and how do they respond?  They drop their nets.  They walk away from their families.  They leave everything behind to follow Jesus.

Now, we can wonder about the motivation of these four men when they walk away so quickly from their boats.  Given how many times we hear about these fishermen coming in with empty nets, we could get the impression that they were poor and simple country bumpkins.  Following this wandering preacher surely would have seemed like a more interesting venture—and might even be their meal ticket.  Why, they didn’t have anything to loose!  But did you catch that detail at the end of the reading?  When the sons of Zebedee walk away, they leave their father in the boat  “along with the hired men.”  We’re talking about successful businessmen here.  Following Jesus would entail some real and serious sacrifice.

When was the last time you dropped everything for Jesus?  When was the last time you dropped anything for Jesus?

Maybe there’s a sin that has plagued you for far too long.  Is Jesus calling you to stop in your tracks and leave it behind, so it will no longer be an obstacle in your relationship with him?  Maybe what you’re called to drop isn’t something wicked, but something good.  As St. Paul reminds us, we Christians must relate to the things of this passing world in a very different way than do all the rest.  Is Jesus calling you to make some sacrifice—big or small—in order to follow him more closely than before?

Of course, if we’re going to be motivated to drop anything or everything, then we must be struck deeply by the good news.  Most of us have little trouble recognizing the gospel as good; but after two thousand years, we do struggle to receive it as news.  But let this sink in again: God became man for you; God died on a Cross for you; God rose from the dead for you.  Whoa!  Can anything really be more consistently newsworthy than that?  We mustn’t allow ourselves to ever take the gospel for granted.

Ask Jesus for the grace to hear his gospel again as if for the first time.  Let is stop you in your tracks.  Drop your nets, and follow him.

* * *

After Holy Communion:

Jesus is as really and truly present to us here and now as he was to Simon and Andrew, James and John, when walking along the shores of the Sea of Galilee.  He’s really present to us in his precious Body and precious Blood—present before us in the tabernacle, present within us in Holy Communion.  He’s still announcing the gospel: that God is with us, that God loves us, that God will stop at nothing to save us.  And he’s still calling, now as then.  Ask the Lord in these few silent moments to open your eyes to recognize any sin from which you still need to repent—and to give you the strength to walk away from it.  Ask Jesus to make it clear if there’s any sacrifice he wants you to make for the sake of your relationship with him—and to give you the courage to drop your nets and follow.

   

You Called?

   Second Sunday in Ordinary Time   B 

Readings

It was just about 75 degrees colder when I left for the early Mass this morning than it was when I went out to get groceries on Friday afternoon.  Brrr!

But let’s talk about something other than the frosty weather for a few minutes…

Fifteen years or so ago, when I was still a recently ordained priest, I was appointed as an assistant vocations director.  That basically meant that Sr. Rose and I went around to the Catholic schools in the diocese to speak to the classes about vocations.  To be blunt: we were looking for new recruits!  And as we talked with the kids about our lives as a priest and a nun, we told the story of the call of young Samuel that we heard in our first reading today.  As a matter of fact, we’d have the students help us tell it by acting it out.  We’d dress up one boy as Samuel, another as Eli, the priest, and then one of the girls as Hannah, Samuel’s mother.  And then we’d try to convince the rest of the kids that we’d saved the most important role for them: to be the voice of God.  Whenever we gave the signal, they’d all whisper together, “Samuel…   Samuel…,” and then they’d giggle as Samuel got up and ran to Eli again and again and again.

This familiar story from the First Book of Samuel is frequently used to speak to both children and adults about vocations.  I want to take some time with you today to explore a bit of that story’s wider context so that we can see how it speaks to vocations in a broader, more fundamental sense that just about priests and nuns.

Let’s begin by considering why a young boy like Samuel is having a sleepover in the temple in the first place.  Samuel’s mother, Hannah, was the second wife of her husband.  His first wife bore him children, but Hannah had not.  While her husband did everything he could to make sure Hannah would know just how much he loved her, his first wife couldn’t resist rubbing Hannah’s nose in her barrenness. 

When the whole family made it’s annual trip together to worship at the temple, Hannah had reached the breaking point.  She went off by herself before the Lord to pray, and poured out her hurt and her shame with such passion that Eli, the priest, thought she was drunk.  In fact Eli—not exactly known for his stellar people skills, but more about that in a minute—told Hannah just as much and tried to shoo her out of the temple for making such a spectacle of herself.  But through her sobs and her tears, Hannah made a promise to the Lord: if he looked with favor on her sorrow and granted her a son, she’d give the boy over to the Lord’s service his whole life long.

Hannah headed home, and soon afterward she and her husband conceived.  (In fact, she’d go on to have five other children—three boys and two girls.  Now who’s taunting who?!?)  When the boy, Samuel, had been weaned, Hannah brought him to the temple to serve before the Lord, and she sang a hymn of praise to the faithful God who raises up the lowly.

At the temple, Samuel is under the direction of Eli, the priest.  When it comes to priests, Eli isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.  In fact, whenever we hear about him, he’s either sitting down or fast asleep—as he is in today’s reading.  This isn’t an indicator that he’s feeble or overworked; it’s the biblical way of telling us that he’s lazy and lax about his duties—literally “lying down on the job.”  A priest’s role was to stand before the Lord on behalf of the people, but Eli was always taking a seat.  His two sons were worse yet: not only slackers, but swindlers who took advantage of those who came to offer sacrifice and thus stealing from the Lord.

Between Hannah and Eli, we have Samuel: a key figure of the Old Testament who will go on to anoint Israel’s first kings.  Samuel is attentive and hard working.  In time, he will become quite expert in recognizing and responding to the voice of the Lord.  So where does this young man learn how to stand before the Lord?  Certainly not from Eli or his sons!  It’s not from the “professionally” religious, but from the example of his mother whose devout prayer was heard and who kept her promise to the Lord.

That big picture of the call of Samuel tells us something crucial about vocations!  While we focus a lot of time and attention on recruiting priests and nuns—and God knows, we need them!—we must not neglect those vocations which serve as their foundation.  I, for one, can attest that I wouldn’t be preaching to you here today if my parents and grandparents hadn’t heeded their own call from God in handing on the Catholic faith to me.

Our gospel reading this Sunday widens the circle a bit further yet.  We find John the Baptist pointing out his cousin, Jesus, to some of his own followers and friends: “Behold the Lamb of God!  This is the one I’ve been telling you about all along!”  So Andrew and a companion begin following Jesus.  And after spending only one afternoon with Jesus, what’s Andrew’s immediate reaction?  To go and get his brother, Simon: “Let me tell you about this guy I just met.  You have to come and meet him, too!”  As it is with mothers and fathers, so too is there a vocation for brothers and sisters and friends.

It should be noted that, like any call from God, these vocations are not insignificant, nor can we simply presume someone else will pick up the slack.  If Andrew hadn’t gone to get his brother, there’d have been no Peter, no Rock, no Pope, no Church as we know it.  And if Hannah hadn’t taught Samuel how to stand before the Lord, he would have never anointed King David, which means there would have been no Son of David, no Messiah, no Christ.  God still has plans to do great things, and—as much as we depend on him for everything—he’s also depending on us.

I invite you to ponder this Sunday: who taught you to stand before the Lord?  Clearly somebody did, and did it well, or you wouldn’t have ventured out to Mass when it’s 15 below!  Thank God today for their good example.

And then ponder: as a mother or father, brother or sister, friend or classmate or coworker, who in my life right now needs me to introduce them to Jesus?  Pray for those people, and ask for the courage to bring them to Christ.

As we stand before the Lord today, the Lord is still speaking.  Let’s make sure we, his servants, are still listening, still ready to do his will, still answering his call.

* * *

After Holy Communion:

We have indeed just beheld the Lamb of God in the Most Blessed Sacrament, just as really and truly as when John the Baptist pointed Jesus out to Andrew and the first Apostles.  And now as then, Jesus asks us, “What are you looking for?”  In a few silent moments, as we remain with Jesus and Jesus remains with us—before us in the tabernacle and even within us in Holy Communion—let us consider that probing question.  We cannot begin to lead others to Jesus if we’re not clear ourselves about what we seek.  In your heart now, answer that question of Jesus: “What are you looking for?”

   

Seekers Sought

   The Epiphany of the Lord   

Readings

Have you ever tried to size up a stranger from a distance?  When the police do it these days we call it “profiling”…but we all do it from time to time.  Someone catches your eye—maybe it’s mere curiosity, or maybe there’s a sudden romantic attraction—and you begin to look for clues, to read the signs, attempting to figure this person out.  You look at what he’s wearing, how she carries herself, and even begin asking questions of others, using a combination of observation and intuition to formulate an idea of just what sort of person he or she might be. 

Sometimes we read the signs rightly, but other times we get them all wrong.  You might assume the ring on her finger means she’s spoken for, and so decide not to approach and engage her in conversation…which means you’ll never find out that the ring is a keepsake from her grandmother that she pulled out of her jewelry box this morning.

There’s only one way to really get to know another person, and that is if the other person speaks and opens his or her mind and heart to you.  We may try our best to gain knowledge from the outside, but the inside must be revealed to us.  And when that person reveals him- or herself, then we must adjust or initial perceptions—confirming what we got right and correcting what we got wrong.

That little insight from everyday experience can shed some necessary light on the life of the soul.

We live at a time (although we’ve seen it before in history) when people want to divide spirituality from religion.  We’ve all heard it: “I’m spiritual, just not religious.”  There are any number of reasons for this.  Some people are just asserting their independence, and don’t wish to be considered a member of any particular faith.  Others believe it would be insensitive, or arrogant, or downright undemocratic, to make any specifically religious claim on knowledge of the absolute.  Some think that differing religions only serve to divide the human race and disturb the peace.  Others are convinced that all spiritual paths are equal and lead to the same conclusion.  Many claim they can encounter the divine just fine in their family, in their work, or out in nature, and so they don’t need any outside help or interference—thank you very much!

And so we end up with a lot of folks who are spiritual, but not exactly religious; who are comfortable with vague intuitions of the holy, with the basic, common wisdom shared among many traditions, but not with specific, definitive claims to the truth; who are seekers, but not quite believers.

The thing is, when we settle for spirituality alone, God becomes something for us to discover—as if the Almighty has gone and gotten himself lost, and it’s up to us to bring him out of hiding.  It makes us the active party, and God pretty passive.  Even more, it tends to make God a vague presence, a distant and disinterested power, an abstract force.  And such a God makes no concrete demands of us—and we rather like discovering a God on our own terms and based on our own expectations, which might even be able to manipulate.

The God of Christianity, however, is not like this at all.  The God of the Bible isn’t an abstract force, but living and personal.  The Lord isn’t standing far off, waiting for us to figure him out all on our own; rather, he has spoken to us, opening his heart and mind, revealing himself.  In fact, God is the seeker—pursuing man.  It’s earth that’s shrouded in darkness and clouds, and glorious light from heaven that dispels them—not the other way around.  It’s God self-revelation that gives order, focus, and direction to the vague notions and longings of the human spirit—both confirming what we got right and correcting what we got wrong.

The magi help us to see how this applies to each of our lives.  Who are these magi?  We don’t really know.  They’re likely from Babylon or Persia.  And they’re clearly star-gazers: a cross between astronomers and astrologers, who not only study and record the movements of the heavenly bodies, but who also attempt to find meaning in them.  In other words, they’re seekers—and they represent the spiritual seekers of all times and places.  But despite their great intelligence and keen intuition, they still don’t really know where they’re going as they follow that star…that is, until they come to the Holy Land and encounter the Jewish people.  By way of King Herod, they come in contact with the chief priests and scholars of Israel: the experts in God’s revelation.

The Israelites were a people specially chosen by God.  But while distinct and unique, they weren’t chosen for themselves, as if they were somehow better than everybody else; they were chosen for the sake of all people, of all seekers.  Israel is not just one nation among many, pursuing a spiritual path equal to all the rest.  To this particular people God has spoken his mind and opened his heart, gradually revealing himself, forming and preparing them for the crowning moment of his revelation: when he sends the Messiah, his Son.

Now the magi can find what they were always looking for!  It’s no longer a vague search, and ambiguous quest, but something very, very specific: in this town, in this house, resting on this young mother’s knee, is the One that all people always and everywhere seek.

We should learn all we can from science and philosophy and literature.  We should study the world’s great spiritual traditions to soak up their wisdom.  But we must also realize that this will never be enough—that such knowledge and insight must yield to something far deeper.  We Christians have become stewards of the mystery made known by revelation.  All spiritual seeking remains incomplete unless it draws us to the God of Israel, to that swaddled infant lying in a Bethlehem manger, who is himself God’s great Epiphany: the manifestation of his mercy in our human flesh, the revelation of his love for the whole world to see.

We thought we were seeking God.  It turns out we’re the ones being sought. 

In an age that so often settles for spirituality alone, we must not be afraid or ashamed to share our religious convictions.  Revelation is our inheritance as Christians, but it’s one that all people need.  Share what we believe and help the seekers of our day to find what they’ve been unknowingly looking for all along.

  

All in the Family

   The Holy Family of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph   

Readings

I was Christmas shopping a few years ago when I came across one of those, you might say, “inspirational” signs in a department store: “Our family puts the FUN in dysFUNctional.”  I was rather tempted to buy it…but walked away.  When I was back in the same store a week later, they were all sold out.  I guess at least a few families have the same experience!

At Christmas, many of us spend a lot of time with family—with all the ups and downs that can entail.  And how very appropriate that is during this season when we focus so much of our attention on the manger, and there see the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.  Over the holidays, families eat together and exchange gifts, all gathered together in one place.  But does sharing a meal, giving presents, or being under the same roof somehow make a group of distinct individuals into a family?  Of course not. 

The fact of the matter is that our Christmas festivities get their power and meaning from what happens the other 364 days of the year: from being there for one another; from looking after one another; from asking about each other; from supporting each other in difficult times; from celebrating with each other in happy times.  It’s only because we already care about one another, because we love one another, that it makes any sense at all for us to come together in the first place.

And the very same thing is true of our Church family.

The Church is a family.  We speak of our Holy Mother, the Church.  We refer to each other as brothers and sisters in Christ.  You even call me Father Joe.  That familiar language is intended to be so much more than a homey metaphor.  But it’s not enough that we happen to spend an hour in God’s house at the same time every Sunday to make those words a reality.

Although showing up is pretty essential, to be Catholic requires much more of us than regularly getting to Mass.  In fact, it’s what we do between Masses that helps to form us and keep us together as a true family of faith.  We have to get to know one another.   We have to care for each other—to be there for each other in good times and bad.  We have to love each other.

And this is where the dysfunction comes into our Church family.  Experience shows time and again that when Protestants become Catholic, it’s usually either because of doctrine or the sacraments: the Church’s teachings are so consistent, so comprehensive, so compelling, that they want to be a part of it, or they recognize the real presence of Jesus Christ in the Eucharist and can’t stay away.   But we also see that when Catholics leave and become Protestant, it’s generally because they’re looking for a stronger experience of fellowship: their parish didn’t have an honest sense of community; they didn’t feel at home there; it didn’t feel like a real family.

Sure, we’re here right now to keep an obligation—but even more, we’re here to strengthen relationships.  That’s why taking a moment to greet one another before Mass begins—as we did this morning—is not a silly little exercise.  It’s also why racing out of Mass or heading home early is like leaving the dinner table without first being excused.  But there’s no magic program, no foolproof plan that can fix this dysfunction.  No one else can do it for you.  As in any family, being a family of faith is something we have to work at—each and every one of us.  Neglect it, take it for granted, and before long, it won’t be there for you any more.

I’ve been doing some reading recently on the life and ministry of priests.  A number of things I’ve read have pointed out that priests need to have an experience of community amongst themselves.  We were never meant to be “lone rangers.”  That’s important for our personal wellbeing—to have companions we know we can depend on.  But it’s also important for our pastoral ministry: if priests are going to be able to lead and form a parish community, then they need to have some first hand experience of community from the inside.  Community begets community; family begets family.

If that’s the case for the priest’s place in the parish, I’d say it’s much the same for the parish’s place in the wider world.  In our day and age, the family is threatened. Many would say that’s because we’ve gone and tampered with the very definition of what it means to be a family.  While that may be true, families have always come in a wide array of shapes and sizes.  (With apologies to my own parents and siblings: Have any of you ever met a “normal” family?)  For me, any concern about families these days being non-traditional is eclipsed by the fear that families may actually soon disappear altogether.

We don’t have any time to be a family any more.  Parents today are super busy with work (sometimes earning a salary just to pay someone else to look after their children).  And kids are super busy with the demands of school, sports, and countless other activities.  For many modern families, the only time they have together is in the car racing from one thing to the next.  Families are busy with many good things—it’s just they’re busy with too many good things.

And we’ve also allowed ourselves to accept some pretty cheap substitutes for family life.  Hours and hours every day are spent tending to our “social networks” and “online communities.”  Such connections can seem so much safer, so much more efficient, so much more convenient, than keeping in touch with our loved ones the old-fashioned way.  But you know these aren’t real relationships—only imitations—when you see family members, young and old, right next to each other…but never saying a word, their attention entirely given to tiny glowing screens.  Technology’s a helpful tool, but it’s also a huge temptation.

That’s why I worry that the family is an endangered species.  And that’s why the world we live in desperately needs parishes that are real families—that are authentic communities which allow people to experience human connection the way God intended it.  But “we can’t give what we ain’t got.”  And so there’s a great urgency for us as a Church family—specifically, as a parish family here at St. André’s—to get it right when it comes to loving one another as true brothers and sisters in Christ.

The sacred scriptures this Sunday remind us that the Lord promised Abraham many descendants.  But the promise was for more than a long bloodline; it was for an immense family of faith.  When God tells Abraham to go out and count the stars (for that is how numerous his children will be), we tend to overlook a rather crucial detail of the story: it was the middle of the day!  It’s not that God was asking Abraham to do something impossible—stargazing at noon; it’s that God was asking Abraham to trust him completely. 

And Abraham would be called to do that very thing again and again: when leaving his homeland; when awaiting a son with Sarah in their old age; when put to the test as he was asked to offer that same son in sacrifice.  That complete faith in God is what links all the spiritual children of Abraham.  It was that faith which united and guided Jesus, Mary, and Joseph as they journeyed to Bethlehem, then to Jerusalem, then to Egypt, and then to Nazareth.  It’s that faith which must bind us together here in Malone as one holy family.  We, the Church, are the fulfillment of God’s promise to Abraham.

As a parish family, we are called by God to give witness to genuine human connection.  But deep and lasting human connection is only possible because we are really and truly connected to the Lord.  Since the Word became flesh, since God became man, the Christmas mystery is at the heart of what it means to be a family.  As he appears in every Nativity scene, it’s only when we keep Jesus at the center that we can be who we were meant to be.

You don’t get to pick your family, of course.  It’s a gift you receive—and it’s one you can’t return or exchange.  So we might as well make the most of it!  Yes, our family of faith will always be dysfunctional.  And that’s because you and I are members of it: we’re sinners among so many others.  But that doesn’t mean we can’t find the fun in our dysfunction.  And it certainly doesn't excuse us from answering the call to be holy.

Like the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, we now present ourselves before the Lord here in this temple.  We have come together again as God’s family in God’s house.  But let’s be sure we’re thinking and speaking and acting—and, above all, that we’re loving one another—as a true family of faith, not only on Sundays and at Christmas, but every day and all throughout the year.

   

That's My Dad!

As I've shared before, this has been a tough year on my family's farm.  But 2017 is going out on a bit of a higher note...

2017 marks 50 years since my Dad began farming on his own in a rented barn (which he later bought) on Route 22 in Beekmantown.  Even after that barn burned down in mid-July, we wanted to mark that milestone with my father.  And so, in October, we had a party--inviting family and friends to celebrate Dad's hard work and success.  My sister, Cori, created a beautiful and rather poignant video for the occasion:

That evening also brought the happy announcement from my brother, Todd, that he still sees his future on the family farm and plans to rebuild.  In anticipation of that big project, we asked God's blessing that night:

       O God,

       the author and giver of every gift,

       who, in your goodness, have made us in your image

       and gave us care over other living things,

       commanding us to till the earth and cultivate it,

       creating the animals and giving us food from them:

       grant, we pray, that this land,

       which has sustained this family for more than 50 years,

       may again bring forth your bounty.

       Continue to protect and sustain this farm and those work on it

       with the grace your blessing brings.

       May the work we plan to undertake in rebuilding here

       progress day-by-day to a successful completion

       for your glory and our own well-being.

       Through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son,

       who lives and regions with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit,

       one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.

       May God, the source of every good,

       bless X you and give success to your work,

       so that you may receive the joy of his gifts
       and praise his name now and for ever.  Amen.

And then we got the good news that dad was being honored by the New York State Farm Bureau with its Distinguished Service to Agriculture Award.  The whole family was there in Albany for the banquet on December 6.

If you want to hear some of the kind (and funny) things his colleagues had to say about him, you can get a taste of it here.

We're so proud of you, Dad!
  

Best. Christmas. Pageant. Ever.

Another smiler for your Gaudete Sunday.  It's worth the time to watch till the end.  It sure gives new meaning to "sheep stealing."  And I always knew that the Blessed Mother was a strong woman...but...

  

LOL...4evr

   Third Sunday of Advent   B 

Readings

I think I’ve got a story this Sunday—a true story—that ought to get you smiling even more widely than seeing your clergy up here dressed in rose-colored vestments from head to toe…

Do any of you text?  I’m one of the last 15 people on the planet who doesn’t own a cell phone so I don’t text myself, but I’m surrounded by people who do.  Texting has almost become its own language—so much so that some educators worry about our children learning good grammar or even good manners.  For example, BRB means, “be right back,” and G2G means, “got to go.”  You get the idea.

Well I heard the story awhile back of a dad who was having trouble communicating with his teenaged son.  The two men would pass each other in the house, and dad would ask, “How was school?”  He was lucky if he even got a grunt in reply.  His son was always head down, texting on his phone.

Eventually dad thought, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ‘em.”  He started texting with his teenager…and he actually got a response.  He’d have preferred that they actually talk to one another, but you’ve got to start somewhere.  They began to text about all kinds of things.  They began to text all the time.  Occasionally they’d be sitting right next to each other watching the same hockey game on TV, texting back and forth but not saying a word.

Now, dad had to learn the texting lingo.  Some of it his son taught him, but a lot of it he picked up on his own.  His favorite to text was LOL.  He never asked his son what it meant—from context, he just figured it out.  The way his son used it at the end of so many messages, dad was absolutely certain LOL meant, “lots of love.”  What a beautiful expression!

After getting the hang of this texting thing, dad began to send text messages to all kinds of people—family, friends, coworkers.  And he sent LOL to everybody he knew.  He found out that his sister was getting a divorce: “Sorry to hear the news, but I’m behind you 100%—LOL!”  His own father was seriously ill in the hospital: “Get well soon pop—LOL!”  This sort of thing went on for six months.

Finally, he was in the airport waiting for a plane and missing his family (his job often took him out of town).  Dad texted his son, “I hope you understand how much I hate being away from you, but I have to do to it earn enough money so we can live the way we want to live—LOL, your dad.” 

Which is when he got the response, “DAD WHAT EXACTLY DO YOU THINK LOL MEANS?” 

“Lots of love.” 

“No it doesn’t Dad.” 

“Yes it does.” 

“NO IT DOESN’T IT MEANS LAUGHING OUT LOUD!”

And right away dad knew that he had to go back and apologize for 6 full months of  LOLs…

Our second reading this Sunday comes from St. Paul’s first letter to the Thessalonians.  That’s a pretty significant part of the New Testament, since it’s actually the oldest Christians writing we have—from about the year 50 or so, which is only about 15 years after the life of Jesus.  Folks like St. Paul likely wrote things before this, but it’s the oldest text to survive.  Which means we really ought to pay attention to what it has to say.

And what does St. Paul tell us this Sunday?  

            Rejoice always.

            Pray without ceasing.

            In all circumstances, give thanks.

This message comes from very near the letter’s end and, although brief, packs a real punch.  You’ll notice that Paul does not say, “Cheer up a bit—things aren’t that bad.  Maybe you could pray just a little more.  And don’t forget to say ‘thank you’ every once in a while.”  Instead it’s, “Rejoice always.  Pray without ceasing.  In all circumstances give thanks.”

Even for St. Paul—who can be pretty intense—this is rather over the top.  But why be so extreme?  Because for Paul, the coming of Jesus changed absolutely everything.  Jesus has turned the whole world upside down for those who believe in him.  The usual ways of thinking and acting just don’t do it anymore.  This perspective usually escapes us Christians today, but for St. Paul it was the heart of reality.  Jesus had come, and nothing could ever be the same again.

And so he tells us to rejoice always. 

But don’t you sometimes feel down?  Get really bummed?  Or just want to cry?  Going around rejoicing all the time would seem phony—or even insane. 

“I just wrecked my car.” 

“You should rejoice!” 

“I lost my job.”

 “Oh well—rejoice!”

That clearly can’t be what St. Paul is getting at—or he begins to sound like a dad who texts LOL at all the wrong times.  He isn’t saying that Christians should always be giddy or giggling—always laughing out loud.  But they should be convinced that, by his resurrection, Jesus has won the most decisive victory.  None of life’s highs and lows—not sickness, not sin, not even death—nothing this world can throw at us can undo this victory.  All these things have been defeated!  Even when we’re down and out, we can trust in Christ’s ultimate triumph and that’s cause for true joy.  Does that make life one big party?  No.  But it does give us a peace, it does give us a hope, that nothing whatsoever can shake.

So rejoice always.  And pray without ceasing. 

Even monks and nuns—who are “professional pray-ers”—can’t pray 24/7.  They still have to eat and sleep and do their chores.  It’s not rational for Paul to expect us to spend all day and all night on our knees in prayer!  So what’s he saying?

Again—St. Paul believes that Jesus changed everything.  When the Son of God became man, he made it possible for all men and women to live in close union with his Father.  Jesus has given us mere mortals access to the same intimate relationship he has enjoyed with God from all eternity.  Think about what an amazing privilege that is!  But this constant communion with the Father which marks the lives of Christians—and which is as essential to us as breathing—is, like breathing, something of which we’re often not conscious at all.

We know that prayer isn’t about simply rattling off a bunch of sacred words.  Prayer at its essence is about deep communion.  Prayer is about working on and deepening our relationship with God.  And prayer is becoming conscious of what’s actually there all the time.  Shouldn’t we want to remain continually aware of how close God has brought us to himself?

So pray without ceasing.  And in all circumstances, give thanks. 

What sort of things did you thank God for on Thanksgiving?  Family.  Friends.  The food on the table.  Your home.  Our country and its freedoms.  All the good things you enjoy, right?  Being grateful makes sense when things are going well.  But are you thankful for your setbacks?  Your failures?  Your losses?  Are we really supposed to be grateful when everything seems to be going wrong?

Remember, St. Paul wants us to realize that Jesus has changed everything.  When he became man, the Son of God immersed himself completely in the human experience—the good and the bad—becoming like us in all things but sin.  And by uniting himself with us so completely, he has transformed everything we can experience.  Those things that appeared to be our downfall become openings for grace.  The worse things we endure, our most terrible moments, become means for our redemption.  Just look at the Cross!  Humanity’s lowest point—God is dead and we killed him!—becomes the very source of our salvation.  I suspect that I’m not the only one who’s gotten through some hardship, some heartache, some suffering, and only later—maybe much later—has looked back and realized just how much grace God gave me, just how much good God has mysterious worked through that very painful experience.  We Christians should be able to see through the surface of things—even though the tough stuff—to what’s really going on. 

And so, in all circumstances, give thanks.

The message of this Gaudete Sunday is one of rejoicing—not necessarily the joy of laughing out loud, but the joy that comes with knowing we are loved a whole lot: loved by our heavenly Father so much that he sent his Only Begotten Son in our human flesh to live a fully human life, to die on the Cross for our sins, and to rise from the grave that we might share in his victory forever.

So during these final days of Advent, and all the days of your life:

            Rejoice always.

            Pray without ceasing.

            In all circumstances, give thanks.

With gratitude to Bishop Robert Barron

  

A Rock and a Soft Place

If I'd thought if it sooner, I could have brought a rock and a pillow with me and tossed them both into the congregation—a good test to see if they really knew the difference!

   First Sunday of Advent   B 

Readings

We all know the difference between a pillow and a rock, don’t we?  Well, it seems that some of God’s holy ones through the ages have had a difficult time making the distinction. 

Take the patriarch Jacob, for example.  He was on a journey and, as the sun was setting, he found himself at a roadside shrine.  Settling in for the night, he took a stone from the shrine to tuck under his head and there he dreamed of a ladder—a stairway—leading all the way to heaven.  Use a rock for a pillow and of course you’ll have some crazy dreams! 

And then there are churches scattered across Italy that keep rocks as sacred relics of St. Francis of Assisi.  Having embraced a life of radical poverty, St. Francis always slept on the floor or the bare earth.  It seems that when he visited these places, these particular stones served as his pillows.

But you and I will never make the same mix up!

How do you describe a pillow?  Soft.  Comfortable.  Something you use to rest and be at ease.

And how do you describe a rock?  Hard.  Strong.  Something sturdy on which you can depend.

And God: Is he more like a pillow or a rock?

Our first reading this Sunday, from the book of the prophet Isaiah, would definitely lean toward the pillow.  “Comfort, give comfort to my people, says your God.”  The Lord is pictured as a tender shepherd cradling a fluffy lamb in his arms.

Our gospel reading, on the other hand, from the very beginning of the gospel according to Mark, tends more to the rock.  There we meet John the Baptist: the messenger preparing the Lord’s way.  Where does St. John live?  In the desert.  And what does he wear?  Camel’s hair and leather.  And what does he eat?  Locusts and wild honey.  If you live in a rocky wilderness, wearing scratchy hides and eating grasshoppers, it’s safe to guess you’re a pretty tough guy.  And John declares, “One mightier than I is coming after me!”  His message is a rather hard one: Acknowledge your sins and repent of them.

There are times where we’re tempted to think of God as only a pillow.  We convince ourselves that he’s really a big softy, and he’ll let us get away with just about anything.  And there are times when we’re tempted to think of God as only a rock—adamant and unyielding in his demands of us, ready to get even with sinners when the time is right.

Of course, neither of those perspectives is true.  God is, in fact, much more a mix of both.

Now, we can also fall into thinking that I must please God “the Rock” before I get to enjoy God “the Pillow”—as if we have to somehow earn his love, his kindness, his compassion.  The fact of the matter is that the opposite is actually the case. 

That’s what we learn from the second letter of St. Peter.  Jesus had promised his disciples that he would come again…and Christians were beginning to wonder what was taking him so long.   Peter assures them that what they’re experiencing isn’t a delay, but God’s incredible patience.  He doesn’t want to see any of his children perish, and so in his love and mercy God is giving them ample time to turn from their sins.  But even clinging to this comforting truth, they must face the hard fact: one day this sin-stained world will be wiped out to make way for new heavens and a new earth.  And so they need to always conduct themselves with holiness and devotion, to be eager to be found without spot or stain, becoming before God the sort of person that they ought to be.

It’s not that, if we’re good, then God will love us.  It’s because God loves us that we can’t help but want to be good.  You see, it’s only when I genuinely believe that I am loved—that I have full confidence that God loves me passionately, tenderly, unconditionally—that I can find the courage to honestly reassess the direction of my life, and then take the necessary steps—no matter how dramatic—to change my ways.  That’s the ringing shout of John the Baptist.  That’s the healing cry of Advent.

So maybe folks like Jacob and St. Francis were onto something with their eccentric sleeping habits!

Let God be your pillow.  Take your comfort in him.  Be at ease in his presence.  Allow him to restore and refresh you.  But also make God your rock.  Permit him to challenge you, to call you to repentance, to be your steady strength.  The Lord of all compassion is also the Lord of mighty power.  Rest in him, and stand firm.