Island Life

I'm just getting around now to posting some photos from my overnight last Wednesday-Thursday--making it now a full 18 months straight that I've spent at least one night camping out.  Wanting to mix things up a bit (and feeling it was safer with two escaped murders on the loose), I decided this was the night to try out camping on an island.  Since I already had an afternoon meeting at Camp Guggenheim, that seemed like the perfect place to launch out on this adventure.  Campsites on the islands in Lower Saranac Lake are managed as a rather unique campground by the DEC, and when I went to see what was available, I was lucky enough to get an island all to myself: Site 13, which is the only site on Green Island, about 1.3 miles across the water from the beach at Guggenheim.

I arrived in the evening, and set up my tent in the midst of the really cool, large rocks that surround the campsite.

And I got my tent up just in time before it started to sprinkle.  And just after I shut out the lights at 10:00pm...it started to pour.  A great test for my tent, and it passed with flying colors.

I was up early the next morning, in time to take in a spectacular sunrise.

There was plenty of time--and peace and quiet--for praying, making breakfast, sipping coffee, reading a good book, hanging the tent out to dry, and thoroughly exploring my tiny kingdom...before packing everything back into my kayak for the trip back to the mainland at midday.

I highly recommend island living!

  

Off the Island

Mass was quite a bit smaller than usual in Chasm Falls today (about 40 people), since we all had to be cleared through a State Police checkpoint before getting to the church...but as of last evening, we weren't sure if we'd be able to have Mass at all. (I understand that the Troopers were asking folks, "What's your pastor's name?" to make sure they were legit.) Such crazy times! Pray for all those in law enforcement working on this case. Pray for those in our community isolated by the security measures. Pray for a safe and swift resolution.

   Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time   B 

Readings

Three guys are stranded on a deserted island

when—of course—they find a magic lamp 
with a genie inside. 

The genie looks at the men and says,

“I normally grant three wishes,

but since there are three of you, 
this time I’ll grant you each one.” 

The first guy, 
sick and tired of being on the island,

jumps forward and says, 
“I wish I could go right back home!” 

And, poof!  He disappears. 

The second man says, “I wish that, too!” 

And, poof!  He disappears. 

The genie turns to the last guy 
and asks for his wish. 

“Gee,” he says.  “It’s kind of lonely now. 

I sure wish my friends were still here…”

I spent Wednesday night on an island.

Most of you know I love the outdoors, 
and like to camp.

Given recent events,

camping out on an island 
in the middle of Lower Saranac Lake

seemed a good bit safer than staying

in the woods on the mainland anywhere nearby—

and it’s something I’d been wanting to do anyway.

It was great!

With just one campsite, 
I had the entire island to myself.

Such peace and calm!  
Such beauty and freedom!

It was while on the island

that I started to reflect on this Sunday’s gospel.

St. Mark presents us with the stories of two women.

One has been sick as long as the other has been alive.

Though they probably never met,

their stories are tightly intertwined.

In both cases, we see Jesus reaching out

very personally and tenderly to each of them.

There’s a rather moving intimacy in the way

Jesus responds to their need and their faith and heals them.

And yet there’s a wide cast of other characters also involved:

a large, pressing crowd;

Jesus’ own close-following disciples;

desperately worried parents;

loudly grieving relatives, friends, and neighbors.

It struck me:

while Jesus is present individually to those who seek his care,

his encounters with them are not private—

even if only a small circle of others are in the room.

These two women are part of a much wider network of souls,

and what happens to or for them—whether for good or for ill—

has a vital impact on so many, many others,

even if it’s not immediately recognized.

I brought that gospel insight back with me from the island,

and it strikes me how it relates

with some big things in the news these days.

Of course, we’ve all had a keen interest these past few weeks

in the manhunt for two escaped murderers from Dannemora.

When it became clear they were likely in this immediate area,

a funny thing occurred to me:

I was now their pastor.

In the Catholic understanding of things,

a parish priest is assigned to look after

not only those registered in his parish,

nor just even all the Catholics who live close to the church,

but is to have concern for the spiritual welfare

of every person within his jurisdiction.

As long as they’re hiding in these woods—I thought—

I bear a certain responsibility for their souls!

Of course, it wasn’t prudent for me

to go sit among the trees around Mountain View,

hoping they might stop by looking for confession…

But the impact, for me, of these fugitives

moved beyond the inconvenience of roadblocks

or even fears for safety.

In ways only clear to God, there is a deeper connection.

And when I first heard Friday afternoon

that Richard Matt had been shot and killed,

I immediately prayed for him:

that God would have mercy on his soul.

It just seemed like it was what his pastor ought to do.

There was other big news Friday—

news that can seem a whole lot more distant from us—

and that news was the U.S. Supreme Court’s decision

which effectively legalized same-sex marriage throughout the country.

I’ve never read a Supreme Court decision before,

but I read this one.

Let me just say: it’s long!

Nonetheless, I suggest giving it a look yourself

instead of simply accepting everything

so many supposed experts are saying about it.

The majority opinion contained no surprises:

arguments we’ve all heard before,

which seem to me far better suited to the court of public opinion

than they do to such an esteemed court of law.

What’s striking is in the dissent:

the four dissenting justices each wrote their own opinions,

which—I understand—is highly unusual.

If you’ve got time for nothing else,

take a look at those of Chief Justice Roberts and Justice Alito.

Their arguments are so lucid, reasonable, and sane,

it’s hard to imagine how they did not prevail.

What’s troubling are the predictions they make—

predictions of the effect this ruling will have on America:

on the law and our relationship to it; on the role of the court;

on the fabric of our society; on children and family life.

They echo many things our Catholic Bishop’s

have long been saying in anticipation of this decision,

just without making direct reference to God.

And the insights of these four justices

all reflect the real, if sometimes hidden, interconnectedness

that binds us all together—whether we like it or not.

Sure, it sounds fair enough to say that this issue

is all about sacred rights to liberty, privacy, and due process.

“Live and let live!

What should the government or the Church care

about the goings on in people’s bedrooms?”

But none of us live in perfect isolation.

None of our acts are completely private.

And that’s most especially true for those of us

who are members of the one Body of Christ!

Yes, we come to know Christ as individual believers.

Our faith must be personal—we must own it for ourselves.

But it’s never my private preserve—

never just about “me and Jesus.”

Like the two women in the gospel,

we are all intimately connected through, with, and in Christ,

even if we never actually meet one another.

What a single one does or decides,

what happens to any individual—good or evil—

has a real impact on us all.

A bit like my opening joke,

it’s more than a little ironic, really,

that while alone on an island I was so compellingly reminded

that, in fact, “no man is an island,” as the poet once wrote.

A brief time alone helped me realize anew

how closely linked we all are.

A few hours of quiet prepared me well

to process the news repeated at high volume.

Often times—

as it was with the hemorrhaging woman and the daughter of Jairus—

we must tune out the noise of the surrounding crowd
in order to hear the healing voice of Jesus.

  

Trust Your Father

   Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time   B 

Readings

I was in a small town in Vermont the other day,

and stopped to check out a small bookstore there.

That’s where I picked up this little book:

How to Build A Fire, 
And Other Handy Things Your Grandfather Knew.

It’s a book filled with 
what was once common knowledge,

passed on from one generation to the next.

There are chapters on how to change a tire,

how to drive a nail, and how to shine shoes;

on how to apologize, how to ask for help,

and how to bounce back after failure.

I’ve noticed an increasing number of books like this

being published these days.

The books themselves are great,

but they point to a troubling trend:

that this kind of wisdom 
just isn’t getting passed down

by fathers and grandfathers anymore.

I wouldn’t be the only one to share the opinion

that America is facing a bit of a crisis in fatherhood.

Thumbing through the book,

and reflecting on the gospel reading for this Sunday,

I got to thinking:

Isn’t that what Jesus is doing with his disciples in the boat?

He’s fathering them!

Now, most folks hear the word “fathering”

and think in biological terms.

That’s ironic, of course,

when so many sexual encounters today are sterile,

whether they’re naturally so

or because we’ve effectively neutered them—

ironic, too, in an age when, should a child be conceived,

it’s increasingly likely to happen in a clinic,

rather than the marriage bed.

Biologically speaking, we’ve nearly succeeded

in making fatherhood obsolete.

No, I’m not talking about the fathering

which produces the human body;

I’m talking about the fathering

that fosters the growth of the soul.

That’s getting to be a lost art, too.

We neglect to teach boys and young men

not only manners and mechanics;

we fail to teach them what most contributes to authentic manly virtue:

we fail to teach them how to be men of faith and prayer.

Where are all the guys in church?

Many accuse the Church of being male-dominated…

…but just take a look around the pews

and you’ll get a rather different picture.

It’s in this deeper, truer, spiritual sense

that we find Jesus fathering his disciples

while their boat is tossed about on the sea.

As the disciples are making the crossing,

you could say that Jesus is taking their training wheels off.

By his actions even more than his words, he’s saying:

See what confidence I have in the Father?

I can curl up on a cushion and sleep right through the storm!

I need you to have that kind of confidence in me.

But they’re terrified!

“Do you not yet have faith?” Jesus asks them.

The faith Jesus wants to hand down to these, his spiritual sons,

isn’t so much a matter of committing doctrines and rules to memory;

it’s about learning to trust.

“Having faith” is really just another way to speak of “taking risks”—

being willing to put it all on the line

because you’ve put your complete trust in God.

Storms will always come: trials, scandals, and dangers;

troubled relationships and poor health (whether ours or a loved one’s);

financial struggles and an increasingly violent world.

But for us as for those disciples at sea,

the worst storms are swirling about within the boat,

not swamping it from outside.

Yes, life is hard—

but it’s harder still if we allow ourselves to be paralyzed by fear

or despair of things getting better;

if we carry on as if everything depends on us alone
or try to taker and maintain total control;

if we lack for faith.

I was fathered by a pretty great dad.

Perfect?  No…but what dad is actually expected to be?

Among all the things he taught me—and is teaching me still—

I’m most grateful for the gift of my Catholic faith.

Dad didn’t teach me the faith by giving me sermons

or performing great acts of piety.

You know what stands out in my memory?

The fact that, growing up on a farm,

when there could have been many compelling excuses,

we never, ever missed Sunday Mass.

No matter how many things went wrong in the barn,

or how many chores remained still to be done,

we dropped everything to get to church.

The work could wait; our duty to God could not.

These last couple of years,

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what it means to be a father.

(Now, don’t worry:

I’m not about to reveal that I have some secret love child!)

“Father” is more than a merely customary title given to priests.

It points to a real relationship between a priest and his parish.

He’s the head of the family—even if he’s not its most senior member.

And just like any other dad: he’s not perfect…

…but what dad is actually expected to be?

I’ve come to learn that,

even when I’m doing what I’m sure to be right,

it won’t always be appreciated at the time.

What teenager—our fine graduating seniors, included—

has ever agreed with every decision dad makes?

But how many an adult looks back and reluctantly admits:

Go figure!  My father was right!

God appoints priests to father his family,

not so that he can keep his children happy,

but so that they might become holy.

As your father,

I’m so incredibly humbled when you trust me—

not because of who I am or what I myself can do,

but because you put your faith in the one who called me.

My new book might have a chapter

on “How to Banish Monsters Under the Bed,”

but Jesus has shown us that he can quiet

even the most violent of storms.

Let us be renewed in the faith of our fathers!

Let us place our full trust in him
whom even wind and sea obey.

   

And Justice for All

I'm back from Rome, after a very fruitful pilgrimage.  We had good weather, good food, and good company.  Now I just need some good rest to get past this jet lag...

   Eleventh Sunday in Ordinary Time   B 

Readings

Little could I have guessed that, when I got back from Rome,

the North Country would be right in the middle

of a rather dramatic manhunt.

Roadblocks and helicopters, bloodhounds and accomplices,

have been the big story for a whole week now.

There are a limited number of facts…

…but everybody’s got an opinion.

And there’s one opinion I’ve heard 
pretty much across the board:

I hope they catch those two quick 
and throw the book at them!

We want to make sure they get what they deserve.

Within the human heart,

there is a clear, deep-seated desire for justice.

But have you ever gotten a speeding ticket?

And then desperately tried to wiggle your way out of it?

Or have you been—shall we say—

a bit “creative” when filing your taxes?

I’m not at all trying to equate either one 

with homicide or a jailbreak,

but there’s a part of us that will go 

to quite extraordinary lengths

to avoid getting what we deserve.

Within the human heart,

there’s also a clear, deep-seated hope for mercy.

As we return to the Sundays of Ordinary Time,

our second reading is one frequently chosen for funerals—

containing as it does the consoling belief

that while we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord.

But it’s the ending of that passage which grabs my attention today—

although it rarely, if ever, gets much attention at funerals anymore:

We must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ,

so that each may receive recompense,

according to what he did in the body, whether good or evil.

It’s a conviction that’s echoed

in the Prayer Over the Offerings of the Funeral Mass:

that the faithful departed, who believed Jesus to be a loving Savior,

may find in him a merciful judge.

It’s not a conviction, however, that I often hear echoed

in the words of remembrance shared by family or friends;

those generally sound more like the proceedings of a canonization.

I understand the urge, in our hour of grief,

to think of our loved ones as headed straight to heaven.

But isn’t it a bit presumptuous to think

that heaven is due us, regardless of our faith or actions?

Sure, we expect the other guy—

especially any really, really bad one—

to be held responsible for his misdeeds.

But what about ourselves?  And those close to us?

Do we hope to be treated according to a different set if rules?

Do we really believe in judgment?

I should clarify:

Do we believe in any judgment other than our own?

The escape routes from personal responsibility

which we so often devise

are a whole lot more complex

than the one dreamed up by two inmates at Dannemora.

The kingdom of God,

while grown from tender shoots and tiny seeds,

is like a large, majestic tree

with branches enough to accommodate

every soul the Lord’s ever created.

But just because a tree is very big

doesn’t mean that all birds are going to make their home in it.

Yes, God’s mercy is boundless…

…but his justice is also perfect.

God loves us enough to fully respect our free will—

that way in which we are most like him

and unlike the rest of bodily creation.

God respects the choices we have made and holds us to them:

whether for good or for evil, for him and his kingdom or against.

In this life, we are to pray to the Father, Thy will be done,

and do our part to make it so on earth as it is in heaven.

We must learn God’s law and choose to obey it;

we shall be judged accordingly.

But in the next life, it is God who says to us, Thy will be done,

since it will come to pass for us in heaven or hell

as we passed our time in the body on earth.  (cf. C. S. Lewis)

It’s the Church’s ancient creed, repeated Sunday after Sunday,

that the Only Begotten Son of God

will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead.

Yes, God is merciful—

but we must not presume on that mercy.

And God also is just, indeed—

and there can be no escaping the divine justice:

we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ.

As we believe Jesus to be a loving Savior,

let us live as men and women always ready

to stand before such an awesome and merciful judge.

  

Adopted

I'm not sure if I wasn't clear or they weren't paying attention, but one couple on the way out of Mass this morning asked, "So, have you ever met your birth parents?"

I've heard it said that "adoption is growing in your mother's heart instead of her tummy." That even more true when applied to our heavenly Father.

There'll be no homily for you next Sunday. I'm leaving June 2 (Tuesday) for Rome, where I'm helping to lead a discernment pilgrimage (with another priest, 2 seminarians, and 4 young men pondering priesthood) until June 11. Please say a prayer for us pilgrims!

   The Solemnity of the Most Holy Trinity   B 

Readings

I was adopted.

I was born on October 8, 1974,

and by October 28, the adoption was complete.

The arrangements had been made prior to my birth,

so eager was my adoptive father to add me to his family.

And it was an act great of love on behalf of my birth parents

to put me up for adoption in the first place,

knowing the kind of life this new family would provide.

By this point,

many of you who’ve known me—or my family—for awhile

must be scratching your heads.

How could we not have known this?

But what I’m talking about it the day of my baptism.

When I was teaching Formation for Ministry a few months ago,

one of my students shared a story—

I believe it was about her daughter and son-in-law.

They were unable to conceive,

so they decided to adopt a child from Africa.

She shared to what great lengths

these would-be parents were willing to go—

the paperwork, the travel, the many sacrifices—

in order to bring this little girl into their family:

to take this child out of a difficult, even dangerous situation

and instead surround her with their love.

As I listened, I immediately thought:

Isn’t that exactly what God does for us?

To what lengths he has gone to take us out of the country of sin

and bring us into his kingdom—

surrounding us with love as his own children!

This talk of adoption is no mere metaphor.

As St. Paul reminds the Romans,

on the day of our Baptism,

when the water was poured out upon us,

the Holy Spirit was also poured into our hearts,

and we “received a Spirit of adoption.”

When we were immersed in the font,

we were also immersed in the very life of the Most Holy Trinity.

God has only one begotten Son,

but he has countless adopted children

who become true brothers and sisters of Jesus.

And it is through this Holy Spirit—

the very same Spirit of love who binds together

the Father and the Son for all eternity—

that we can cry to God, “Abba! Father!”

We get to call God, “Dad!”

When we come to this Trinity Sunday,

many folks of think of the doctrine of the Trinity

as something every dry and difficult.

What difference could it make in my day-to-day life?

But the reality is that the God’s self-revelation

as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit

is about as personal, powerful, and passionate as it gets.

The God who is love itself couldn’t keep that love to himself,

but came to save us and take us into that perfect love forever.

That makes all the difference in the world!

There are a couple of aspects of our Catholic life

that can help to drive this point home.

What do Catholics go looking for

as soon as they cross the threshold of a church?

The holy water!  To bless themselves,

marking themselves with the sign of the cross

and in the name of the Holy Trinity.

We do that to recall the day of our adoption—

the day (in most cases) when our parents

first brought us through those church doors

that we might become members of God’s family.

But we should also be sure to look for the holy water

on our way out of church, because at our baptism

we were not only adopted, but also given a mission.

We hear Jesus this Sunday speaking to the Apostles

before he ascends into heaven; he tells them:

"Go, therefore, and make disciples of all nations,

baptizing them in the name of the Father,

and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,

teaching them to observe all that i have commanded you."

When we leave church, we need to spread this message around.

Imagine what a different world we’d live in

if more people believed that God

wanted a personal relationship with them:

that they were loved and always would be!

I was at a conference yesterday,

and something the speaker said made the whole room gasp

at the truth of his words:

You must really hate somebody

if you’ve discovered the secret to real happiness in this life and forever

and you won’t share it with them.

The world desperately needs us

to fulfill the mission entrusted to us by Jesus!

The second thing has become clear in the last few years

since we began using the new translation of the Mass.

Not long before we receive Holy Communion,

the priest introduces the Lord’s Prayer by saying,

“At the Savior’s command and formed by divine teaching,

we dare to say…”

What’s so audacious about the Lord’s Prayer?

They’re familiar words that everybody knows!

But consider how it begins.

We don’t address the Father—a distant and impersonal God.

We don’t address the Father of Jesus—

concerned only with the relationship between them.

No, Jesus instructs us to pray to our Father.

Imagine, that when we call upon

the almighty Creator of the entire universe,

we dare to call him, “Abba!  Father!  Dad!”

That’s daring!

As Moses said to the people,

Has anything so great every happened before?

Was it ever heard of?

Has any other god chosen a people for his own,

and shown his care for them with such signs and wonders

as the Lord our God has done before our very eyes?

Yes, it’s daring for us to call God, “Father”…

…but it’s even more daring on his part

that God would adopt us sinners as his own.

I was adopted on October 28, 1974.

I’ve made it a point in recent years

to learn and remember the date of my baptism.

It’s the most important day of my entire life.

And so it is for you, too.

Recall this wonderful day not just once a year,

but whenever you bless yourself with holy water

or recite the Lord’s Prayer,

for you have received a Spirit of adoption,

making you a coheir with Jesus Christ

and though whom you can in truth

call God, “Abba!  Father!”

  

Assembly Required

It only struck me just now that the car he's building is a "fire bird."  A coincidence?

   Pentecost   B 

Readings

My sister and her family are camping this Memorial Day weekend,

and I went to see them for a little while Friday night.

Someone had given my 9-year-old nephew

his first model car kit—a ’77 Pontiac Firebird—

and he was sitting in the camper excited to get started.

It was a scene right out of my own childhood—maybe yours, too:

a cardboard box full of teeny tiny plastic parts,

an instruction sheet covered with complicated diagrams,

and a tube of sticky glue that promises to dry quickly…then never does.

It’s the very definition of: “Some Assembly Required.”

In recent years,

we’ve heard the word “gathering” a lot in Catholic circles.

The Entrance Chant of the Mass

is commonly now called the “Gathering Song.”

New and renovated church buildings don’t have vestibules;

they have “gathering spaces.”

But if you read official Church documents,

the preferred word you find for the faithful who come to Mass

isn’t a “gathering,” but an “assembly.”

There’s a real difference between the two,

and it’s worthy of our reflection

as we celebrate Pentecost this Sunday.

What do we typically mean when we speak of a gathering?

I think of a get-together like many people will have for Memorial Day:

something casual and social—a party, a picnic, a barbeque.

People gather to mix and mingle.

There’s often no particular reason for it—

no agenda; nothing specific to accomplish.

Many are invited to a gathering;

whoever can make it, comes.

An assembly, however, is rather different, isn’t it?

I think of assemblies in the school gymnasium.

Maybe they’re different today, but when I was still in school

an assembly was always a rather orderly affair:

students were seated by class or homeroom,

there were places for the teachers

(usually where they could keep a good eye on the students),

and the principal had a designated spot right up front.

An assembly is always called with a very particular purpose in mind.

At an assembly, your presence is expected

and your absence is always noted.

Can you begin see what difference it makes

that the Church calls this an assembly

rather than a gathering?

Like my nephew’s model car,

we as God’s people are “some assembly required.”

It’s not enough that we gather—

like so many parts collected in a single box.

The pieces have to be put together,

and that’s the specialty of the Holy Spirit.

The Holy Spirit is given to us

like an instruction sheet for putting the Church together.

He is the Spirit of truth who proceeds from the Father—

sent to guide us into all truth.

We’re not interchangeable parts—

a random gathering of individuals

who happen to pray in the same place at the same time.

No, we are members of one body—

each part, with its own gifts, absolutely vital to the whole.

We certainly see that at Mass:

the priest has his role,

the deacon, servers, readers, musicians,

and ministers of every sort have theirs,

as does the entire assembly of the faithful.

We know full well what confusion it causes

when somebody doesn’t show up to do their designated duty,

or inadvertently takes another person’s task.

And just as your own human body doesn’t function

simply because all your parts are in the right places

(as important as that may be),

so, too, forming the Body of Christ is more

than a matter of merely being in the right configuration.

Each one of us must fully and consciously do his or her part

as outlined in God’s original design.

It’s not enough to occupy a pew!

We need to know our purpose—as individuals and a whole—

and be clear about why we do what we do.

Now, the Holy Spirit isn’t only our instruction sheet;

he’s also the glue that holds all these many parts together.

On Pentecost, the Apostles were enabled

to speak to the people of many nations in one voice—

in a language everybody was able to understand.

What had previously been just a large and very diverse gathering

could now be assembled as one.

Consider how we recite the Creed at Mass.

Each part begins with, “I believe…”

Yes, it is my personal profession of faith,

assenting to all God has revealed.

But it is also the voice of the whole Church speaking as one—

the Church’s collective “I.”

You see, the “glue” of the Holy Spirit unities us,

without ever making us all the same.

A gathering of soloists, each doing their own thing,

is only able to make noise,

while a choir assembled to sing a common song, even in multiple parts,

can produce a most beautiful harmony.

Because it is God who calls us,

we can be so much more than the sum of our parts.

This bond which the Holy Spirit forms

among the disciples of Jesus

is, of course, meant to hold us together

for more than just an hour each Sunday.

That’s why the Spirit is also something

that my nephew’s model car will never need: fuel.

The Holy Spirit is the power that moves things forward.

And fuel, to do its job, must burn.

Do we not find the Apostles marked by fire

after receiving the gift of the Holy Spirit?

What about us?  Do we allow the same Spirit to burn within us?

Would anybody look at us and say,

“There’s an assembly on fire for it’s faith”?

We live in a time that has developed

some incredible technologies for communication,

but we seem to have lost our knack

for building and sustaining authentic community.

We have more ways to connect,

yet are more isolated than ever.

I think of the race to the parking lot that follows most Masses.

The rush to get to the next thing

doesn’t exactly say that we’ve connected on a deep level—

that we’ve been fully assembled—does it?

If it were only because we were in such a hurry

to go out and spread the Gospel!

We must give the Holy Spirit permission to change us—

to glue us together following the pattern laid out by Christ

and then ignite us with his holy fire—

if we are to have any hope of changing the world.

I suspect that model car kit

will occupy my nephew much of this holiday weekend.

I also suspect he won’t have a complete ’77 Firebird by Monday.

Some assembly will still be required.

Likewise, the Church is a work in progress—

assembled not just once, but Sunday after Sunday,

year after year, down through the ages.

While the Church was first begun on Pentecost,

she will only be fully assembled in heaven,

where the risen Christ has gone in triumph before us.

As members of his one Body,

let us each play our unique part, all the while in perfect unity,

that the Spirit sent out by the Lord

may accomplish his mission within, among, and through us,

and thus renew the very face of the earth.