Homily for Sunday, 21 July 2024– Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A

Readings of the day: Jeremiah 23:1-6; Psalm 23:1-3, 3-4, 5, 6; Ephesians 2:13-18; Mark 6:30-34

One theme is clear through all of the readings we hear today: That of shepherding. What (or who) is a shepherd; what defines a shepherd? What does God (or what does Jesus, in our Gospel) expect insofar as the conduct of a shepherd? How is God a shepherd; how does Jesus model for us how a shepherd is supposed to act?

In the Book of the prophet Jeremiah, all the shepherds, without exception, have been bad. And so God and God’s prophet, Jeremiah, scold them angrily: “Woe to the shepherds who mislead and scatter the flock of my pasture, says the LORD”! But, still, who are the shepherds who have drawn God’s and the prophet’s anger? Who are “flock of [God’s] pasture” according to Jeremiah?

In the Ancient Near East at the time of the prophet Jeremiah, in the territory we would call the Middle East today (so not only Israel), the kings and tribal rulers of many nations were compared to shepherds. So it would seem that Jeremiah, whose prophecy mostly targeted the kings of Judah, the part of Israel that included Jerusalem, compared the kings of Judah to bad shepherds.

What were the kings of Judah doing wrong? Jeremiah wastes no time in laying out the charge against them: The kings of Judah, several of them, one after another, have misled and scattered “the flock of [God’s] pasture.” This is a serious accusation! I am not sure how well we are acquainted with sheep and shepherds, sisters and brothers. I have not seen many sheep around here; there is not much room for sheep to pasture in a city like Rochester, so say the least. But sheep need two almost competing things to survive and thrive: Sheep need a large amount of land to graze, to pasture. And they need somebody, a shepherd, to tend to them, to limit the (however large) area in which they are allowed to pasture, so that they do not become lost, injured, or prey to a predator.

From my limited understanding about sheep, it is actually quite difficult for a shepherd to scatter, to “mislead” sheep. Sheep will tend to stay near a shepherd for protection. It takes intent for a shepherd to scatter, to drive away, to do violence to sheep, to put them in dangerous situations so that they will flee the shepherd against their instinct. Sheep—figuratively, the “flock of [God’s] pasture,” the people of Judah—are vulnerable creatures. God’s flock in Jeremiah is the vast majority of the people of Judah of the time who were poor peasants, who may have earned enough wages from their work to subsist from one day to the next. The “flock” depended on the kings and other wealthy elites of Judah—the small minority of the people of Judah—to give them just wages for their labor; not to abuse their labor, take land away from the poor or do violence toward them.

So, this is why I say that, for Jeremiah to charge the shepherds, the kings of Judah, with misleading and scattering God’s flock is a serious accusation. Jeremiah charges Judah’s kings with intentionally endangering, doing violence and injustice toward the most vulnerable, the most marginalized, the poorest of the people of Judah, and enriching themselves greedily in the process. In Jeremiah’s time, the prosperity gap between the few wealthy and the many poor was great and becoming greater.

I do not like that my mind drifts in this instant toward a great little French phrase with some “bite” to it, but that is where my mind is going: Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. (“The more things change, the more they stay the same.”) I feel compelled to ask: Is our society (or is the society of my home country, Canada, for that matter) any better than the one the prophet Jeremiah rebukes for its injustices toward the many poor and vulnerable, the concentration of wealth in the hands of a few?

I think this is an important question to ask ourselves, especially as we approach an election in this country, just a few short months from now. I want to be clear on a couple of points: First, it is not my place to endorse or denounce any specific candidate or party for public office, especially in the very midst of an election race as this country finds itself. You will not hear such an endorsement or condemnation of a party or candidate from me, with the power of the pulpit behind my words. I know (and I am sure many of us have heard) priests and other religious authorities endorse or denounce candidates or parties. I consider this to be an example of the kind of intentional scattering, misleading of the flock; an abuse of shepherding power that prophets like Jeremiah condemned.

Second, though, I think it is appropriate—and in line with the social teaching of our Church—to appeal to all of us (strongly) to vote, when it is time to vote, for the candidates who will best protect not our self-interested accumulation of wealth if we have it, but the basic dignity and rights of the most vulnerable, the least of our sisters and brothers. I want to be clear again: It is not wrong to be materially wealthy. Our Church defends the right to private property. Yet property, wealth, prosperity must serve the more fundamental rights of those who have the least. These must serve what our Church calls “the common good.” So, it is not wrong to be rich, but it is profoundly wrong when a few accumulate vast wealth while anybody—especially in a country as rich as these United States of America—lacks the means to obtain the basic necessities of life: Food, shelter, medical care, education…

Our Church says that “the common good” should govern how we vote. It should govern those who serve our nations in public office: Not material wealth or money first; not self first; not America first (or, in my case, Canada first) or any particular nation’s interests first; not military might first, but the most vulnerable, the least of our sisters and brothers, first. So I ask each and all of us: In good conscience, formed by prayer and through our Catholic faith, please consider how well the “shepherds” for whom you are inclined to vote, those who serve in public office, serve the least of our sisters and brothers first; serve “the common good” first. No candidate and no party will do this perfectly—far from it—but there will always be perhaps good choices, better choices, and best choices on the ballot. We have a beautiful thing called a democracy, something that the poor of the prophet Jeremiah’s time and still many people in many nations around the world today do not have. Please do not take this for granted; please vote.

Please exercise your good conscience in doing so, because the alternative to our free and wise exercise of conscience in this way is the triumph of evil. It is the triumph of injustice, self-interest at the expense of the poor, sin, vast wealth and power in the hands of few. And it is already bad enough, as the prophet Jeremiah shows us today, when bad shepherds are allowed to abuse their power, to mislead and scatter the sheep, God’s people, unchecked.

But there is something still more insidious than when “bad shepherding,” ignorance of the fundamental rights of the most vulnerable, the poor, is allowed to continue unopposed. Today Jeremiah includes an interesting play-on-words: He speaks of tending to, or caring for, the basic needs of the poor. Through Jeremiah, God accuses the kings of Judah, the bad shepherds: “You have not cared for” my sheep; tended to them. But God says, “I will take care to punish your evil deeds.” I will attend to, in other words, the condemnation of the bad shepherds’ inattention to the poor, the LORD says through Jeremiah.

And, in Mark’s Gospel, Jesus shows us what attending to justice, to the needs and rights of the vulnerable, looks like. Our Gospel reading today begins with Jesus’ apostles reporting to Jesus (I imagine with some pride, justifiably so) “all they had done and taught.” Yet Jesus says to them, “Come away by yourselves to a deserted place and rest a while.” Rest—for the greatest of apostles, prophets, ministers of our Church to the most newly-baptized member of the faithful—is essential. None of us can, or should be expected to, labor without rest, lest our work, including our service, our ministry in God’s name should become a kind of idol, a replacement for God.

Jesus balances his disciples’ need for rest, their vulnerability to idolizing activity, with our need for attentiveness, our need to attend to the poorest, those who most need his presence, his teaching; those who are “like sheep without a shepherd.” This is a difficult balance for us to keep; I know this all too well! This past week, I was on retreat with priests of my order. It was a much-needed time to “come away… and rest a while.” If we are good servants of the Lord, good Christians, God will constantly give us opportunities to attend preferentially to the least of our sisters and brothers. But God also calls us to attend to balancing our work (service, ministry) with rest.

We not only want to avoid becoming bad shepherds or being governed by bad shepherds, uncritically, unwisely, or selfishly choosing bad shepherds to govern us or, worse yet, not choosing (voting) at all. But our Lord also invites us to “come away… and rest a while.” The Lord is “moved with pity” for those for whom work, wealth, might, nation, partisan ideology, violence, and self-interest have become idols.

And he invites us to attune our ear, our spirit, our conscience so that we can better attend to the voice of justice, the voice of the common good, the voice of the most vulnerable to injustice and exploitation. That voice is the voice of Christ our Lord and God, the Good Shepherd.

Homily for Sunday, 31 March 2024– The Resurrection of the Lord, Mass of Easter Sunday

Readings of the day: Acts 10:34a, 37-43; Psalm 118:1-2, 16-17, 22-23; Colossians 3:1-4; John 20:1-9

Sisters and brothers: Christ is risen, alleluia! He is truly risen, alleluia!

Within the Scripture readings we have just heard on this Easter Sunday morning, I am always profoundly drawn to the descriptions of Jesus’ first disciples, the diversity of their experiences of Jesus’ resurrection and the preaching of apostles like Peter about Jesus’ resurrection.

First, I invite us to focus our attention on Mary Magdalene. She, not any of the Twelve, is the first to see the empty tomb of Jesus, with the stone rolled away from its entrance. She runs to tell Simon Peter “and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved,” that the tomb is empty. But at this point, Mary Magdalene’s experience is not one of excitement and joy; it is one of confusion. “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.”

In her anxiety and confusion, Mary Magdalene reaches for the first logical conclusion that comes to her mind: Somebody has stolen, has relocated Jesus’ body. Peter and the beloved disciple run together to the tomb to investigate Mary’s claim that the tomb is empty. I imagine that, when Mary Magdalene first tells Peter and the beloved disciple that the tomb is empty, they would have thought this was preposterous. But, to their credit, the two men go to the tomb. Mary Magdalene returns to the tomb, too, but remains in the garden outside it, weeping.

Simon Peter and then the beloved disciple enter the tomb. They see the stone rolled away, the burial cloths rolled up in separate places, the head cloth from the body cloth. And the next line in John’s Gospel always amazes me, every time I hear it: The beloved disciple (and we can presume Peter, too) “saw and believed, for as yet they did not understand the Scripture, that he must rise from the dead.”

The beloved disciple believed first. Only later would Jesus’ disciples understand this mystery of the resurrection: “He must rise from the dead.” In the Church, dating back to the eleventh century Benedictine monk St. Anselm of Canterbury, we have a neat little phrase to sum up the goal of the Christian intellectual tradition: It is “faith seeking understanding”—fides quærens intellectum.

Now, maybe this speaks to the smallness of my faith, or maybe it is a more widespread phenomenon of contemporary Western thought (I will leave this question to the philosophers), but I have real trouble believing in something if I cannot first begin to understand it intellectually. I have trouble believing something if it is not at least reasonable to me. Simon Peter and the beloved disciple believe before Jesus’ rising from the dead becomes something reasonable, understandable to them. This is very bold on their part!

And Mary Magdalene, lingering, weeping in the garden outside the tomb, is bold in her own right in John’s account of Easter morning that we have just heard. She does not understand why Jesus’ tomb is empty any better than Simon Peter and the beloved disciple do. She thinks that somebody has taken Jesus’ body and laid it elsewhere. But Mary Magdalene does not flee her complex set of emotions and thoughts, her experience of the present moment: Confusion, anxiety, sadness because, as far as she knows, Jesus is still dead. Mary Magdalene remains in the garden to encounter this experience head-on. And she is blessed, because of her boldness, with an encounter with the risen Lord. Jesus asks her, “Woman, whom are you looking for”?

At that moment, Mary Magdalene recognizes the voice of her Lord, our Lord, immediately: “Rabbouni”! But she is still caught up in trying first to understand before she can believe that he is truly risen, that nobody has taken Jesus’ body away. Jesus reminds her, and reminds us, that the greatest faith precedes understanding—having everything worked out intellectually. Faith seeks understanding, ideally, not the other way around.

“Do not hold onto me,” Jesus tells Mary Magdalene. “Do not hold onto” this very human desire to understand, to make rational sense, before we can believe. “But go to my brothers,” Jesus says, “And say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”

So Mary obeys Jesus. She goes and announces to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord.” And then they, too, come to believe that Jesus is truly risen from the dead. They become vocal preachers, witnesses by their way of life, to Jesus’ resurrection. Jesus’ disciples can at last begin to understand, once they have believed. And then they can act on their faith, their understanding, to found and grow the Church, this communion of “witnesses” to the risen Christ as Peter calls those who hear him preach in the Acts of the Apostles, our first reading this morning.

But this story all begins in a garden, with the encounter between Mary Magdalene and the risen Lord, and in the tomb, when Simon Peter and then the beloved disciple enter to find the tomb empty and the burial cloths displaced. That our first encounters, in John’s Gospel, with the risen Christ happen in a garden and inside an empty tomb is no accident.

It was in a garden where, Genesis says in its account of the creation of the first humans, God created Adam and Eve. It was in a garden where Adam and Eve fell for Satan’s lie that eating the forbidden fruit would make them wise, would make them their own god, able to understand everything as God does, without the need to believe and depend on God whose goodness had created them and sustained them and all things. Yet it was in a garden where, when Adam and Eve sinned, God’s Spirit first blew through Eden and whispered to them, “Where are you”: Where are you, not a wise and all-knowing God but naked and ashamed? And it was in a garden, still, before Adam and Eve were expelled from Eden, where God first promised to redeem us from, overcome, destroy sin and its effects.

This promise reaches its peak in the mystery we celebrate today: God has sent his only Son to redeem us, to overcome and destroy sin by his death and resurrection from the dead. And this promise will reach its fulfillment when the Christ returns in glory at the end of time, as we hear today from the Letter to the Colossians: “When Christ [our] life is revealed, then [we] will be revealed with him in glory.”

It is in a garden, just as it was in a garden “in the beginning,” in those first moments of our creation and fall into sin, where God once again calls out. God’s “Where are you” to Adam and Eve becomes Jesus’ question to Mary Magdalene, “Whom are you looking for”?

While this Easter encounter with the risen Christ is still a mystery, God’s Christ calls to us, invites us to enter the empty tomb, to acknowledge that he is risen and is present with and through us. God invites us to do all that, starting in a garden and an empty tomb on Easter morning, before we could ever fully understand this mystery. God invites us, as he did Simon Peter and the beloved disciple, to believe first. Only once we believe, might we understand. And then, as God called Mary Magdalene, Simon Peter, the beloved disciple, and all the other Christian disciples after them through the ages, God now calls us to be witnesses.

God calls us to “go and tell [our] brothers” and sisters: We believe. “We are witnesses to all that [Christ] did.” And now Jesus Christ, who died to redeem us, is risen. He is truly risen. Alleluia!

Homily for Thursday, 28 March 2024– Holy Thursday, Evening Mass of the Lord's Supper

Readings of the day: Exodus 12:1-8, 11-14; Psalm 116:1-13, 15-16bc, 17-18; 1 Corinthians 11:24-26; John 13:1-15

There is a legend surrounding Leonardo da Vinci’s painting of “The Last Supper.” Da Vinci took many years to find people to be subjects for the painting of Jesus and each of his apostles. First he found a young, handsome man in his late teens to paint as Jesus.

Seven years later, Leonardo da Vinci had finally found enough subjects, out of hundreds of possible people, to have painted Jesus Christ and eleven of his apostles. The only apostle who remained to find a subject and paint was Judas Iscariot, the one who betrayed Jesus. After another long search, da Vinci was told that his ideal subject for Judas Iscariot was a wretched prisoner in a dark dungeon of Rome. So, da Vinci went down into the dungeon and met the prisoner. Da Vinci had made a deal with the authorities that the prisoner could be released from prison and into da Vinci’s care if he agreed to be the figure of Judas Iscariot in the “Last Supper” painting.

When da Vinci finished painting Judas in the likeness of the haggard prisoner, he showed the prisoner his Judas in the “Last Supper.” The prisoner, taken aback, said back to da Vinci, “You don’t recognize me, do you? I’m the man you painted seven years ago as Jesus Christ. O God, I have fallen so low”!

Sisters and brothers in Christ, who has invited us to tonight’s Eucharistic memorial of his Last Supper: Even if our sinful state weakens our ability to recognize another person, or maybe even ourselves—to recognize the likeness and dignity of God with which God created us—God will never fail to recognize us. God will always and forever recognize God’s own image and likeness, God’s beauty as in the young man Leonardo da Vinci first painted as Jesus Christ in the “Last Supper,” in each of us.

God will always welcome us, tonight in a special way and every time we gather to celebrate the Eucharist, to his table in memory of Jesus’ Last Supper. Our God in Jesus Christ once welcomed twelve very imperfect men to eat his final meal with him before he died. One of those Twelve, the head of the apostles Simon Peter, would go on to deny even knowing Jesus, three times, as Jesus was being led to his crucifixion. Another, Judas Iscariot, would betray Jesus to the authorities to have him killed. All the others except “the disciple whom [Jesus] loved”—who stood by Jesus’ cross with the three Marys: Jesus’ mother, “the wife of Clopas,” and Mary Magdalene—would flee the scene of the cross.

All except one of Jesus’ Twelve apostles would fail to recognize Jesus as he was arrested, condemned, crucified to death. But God, in Christ, would recognize them for who they truly were. God recognizes us for who we truly and fundamentally are, sisters and brothers, even when we do not recognize the God-given dignity in one another or sometimes in ourselves or in all creation; even if, like the prisoner Leonardo da Vinci painted as Judas Iscariot, we “have fallen so low” into the wretchedness of sin.

Sin, and the blindness toward the image and likeness of God in each of us that sin causes, is not our original state of being. Our original state of being is one of beauty, blessing, dignity as God intended: “God blessed them and gave them dominion” over creation, the Book of Genesis says of the first people God created, Adam and Eve. This “blessed” state of being is the state God will always recognize in us, even if or when we obscure it, corrupt it by sin. This blessed state is the figure our Lord invites to share his Last Supper, this Eucharistic memorial of his Last Supper, with him.

But what about our sin? Jesus’ Last Supper; Jesus’ Passion, death, and resurrection that follow his Last Supper show us two main ways in which God responds to our sin, our “fall” from the state of divine grace and blessing in which God first created us. First, the events of Jesus’ Last Supper, Passion, death, and resurrection that we will commemorate over these next three days show us that God’s response to our sin will urge us to confront our sinfulness, our woundedness, our betrayals, our denials, our fleeing the scene of the cross. Jesus’ first disciples who confronted their sinfulness would be the first to be restored to God’s grace through these Paschal events: Peter, who would weep immediately at his denial of Jesus and later be able to confess, three times, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you”; Mary Magdalene, who would be the first to tell the beloved disciple and Peter of the empty tomb on Easter morning; the other disciples upon whom the risen Christ would breathe the peace of the Holy Spirit and ask that they forgive as they had been forgiven; Thomas, who would overcome his doubt to make an astounding profession of faith, “My Lord and my God”!

Second, these events of Jesus’ Last Supper, his Passion, death, and resurrection are a continuation (and a fulfillment) of how God has always acted in history toward us, especially in response to our sin, our lack of recognition of our original state of divine blessing. Whenever we have sinned, God has not waited to begin the process of restoring us to his grace and friendship.

From the moment Adam and Eve first sinned by eating the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden, God did not wait to promise that the woman’s offspring would crush the serpent, the Satan, the prince of deceit and evil. God would put an end to all evil, all corruption from our original state of divine blessing.

We have heard tonight from Exodus part of the long epic of how God guided the people of Israel through forty years of wandering through the desert wilderness, from slavery under Pharaoh in Egypt to the land God promised them. These people of Israel were so often not exactly worthy to be delivered from slavery, from wandering through the wilderness, as God did for them many times. The people of Israel would sin. They would complain about everything. They would test God. They would worship false gods, not the God constantly working to save them. Yet today we hear the high point of the Exodus story, Israel’s deliverance story: When God struck down the firstborn of Egypt but (literally) passed over the people of Israel, allowing them to live and continue their escape from slavery.

And tonight we have heard the fulfillment of the first Passover through the second, which began with Jesus Christ gathering his disciples for a Last Supper before he died. Jesus gives us in this renewed Passover a new commandment, “an example,” a mandate for us that gives this celebration its old name of Maundy Thursday, mandate Thursday: “That you should also do as I have done for you.”

What has Jesus done for us that is so radical, such a fulfillment of the first Passover, and why has he done this for us? He has started by washing feet, which we will remember in a few moments by replicating in this celebration. John’s Last Supper account starts with Jesus taking the place of a slave before his disciples. This act is startling to his disciples, to Peter, who refuses at first to allow Jesus to lower himself to that level.

But this is only the beginning. Jesus will go so far as to take upon himself all our sin, everything that obscures our view, our recognition of the beauty, the grace, the blessing with which God first created us, and have it nailed to a cross with him on Calvary. Tomorrow we will hear the prophet Isaiah’s foretelling of how, on Good Friday, Jesus accepted being made as one “despised and rejected… as one from whom others hide their faces” and who hold “him of no account.”

Jesus would do none of this for us, for our salvation, because we are worthy. On the contrary! But Jesus once gathered his disciples together for a Last Supper. The next day, “he was crucified, died, and was buried… And on the third day he rose again.” Jesus did all this because, no matter whether we recognize our blessedness, our beauty, the image and likeness of God that we all bear, how much God loves each and all of us (so that he, God in Jesus Christ, would die for us!), God will always recognize all this in us. To Jesus, we will always be like the figure Leonardo da Vinci painted as Jesus. We will always be, as maybe one of my favourite Psalm in the Bible (Psalm 8) begins by describing us, “little less than gods.”

And, through this celebration of Holy Thursday of the Lord’s Supper, Jesus only asks of us two things: First, remember what he has done for us on this night. And, second, do as he does: “Do this in remembrance of me”… “You should also do as I have done to you.” We remember and we do for one another as Jesus has done for us when we remember our blessedness, God’s love for us. We remember and fulfill Jesus’ Last Supper commandment to us when we recognize ourselves and one another as Jesus recognizes us perfectly. We remember and fulfill Jesus’ Last Supper commandment when we act on what we recognize, most fundamentally, in ourselves and one another: A people blessed from the first moments of our creation; a people created in and bearing God’s image and likeness (as in a da Vinci painting, but much more beautiful!); a people called to take, eat, and drink of this Last Supper of friendship, of salvation, of God’s self-emptying, of the blessing of our Lord.

Homily for Sunday, 24 March 2024‒ Palm Sunday of the Passion of the Lord

Readings of the day: At the procession with palm branches: Mark 11:1-10. During the Mass: Isaiah 50:4-7; Psalm 22:8-9, 17-18, 19-20, 23-24; Philippians 2:6-11; Mark 14:1-15:27

I have yet to become a major aficionado of the series, “The Chosen,” not by any means because I dislike it or think it is overhyped, but… I need some time to catch up on viewing it. From what I have seen, it is a very well-done series.

Yet in one episode of “The Chosen,” Jesus returns to his hometown, Nazareth, which is overrun with people wanting to see him. Jesus has sent his disciples out on mission to heal the sick and work wonders. He cuts through the noise of all the people who want to see him, the hometown crowds, his friends growing up… And he visits his mother Mary for dinner.

In the introduction credits scene of this episode, Jesus is shown as a little child. Mary and Joseph are affectionate toward Jesus and each other. Jesus receives toys and other gifts from relatives. It is a festival scene. Jesus takes his first steps. One of the gifts he receives at that feast is a bridle for a donkey’s colt. It is a gift from Joseph. A donkey’s bridle would be a strange gift for a toddler, except that this bridle had been passed down through generations to Jesus on Joseph’s side, all the way from King David.

In the homecoming dinner scene between Jesus and Mary, Mother and Son have a long conversation. Mary wants to know all about Jesus’ disciples, his “students”: Who is doing well, what they are doing, who is having a rough time. Jesus says that they are all “quite well” at that moment. And then he pauses; he takes Mary’s hand. And then Jesus asks Mary for the box with the bridle. Mary’s face suddenly shows discomfort.

And Mary asks Jesus, “Are you sure this is your last time here” at home? Jesus replies, “I believe that my time is coming.” This part of the conversation ends with Mary saying to Jesus, “I don’t know that I’m ready.” And Jesus replies finally to Mary, with Mary speaking his words back to him at the same time: “I know how you feel. But you also know that I must do the will of him who sent me.”

Sisters and brothers, on this Palm Sunday of the Passion of the Lord, we are not ready. But Jesus has visited his earthly homes, probably his childhood home, the home of his mother Mary, one last time. He is now at the gates of Jerusalem. We greet Jesus, picking up palm branches and casting them at his feet as he rides through the city gates on the donkey, restrained by the bridle Jesus had picked up during his last visit home. We cry out joyfully, as we have to open this Mass: “Hosanna to the Son of David… Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord”!

We are not ready for what is happening or about to happen. We can commemorate this Palm Sunday, Holy Week of which today is the beginning, once every year, all our lives. And we will never be ready for what this Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion, for what the Lord’s Passion, death, and resurrection that we will celebrate all within this next week, will mean for us. This Holy Week we can and will hear two different accounts of the Passion of Our Lord Jesus, in the voices of three readers each: Today, Mark’s account of Jesus’ Passion and, on Good Friday, John’s account of the same events.

We can, and we will, hear Isaiah’s four prophetic hymns of a “suffering servant”: The third of four today; the four in order on Holy Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Good Friday this week. And we will not and cannot be ready. We can and will hear St. Paul’s hymn to the Philippians of a Messiah whom, paradoxically, we worship because, “although he was in the form of God… he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross.” And we will not and can never be ready for Jesus to accept this, “death on a cross.”

I speak for myself first and foremost, a sinner preaching to sinners: I will never be ready for Palm Sunday, for Holy Week, for Holy Thursday of the Lord’s Supper, Good Friday, Easter of the Lord’s Resurrection, no matter how many times I celebrate these days with us. If Mary was not ready—the sinless Virgin Mary—then we can never be ready.

Jesus does not wait for us to be ready, sisters and brothers. Jesus walks from Nazareth to Jerusalem’s gates carrying a bridle, the last thing he retrieves from home, for a donkey’s colt. He will go from carrying a bridle to carrying a cross, from riding on that donkey to dying on that cross, within less than a week. Jesus does not wait for us to be ready, to accept death for us, to save us from our sin. No, so single-mindedly does Jesus choose to do “the will of the one who sent” him. And the will of the one who sent him is our salvation, our life forever, in our heavenly home.

Homily for Monday, 1 January 2024– Solemnity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God

Readings of the day: Numbers 6:22-27; Psalm 67:2-3, 5, 6, 8; Galatians 4:4-7; Luke 2:16-21

Sisters and brothers, Happy New Year and a happy Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God!

Our Church has also celebrated New Year’s Day as the World Day of Peace since Pope St. Paul VI first connected this day to an ongoing prayer for and reflection on peace in our world in 1967. Peace is much richer than the mere absence of conflict. Perhaps the absence of conflict sometimes (if not frequently) can mask the absence of true peace in our world and in our relationships.

Since Mary’s time, Jesus’ time, and well before then, since the time the Book of Numbers from which we hear God’s blessing of peace through Aaron today was written, peace has been based on the multidimensional Hebrew word, shalom. Shalom can mean a simple, friendly greeting, like, “Hello,” “goodbye,” or “farewell.” It means peace in the fullest sense possible, the desire for wholeness, well-being, harmony, for ourselves and everybody.

From when I was an elementary school-aged child, I remember the Hebrew traditional song we learned in music class:

Shalom, chaverim. Shalom, chaverim.

Shalom, shalom.

L’hitra’ot, l’hitra’ot

Shalom, shalom.

Farewell (or greetings), my friends.

Farewell, my friends. Peace! Peace!

Until we meet again, until we meet again.

Peace! Peace!

Aaron’s blessing of the people of Israel that we hear today in Numbers is similar in spirit to this little folk song. Aaron blesses the people of Israel in God’s words to him:

The LORD bless you and keep you,

the LORD make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you;

the LORD lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace [shalom].

Those of us who attend the 9:30 am Mass here at St. Joseph’s College with the Children’s Liturgy of the Word will be familiar with this blessing of Aaron. Our music ministry has been singing a lovely arrangement of it when our children go out for the Children’s Liturgy downstairs.

I have said that shalom, peace, is a multidimensional word. It is a word that suggests movement. Shalom can never be static or stationary. In the Book of Numbers, the Aaronic blessing, shalom begins as a gift of God, a gift we receive from looking upon the face of God, from God turning God’s face to look upon us and, in a word from Aaron’s blessing, shining on us.

Few natural events suggest peace—God’s love for us, for the world; calm, wholeness, well-being, harmony—than a sunrise. This is the first image in my mind when I think of God’s face “shining” upon us. Yet lately, often as soon as I picture a sunrise in my mind and connect it to God’s shalom, my mind is haunted by images from half a world away—say, on the evening news, from war zones like those of Gaza or Ukraine: Cities reduced to rubble. Yet the sun rises over the ruins, the loss of life. These images drive home for me how far we are—how far humanity is—from the peace God wills for the world. They emphasize for me how far we are from the shalom with which God shone his face on Aaron and Moses for the people of Israel; the shalom for which God sent his only-begotten Son into our world, born as one like us of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God. But still, far as we are from God’s perfection of shalom, God makes the sun rise over us, even over our ruins, our anti-shalom.

If God’s shalom is to be effective in our world, God invites us to do two things with it: First, treasure it, ponder it in our hearts and, second, go out “with haste,” with a joyful urgency, to hand it on to people we encounter. Shalom cannot stand pat if it is to be effective in our world in need of it; it must be actively put into motion!

Mary, Mother of God, Luke says to us today, “treasured all [the] words” of the shepherds “and pondered them in her heart.” This is the second of three times in which Luke’s account of Jesus’ infancy describes Mary as treasuring or pondering the mysteries of God’s shalom as they unfold. And each time Mary profoundly treasures or ponders is when perplexing, even frightening, peace-disrupting events are taking place around her.

First, the angel Gabriel announces to Mary that she “will conceive in [her] womb and bear a son,” whom she is to name Jesus. Luke says that Mary ponders “what sort of greeting this might be.” Second is Mary’s encounter with the shepherds in today’s Gospel reading. By the time the shepherds have reached “Mary and Joseph, and the child lying in the manger,” it seems that they have already told everybody they could “what had been told them about this child.” They had organized the baby shower, done the “gender reveal,” and everything, all before Mary had had a chance to breathe, to meet these excitable shepherds for the first time. Still, Mary treasures and ponders shalom, calm, wholeness, well-being, harmony at her very core. And, a third time, when Mary and Joseph find the twelve-year-old Jesus in the temple, teaching and listening to the teachers, after three days of frantic searching, again Mary keeps “all these things in her heart.”

Mary is the master of the first movement of shalom, treasuring and pondering. For the shepherds’ part, in today’s Gospel reading they are masters of the second movement of shalom, going with haste—with a joyful urgency—to communicate shalom once they have received it. The shepherds’ setting out “with haste to Bethlehem” and then returning just as quickly to their fields, “glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen,” echoes Mary’s own action earlier in Luke’s Gospel of going “with haste” to visit Elizabeth when Mary learns that Elizabeth is pregnant with John the Baptist at the same time she is pregnant with Jesus. Mary is Mother of God, the God-bearer in both these movements of shalom: Treasuring-pondering and going out with haste, actively bearing shalom to the world.

The shepherds, Joseph the husband of Mary, and especially Mary, whom we celebrate today as Mother of God, are master communicators of shalom. They are models for us of how we can be God-bearers in the sense of peace-bearers, shalom-bearers to our world. For us to be consistent bearers, communicators of shalom in our world, in our relationships, households, among our friends, in our places of work and leisure, in our Church can be challenging.

I find it interesting that, in his Message for the World Day of Peace this year, Pope Francis reflects as deeply as he does on the effects of new and ever-developing technologies—in particular artificial intelligence—on peace in our world and our human relationships. “Progress in science and technology,” Pope Francis says, “insofar as it contributes to greater order in human society and greater fraternal communion and freedom… leads to the betterment of humanity and the transformation of the world.”

How science, technologies like AI, the media of social communications lead “to the betterment of humanity and the transformation of the world” depends on how we use them, regulate them toward “the integral development of all individuals and peoples.” Scientific and technological progress can bear great promise, but also great risk. Pope Francis says, and I think this is easy to see, that science and technology, the ways we communicate and gain knowledge, pose challenges not only for any understanding of the human person as sacred but also social. These pose challenges in ethics: Political, social, economic; challenges in the areas of international law and the resolution of armed conflict when nations create weapons that can cause greater destruction more remotely than ever before. Progress in science, technology, communication pose challenges for education, for upholding especially the God-given dignity of the poor and people in need, for alleviating poverty and need, for protection of the natural environment.

How are we, this community of faith here at St. Joseph’s College, to manage all this? Understandably, maybe many or most of us feel powerless to effect any good against great global dangers to human well-being, human relationships, human life. But we can start small, local. We can start by helping the poor when we can. We can start by consuming less of what we do not need to consume. We can start by challenging ourselves to think critically about the information we absorb from media; as Pope Francis asks, “What are the social and ethical aspects of the development and [our] uses of technology”? We can start by challenging ourselves to one or two simple acts of kindness a day if we are not already doing this.

We can start by imitating the way of Mary, Mother of God, of Joseph, of the shepherds: First, treasure and ponder. How am I—how are we—being called to be bearers of peace, shalom, to our world and in our human relationships? Second, go “with haste”: If we have peace, kindness, mercy, calm, truth, hope, love to communicate, do not hesitate to communicate it, by word or the simplest of actions, like a friendly smile!

And, most important of all, pray, all of us, for shalom in our relationships, our world. That is the prayer God gave Aaron to pray for the ancient people of Israel. That is the prayer of Mary, Mother of God, for us:

Shalom, chaverim… Peace, my friends.

The LORD bless you and keep you,

the LORD make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you;

the LORD lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.

Homily for Sunday, 31 December 2023– Feast of the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Year B

Readings of the day: Genesis 15:1-6, 21:1-3; Psalm 105:1-2, 3-4, 5-6, 8-9; Hebrews 11:8, 11-12, 17-19; Luke 2:22-40

Today we celebrate the Feast of the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Yet our readings today invite us to a broader understanding of three related realities: Family, holiness, and blessing. The word of God invites us to see the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph as the culmination in human history of family, holiness, and blessing.

For Jews, Christians, and Muslims, the faithful of the three great Abrahamic religions, that history begins with Abraham. It is difficult, I think, for us not to feel badly for Abraham at the beginning of the reading we hear this evening from the Book of Genesis. God promises Abraham a son with Sarah, an ancestor to many nations, several times within a few chapters of Genesis. By the time Genesis introduces us to Abram, he is seventy-five years old. He is one hundred years old when Sarah gives birth to Isaac. So Abraham has had to wait a long time for God’s promise of descendants to become reality. Abram begins to feel like God has abandoned him and Sarai. His slave “Eliezer of Damascus” is, so far, his only heir. At this point, Abram has no family, no descendants of his own blood. “Maybe,” Abram could have thought, “I or Sarai have done something wrong. Maybe we have been less than steadfast in holiness.” God certainly seems, so far, to be denying Abram and Sarai the blessing of a child, of descendants.

So, what does God do with Abram? God does not ask Abram to look upon Sarai with love and imagine her expecting a child with him. And Genesis is clear that Abram has been nothing but faithful and patient with God. Abram’s faith and trust in God’s promise of descendants is “reckoned… to him as righteousness.” God does not ask of Abram any greater sign of his faith toward God. So, why does God continue to delay (or deny) Abram the only blessing he really longs for, a child, a family, descendants to populate all nations?

God asks only one thing of Abraham in the reading from Genesis we have just heard: Go outside; “look toward heaven and count the stars, if you are able to count them… So shall your descendants be.”

So, what does this encounter between God and Abram—God’s renewed promise (again) to Abraham of a great number of descendants—say to us about family, holiness, blessing? Sisters and brothers, family, holiness, and blessing are not things to be counted in the biblical imagination. In the Bible—the epics of Abraham and Sarah, of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, and all the people and generations in between them—family is not limited to blood relationships. Holiness and blessing, too, are from God. So these are uncountable, infinite gifts to us of God’s grace.

God asks of us that we live according to the holiness and blessing that has been ours since the first moments of our creation. God saw that we were—humanity was—“very good”; God had created us in God’s image and likeness, blessed us, and given to us the care of everything God had created.

For Abraham and Sarah, to live according to this original state of holiness and blessing meant to trust in God’s promise of descendants, a family of nations in faith. It meant to go outside and look up with awe into the limitlessness, uncountable as the stars are uncountable, of God’s blessing to them and all people, all creation for all time. For this, Sarah’s and Abraham’s trust in God, Genesis says today twice, God blesses Sarah, places her and Abraham at the head of God’s historical family in faith.

For the people who hear the Letter to the Hebrews—for us today, hearing this proclamation anew—to live in good faith according to our original state of holiness and blessing is to recognize in God’s faithfulness to his promise to Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, and Jacob the prefigurement of God’s restoration of us to that original state of holiness and blessing in and through Jesus Christ. In Jesus Christ we have the human manifestation of “God [who] is able even to raise someone from the dead.” God has raised Jesus from the dead, giving us a share in the blessing of eternal life.

For the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in Luke’s Gospel today, to live according to our original state of holiness and blessing is not so much to look up in awe at the limitlessness of the stars as Abram did, but to look and travel toward the temple of Jerusalem. In the time of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the temple was the centre of the Jewish faith, the dwelling place of God on earth, centred on the Holy of Holies.

Mary and Joseph set out, obedient to God’s call and their faith, to present Jesus in the temple. There is some ambiguity here: The Holy of Holies of the temple is the Holy Family’s destination, the dwelling place of God on earth. Yet Mary and Joseph hold God in human flesh, the infant Jesus, in their arms as they set out on their pilgrimage to the temple. Once the Holy Family arrives at the temple, the Holy of Holies, the baby Jesus, meets the Holy of Holies. But then the focus of this encounter of the Holies becomes the arms of the “righteous and devout” Simeon.

At that point, Simeon has nothing more on earth to live for. God’s Holy Spirit had “revealed to him… that he would not see death before he had seen the Christ of the Lord.” God’s promise, God’s blessing to the holy Simeon has been fulfilled. So Simeon is able to praise God, Luke’s Gospel says, with one of the most beautiful prayers in all of Scripture. For those of us who pray the Breviary or Liturgy of the Hours, at Night Prayer (Compline) the Church still prays Simeon’s prayer: “Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.”

This moment of prayer is a moment of encounter: Blessing, holiness, family all meet in this moment. Now, Simeon may depart this life for eternal life in heaven. He who has looked upon the presence of God, who has held God in the Christ Child in his arms, is an heir to God’s promise to Abraham, who looked up at the limitlessness of God’s promise, God’s holiness, God’s blessing of family: “Look toward heaven and count the stars… So shall your descendants be.”

There is only one thing on earth left for Simeon to do as he returns the baby Jesus to Mary and Joseph: Simeon blesses the Holy Family as he sends them on their way back to Nazareth, their hometown. It is a strange sort of blessing, I imagine unnerving if we had been Mary or Joseph in that situation. “This child,” Simeon says, “is destined for the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too.”

What is Simeon talking about? And how are his words to Mary there a blessing? Simeon’s words are a blessing, but with a dose of reality. God has given us every blessing possible under heaven. God has created us with holiness, in God’s own image and likeness. And God has given us the gift of a Saviour, who has restored us to the dignity of being called members of God’s holy family, the People of God.

Yet our mission is to accept these gifts from God. Our mission is to hand on these gifts to still other people, so that all people for all time become heirs to God’s blessing, God’s holiness; all become members of God’s family of peoples and nations. The Christ Child, the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph stand as “a sign that will be [and to this day continue to be] opposed” by many who want to exclude from God’s blessing, God’s people on the grounds that these are somehow not “worthy” of God’s grace, God’s blessing, being called God’s people: The poor, refugees and migrants, people whose relationships are irregular by Church law, and so on. This is the cruel reality present in our world. Yet the encounter between Simeon and Anna and the Holy Family in the temple, prefigured by the encounter of Abraham and Sarah with God, shows us that God’s grace, God’s blessing, God’s holiness, God’s call to us to be universal family of God’s chosen people, will not be so easily limited.

The leaders of Jesus’ own people, of his own time, would try to limit God’s grace, God’s blessing by crucifying the Lord of all grace and all blessing: “A sword will pierce your own soul too.” But life, grace, blessing overcame even that violent attempt to limit it, to limit God. So God continues to call us forth, now from this place of encounter with God to be heralds of God’s blessing, God’s holiness with which we have been created and that is our original state of being, in God’s image and likeness. In the name of the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, God invites us to bless the world, to exclude nobody from God’s blessing, so that we become ever more perfectly and universally the holy family of the People of God.