Homily for Sunday, 24 December 2023– Fourth Sunday of Advent, Year B

Readings of the day: 2 Samuel 7:1-5, 8b-12, 14a, 16; Psalm 89:2-3, 4-5, 27, 29; Romans 16:25-27; Luke 1:26-38

I do not wish to dampen our mood too much. But traveling around this City of Edmonton—walking around the neighbourhood where I live, seeing the poverty and the homelessness; seeing the encampments of homeless people whenever I drive through downtown—quickly makes me sad these days. How do we respond to the many complex social problems that lead to more people without adequate shelter, more people with mental and physical health challenges, addictions; more people living in tents where their safety and sometimes the safety of the public is at risk?

Sisters and brothers, there are no easy answers to these questions. But I often wonder: If I; if we were able to contribute to enough social services and to the building of enough affordable housing for everybody who needs shelter in this city—or even just one person each—would we?

Today, on this Fourth Sunday of Advent, which happens to fall this year on the day before Christmas, we hear the noble idea of King David in the Second Book of Samuel: He wants to build God a house! Now, if King David lived in our time and place, I might want to ask him if I were in the place of, say, his prophet Nathan: It is wonderful that you want to build a house for God. But are all the poor, the marginalized in your kingdom sheltered, fed, cared for?

Old Testament tradition presents David as a good king (with some very significant flaws). So it is probable—and the Bible points to this in places—that David did care for, feed, and shelter the poor, as well as look after the spiritual needs of his people. If any king in ancient Israel were close to worthy to build a house for God, having done his best to care for his human subjects, it was David.

In 2 Samuel the prophet Nathan seems to agree with this. He approves David’s plan: “Go, do all you have in mind, for the LORD is with you.” But then, that night, we hear, God appears to Nathan and vetoes the king’s plan. David is not to build God a house. Instead, God will “make for [David] a great name,” an everlasting reign. God will do this by coming to dwell in our homes and our hearts.

Until the reign of David’s son and successor, King Solomon, who built the first temple—God’s first stationary house, we can say—in Jerusalem, God’s earthly dwelling was a tent, the Ark of the Covenant. And the Ark of the Covenant and the tabernacle at its centre were mobile. The Ark of the Covenant traveled where the tribes of ancient Israel traveled. God was always with God’s people.

Now, there are advantages to building God a stationary house, a temple, over having God dwell under a tent that traveled around with the tribes of Israel. The temple that David planned to build (and Solomon had built) would be imposing and ornate. It would call to mind God’s greatness, God’s sovereignty over the people and leaders of Israel.

On a much smaller scale but still beautiful, this chapel here at St. Joseph’s College serves the same purpose. The lovely stained-glass windows draw our attention upward toward heaven. They tell the story our Scriptures tell, from God’s creation of our universe through the ascension and reign of Christ the King in heaven, but in glorious bursts of colour, sunlight filtering through them. The Blessed Sacrament chapel invites us, right at this chapel’s entrance, to stop a while, pray, adore Jesus present in the tabernacle (and sometimes in the monstrance on the altar, especially every Friday evening when classes are in session). The altar centres our attention during Mass, calling to us with the Lord’s own invitation, “Come and eat.”

But there are possible disadvantages to building a stationary house for God. King David surely knew this; King Solomon and his successors would know this all too well. There is an ever-present temptation to immobilize, to limit God to our imaginations, our boxes, our houses that we build for God. So, in our comfortable enclosures, God can only fill with grace and blessing those who are somehow worthy of that divine grace and blessing. That bread and wine only becomes the real sacramental presence of Jesus Christ—body, blood, soul, and divinity—at that specific point in the Eucharistic prayer when the priest prays the words of institution…

If we begin to think in these ways, we have begun to forget God’s warning to King David through the prophet Nathan: It is not up to us to build God a house, stationary and static. No, God will make of us, sisters and brothers, a house. We are God’s dwelling when we emerge from this place, having partaken of the Eucharist, and we bring God’s grace and blessing out to the world by how we act with kindness, with love, with peace, with joy, especially toward those on the margins. Let us heed God’s reminder to King David at his most noble: “Are you the one to build me a house to live in”?

God wants to make of us a house, a living, moving Ark of the Covenant in which he will dwell. And the realization in history of God coming to dwell with us as one of us in all things but sin begins with the message of the angel Gabriel to a humble virgin, Mary of Nazareth. Mary is the first and most perfect model of the living, moving Ark of the Covenant, the earthly dwelling of God that God wants us all to be.

Now imagine us going out to our world, encountering somebody in special need of hearing the words Gabriel spoke to Mary: “Hail, full of grace; the Lord is with you.” And let us speak those words to at least one person today, tomorrow, this week in which we celebrate the Nativity of our Lord: “Hail, full of grace”; “May God bless you.” Our greeting can be as simple as that! And then let us enact that grace and blessing, that real presence of God that dwells in each of us, especially as we leave this Eucharistic celebration, as we celebrate Christmas tonight and tomorrow: Be kind; be at peace; forgive and be reconciled with somebody who needs forgiveness and reconciliation through us; try to remind ourselves to see and experience God’s presence primarily in somebody who lives on the margins, somebody outside the fixed houses, the places of worship we build for ourselves and for God.

If we are wondering or, in our Gospel’s words today to describe Mary upon hearing Gabriel’s greeting, if we are “perplexed” at why I am insisting on this, in a way this is good. Mary is “much perplexed,” Luke says, “by [Gabriel’s] words.” She says “to the angel, ‘How can this be, since I am a virgin’”? Who am I to bear the Son of God in human flesh into this world? Who am I (and who are we) to be the focus of God’s blessing into the world right now, God’s living, moving Ark of the Covenant here and now?

I am sure that St. Paul, as he traveled and wrote his letters—the magnificent conclusion to his Letter to the Romans we have heard today—felt the same perplexity that Mary did. “Who am I,” St. Paul asks in a few places in his letters, “to be the messenger of peace and salvation, the apostle to the Gentiles? Who am I but a persecutor and a murderer (at first) of the disciples of Jesus”?

Who is St. Paul to be an ark, a living and moving home to bear God, to write about this new promise (covenant) of salvation in Christ to the ends of the world?! He is as worthy of that mission as Mary was, as we are. That is, not worthy at all, because this mission to be God’s living, moving home in this world does not depend on our worthiness. It did not depend on how noble King David was, or how perfect and humble Mary was (except that God made her exceptionally humble and sinless), or how fit Paul was to be an apostle.

God calls us, invites us, now with less than a full day to go before Christmas: “Who are you ‘to build me a house to live in’? I will make of you (of each of us, of our Church as a communion of faith) a living, moving house of grace, of blessing, of peace, of reconciliation, of joy, of welcome and shelter to those on the margins. And I will send you (all of us) to the ends of the earth to be home to my presence, my salvation that first entered the world in human flesh just over two thousand years ago through the Virgin Mary in Bethlehem.”

Homélie du mercredi, 31 janvier 2018– Mémoire de St. Jean Bosco, prêtre

Lectures du jour: 2 Samuel 24, 2.9-17; Psaume 31 (32), 1.2, 5, 6, 7; Marc 6, 1-6

jeudi de la 4ème semaine du Temps Ordinaire

Cette homélie fut donnée à la Maison Mère des Lazaristes, Chapelle St. Vincent de Paul, Paris, France.

This homily was given at the Vincentian Motherhouse’s St. Vincent de Paul Chapel, Paris, France.

A-t-on jamais souffert les effets du péché d’un autre, ou bien, même si l’on n’aime peut-être pas penser à cela, a-t-on déjà blessé quelqu’un d’innocent par notre péché ? Quel que soit le cas, qu’on ait blessé quelqu’un d’innocent par notre péché ou qu’on ait été blessé par le péché d’une autre personne, bien qu’on soit innocent, ces instants ne nous ont-ils pas amenés à nous poser la question : pourquoi les innocents souffrent-ils les effets du péché ?

C’est bien la question du roi David à la fin de notre lecture d’aujourd’hui du deuxième livre de Samuel. Bien sûr, c’est David qui pèche en recensant le peuple d’Israël. Pourquoi son recensement du peuple d’Israël est-il si mauvais ? L’état actuel ne recense-t-il pas périodiquement la population de la France, par exemple, sans que ce soit mauvais ?  Alors comprenons le recensement d’Israël par David dans le contexte de la promesse de Dieu à Abraham de lui donner des descendants « aussi nombreux que les étoiles et les graines de sable des bords de la mer ». Essayer de dénombrer cet infini est, dans ce contexte biblique, une tentative de David de se mettre à la place de Dieu. On peut alors comprendre son recensement comme un acte d’idolâtrie.

De toute façon, David se repentit de son péché, comme il le fait souvent, étant en même temps l’un des pires pêcheurs et l’un des meilleurs et plus fréquents pénitents de la Bible. En revanche, même si David se repentit, il doit encore y avoir des conséquences de son péché, mais pourquoi le peuple innocent d’Israël subit-il la peste, la conséquence du péché de son roi, David ?

David lui-même pose cette question à Dieu : « C’est moi qui ai péché, c’est moi qui suis coupable ; mais ceux-là, le troupeau, qu’ont-ils fait » ? La manière dont Dieu répond à cette question de David est aussi importante que la question elle-même : Dieu répond à David avec miséricorde à la fois pour le peuple d’Israël et pour David lui-même.

J’admets que c’est difficile à comprendre comment la peste que Dieu permet d’affecter le peuple d’Israël peut être interprété comme un acte miséricordieux. On rencontre ici, comme à plusieurs reprises dans la Bible, la tension entre la justice et la miséricorde de Dieu. La justice assure qu’il ait des conséquences de notre péché, tandis que la miséricorde met des limites sur cette justice. Dans le cas du recensement de David, Dieu arrête l’ange avant qu’il détruise Jérusalem.

Cette relation entre justice et miséricorde est importante pour nous, de façon qu’on connaisse que notre péché entraîne des conséquences ; ça peut nous faire souffrir, mais aussi faire souffrir notre prochain et peut-être même des personnes qu’on aurait pensé être plus loin du péché et de ses effets. Dans l’autre sens, quand quelqu’un pêche contre nous ; quand on est blessé, l’épisode d’aujourd’hui suite au recensement de David peut nous faire rappeler notre devoir d’agir avec miséricorde ; de mettre les freins sur nos désirs de la justice avant qu’ils deviennent de la vengeance ; avant que nous péchions nous-mêmes en réponse à un péché contre nous ; avant que nous présumions de nous mettre à la place de Dieu, qui est juste bien sûr, mais qui est en même temps miséricordieux.

Homélie du samedi, 20 janvier 2018– de la férie

Lundi de la 2ème semaine du temps ordinaire

Mémoire facultative des Sts. Fabien, pape et martyr, et Sébastien, martyr

Lectures du jour: 2 Samuel 1, 1-4.11-12.19.23-27; Psaume 79 (80), 2-3, 5-7; Marc 3, 20-21

Combien de temps se fait-il depuis qu’on a entendu une belle histoire de réconciliation où une personne, un groupe de personnes, ou peut-être un pays a fait preuve d’une bienveillance inattendue pour son ennemi ? Combien d’entre nous ont vécu un tel instant de réconciliation inattendue nous-mêmes ?

Si l’on connaît un peu l’histoire des deux premiers rois d’Israël, Saül et David, dans les livres de Samuel de l’Ancien Testament, ne nous étonne-t-il pas que ce soit précisément ce qui se passe dans notre première lecture d’aujourd’hui : David fait preuve d’une bienveillance inattendue pour Saül et son fils Jonathan quand ceux-ci se font tués en bataille. David loue Saül et Jonathan avec une chanson de lamentation émouvante.

David loue le même Saül que Dieu avait enlevé comme roi d’Israël pour avoir permis le culte d’autres dieux en Israël ; le même Saul qui avait voulu tuer David quand il entendit que David allait être son successeur en tant que roi d’Israël.

Dirait-on peut-être que David n’avait aucune obligation d’être si bienveillant envers Saül ? Il aurait été juste en le mettant à mort pour son idolâtrie et ensuite, en sortes, sa trahison de David, mais au lieu David lamente la mort de Saül et de Jonathan !

La lamentation de David pour Saül et Jonathan fait preuve de la bienveillance radicale de David, qui s’étend même à ses ennemis. Je me demande si ce n’est pas à cause de cette bienveillance radicale au fond du cœur de David, même pour ces ennemis, et non pas parce qu’il était un bon guerrier qui avait tué le Philistin Goliath entre autres exploits de guerre, que Dieu savait que David serait le meilleur choix comme roi d’Israël après Saül.

Une deuxième question à nous demander serait peut-être celle-ci : Comment pourrait-on améliorer notre monde, le bien-être de nos lieux de travail ; de nos familles, en pratiquant ce genre de bienveillance radicale de laquelle David fait preuve ? Quelle amélioration verrait-on dans nos relations interpersonnelles ; les relations diplomatiques entre pays, par exemple, si l’on n’attendait même pas que l’autre nous demande pardon pour pardonner ; si l’on cherchait de manière anticipée la réconciliation ; si notre bienveillance s’étendait non seulement à nos amis mais aussi à nos ennemis ?

Je dirais que, pour atteindre la paix entre nous et dans notre monde, il nous faut parfois, voire souvent, une bienveillance radicale à l’exemple de David ; à l’exemple de notre Dieu.

Homily for Thursday, 19 March 2015– Solemnity of St. Joseph, Husband of the Blessed Virgin Mary

Readings of the day: 2 Samuel 7:4-5a, 12-14a, 16; Psalm 89:2-3, 4-5, 27, 29; Romans 4:13, 16-18, 22; Luke 2:41-51a

Who was St. Joseph? He never speaks a word in Scripture. He is traditionally said to be a carpenter. He worked hard at his trade and was a good and holy husband to Mary. He was of the family line of King David, begun with the prophecy of Nathan we hear in our first reading today from 2 Samuel. We know from Scripture that St. Joseph was a man of deep faith. Our second reading today from Romans, on this feast day of St. Joseph, remembers Abraham, whose faith “was credited to him as righteousness.” Abraham’s faith was a gift from God.

And the same could be said of Joseph: He held a deep yet humble, even silent faith that was God’s gift to him. Joseph’s faith was the faith of Abraham; God’s gift of “righteousness.” Because of how Joseph lived his faith, God gave him the remarkable, and sometimes terrifying, responsibility along with his wife Mary of raising Jesus, the Son of God made human.

But other than this, do we know much about St. Joseph? The last we hear of St. Joseph in the Bible is in today’s Gospel reading. When Jesus “was twelve years old,” Luke says, he went with Joseph and Mary to Jerusalem for the Passover. Jesus becomes separated from Joseph and Mary, who frantically search for him. Imagine the crowds in Jerusalem; having to search for a child in a city of this size during the Passover! Having been to Jerusalem, I can imagine the crowds for the Passover and Joseph’s and Mary’s distress at losing Jesus. Can any of us who have children; who have ever experienced losing a child in a crowd, imagine how terrifying this would have been for Joseph and Mary, even more clearly than I can?

And yet Joseph never says a word. He leaves the speaking to Mary: “Son, why have you done this to us? Your father and I have been looking for you with great anxiety.” Was Joseph so terrified at losing Jesus in Jerusalem? Was he so relieved at finding him in the Temple, or so “astounded” to find Jesus teaching the best teachers of the Jewish faith in the Temple about the Law and the prophets; “listening to them and asking them questions,” that Joseph was speechless? All this is possible, even probable, but we will never fully know.

We cannot know from Scripture fully who St. Joseph was: Was he really a carpenter, or what did he do to earn a living? Did St. Joseph ever take questions about his faith to prayer? Why does St. Joseph never speak in Scripture, and why is he not mentioned after Jesus is found in the Temple?

We know little about who St. Joseph was. Still, we celebrate St. Joseph with today’s feast: Faithful Joseph, husband of Mary; descendant of David; earthly father to Jesus; patron and protector of the family; of fathers; of those who are poor (whom we remember especially with our parish’s St. Joseph Tables!). We celebrate what we know of St. Joseph; what we do not know; what we hold humbly; silently as mysteries of faith.