Homily for Sunday, 31 July 2016

18th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: Ecclesiastes 1:2, 2:21-23; Psalm 90:3-4, 5-6, 12-13, 14, 17; Colossians 3:1-5, 9-11; Luke 12:13-21

This homily was given at the Monastery of the Carmel of St. Joseph near Spruce Grove, AB, Canada.

What is the point?

“Vanity of vanities, says the Teacher,” the author of the Book of Ecclesiastes from which we hear our first reading today. “All is vanity”! Is this not a somewhat cynical and sad view of our world and of human labour?

After all, in our Psalm we have just prayed to God, “Prosper for us the work of our hands.” Does this not contradict the view of the Teacher in Ecclesiastes, who says of “the work of our hands”: “For all their days are full of pain, and their work is a vexation; even at night their minds do not rest. This also is vanity”?

I am willing to admit that maybe the person who wrote Ecclesiastes may have been having a bad day at work. Maybe he was suffering from a severe case of writer’s block (if so, I can empathize with him, as a priest and graduate student). Maybe the Teacher had a difficult boss… or editor or publisher. Maybe (and by no means do I wish to make light of depression) he was depressed. And yet is there not surely more dignity than vanity in our work and in our world? If not, what is the point of anything we do? To borrow the title of a book from Fr. Timothy Radcliffe, a Dominican priest I had the joy of meeting a couple of years ago at his home at Blackfriars, Oxford, England, What Is the Point of Being a Christian, especially if “all things are vanity”?

I think both the Letter to the Colossians and our Gospel reading today from Luke give us clues toward answering questions like these. St. Paul says to the Colossians, “If you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above.” And Jesus reminds the crowd he teaches with the parable of the greedy rich man to seek to be “rich toward God”; to be “rich in what matters to God” and not to stockpile vain, perishable, earthly riches. And so our question shifts from “What is the point of our work; our faith; our worship; anything we do” to “How might we be rich in what matters to God; in what is of heaven and imperishable”?

Our world gives us many countersigns to “things that are above”; to richness “toward God” and “in what matters to God.” Some seek to be rich in money and material wealth. These are not bad in and of themselves, unless we rely on this material wealth in place of God or accumulate this wealth at the expense of other people. Some seek to be rich in military might and weaponry; rich in various forms of violence. Some seek to be rich in security and certainty. These people go so far as to want to build walls against anybody who may threaten their security. They go so far as to barricade their hearts and minds so not to need to respond to people who challenge their certainties (sometimes constructively), instead of defending the truths of God and of our faith, if necessary, with charity, kindness, and openness to better ways of expressing these timeless truths.

The “prosperity gospel”; the gospel of might and violence; the gospel of security; the gospels of greed and pride: These are not the Gospel of Jesus Christ; the Good News of our God. These are countersigns to the Gospel of Jesus Christ; these are false gospels. Yet enough people fall for these countersigns so that we have reached many crisis points in our world: Frayed and broken relationships in families; disregard for human life and dignity, especially of the not-yet-born, the elderly and the sick, and people with disabilities; wars; racism; a growing gap between the world’s wealthiest and poorest, many who lack even sufficient food and safe drinking water; acts of terrorism, most recently the murder of Fr. Jacques Hamel in France while he was celebrating Mass; more Christians and people of other creeds abused and killed than ever out of hatred for their faiths…

“This also is vanity.” This is appalling. And so what is the point, whether of our work, “of being a Christian,” or of being at all? What matters to God, and how might we be “rich toward God”? It can be well and good of us to condemn the “vanities”; the inhuman horrors of our time. It is well and good of us to speak to the truth of our Christian faith. But to condemn what is vain and false and to affirm truth is not enough. Religious faith cannot rest on the affirmation, “Because it is true.” “A religion,” Timothy Radcliffe says in What is the Point of Being a Christian?, “that tries to market itself as useful for some other purpose” than “to point us to God who is the point of everything… cannot be a religion that [we] could take seriously.” Religious faith demands a lived, ethical response. Our faith; our God calls us to live our response to these great questions: What is the point of who we are and what we do? How do we become “rich toward God”; “in what matters to God”?

And so how do we live our response to these questions? When I ask myself this, I think back to one of St. John Paul II’s earliest encyclicals; his teaching letters to the whole Church: Dives in Misericordia, or “Rich in Mercy.” “It is ‘God, who is rich in mercy,” Pope John Paul II begins. Mercy is “what matters to God.” Our God has revealed himself to us as mercy and invites us Christians to continue to reveal God to our world as mercy.

This, without doubt, is a difficult task for us, even before we consider all the countersigns in our world to mercy. Where do we even begin? I am not sure how many of us have been able to follow the news from World Youth Day in Krakow, Poland. This past Friday the Way of the Cross wound through the streets of Krakow. Each station of the Way of the Cross at this World Youth Day, during this Jubilee Year of Mercy, also included a meditation on one of the corporal or spiritual works of mercy. Might I suggest that these corporal and spiritual works of mercy would be great ways for us to reveal to our world our God “who is rich in mercy”?

Feed the hungry. Give drink to the thirsty. Clothe the naked. Shelter the homeless. Visit the sick and the imprisoned. Bury the dead. Instruct the ignorant, counsel the doubtful, and admonish sinners, always with love and patience. Bear wrongs patiently. Forgive offenses willingly. Comfort the afflicted. Pray for the living and the dead.

These are all ways in which we, as Christians, reveal Christ; reveal our God to our world as “rich in mercy.” And we show, by doing these works of mercy ourselves and by encouraging one another to do the same, that we are “rich toward God”; “rich in what matters to God”; that we, too, are “rich in mercy.” It is all the better when we show God’s mercy in our world quietly; unassumingly, without regard for our own gain but for “[glorifying] God by our lives.”

This, I dare say, is “the point of being a Christian.” Mercy, with humility, is the antidote to injustice; to greed; to violence; to “vanity.” Mercy points us to God; toward “things that are above.” Mercy makes us “rich toward God” who is “rich in mercy” and who prospers “the work of our hands.”

Homily for Tuesday, 28 April 2015– Tuesday of the Fourth Week of Easter

Readings of the day: Acts 11:19-26; Psalm 87:1b-3, 4-5, 6-7; John 10:22-30

What is the importance of Antioch? Our first reading this morning, from Acts, says that “in Antioch… the disciples were first called Christians.” At this time Antioch was not in Jewish territory but, for the most part, inhabited by pagan Greeks. Acts says that the first disciples of Christ had been scattered “by the persecution” during which Stephen, the first martyr recorded in Scripture, had been killed. Almost in spite of this persecution, for the first time the Gospel message of Jesus Christ was reaching not only Jewish ears, the first to hear the Word of God, but a large center of pagan Greeks. And many people of Antioch were accepting and living this faith in Jesus as God when their lives might have been endangered by their faith.

But still, do not these events of early Christian Antioch seem remote to many of us today? Before I became a Basilian but was studying at St. Joseph’s College, a Basilian college of the University of Alberta in Edmonton, Canada, every year our student retreat was called the “Antioch Retreat.” This was a way, by name of our retreat, to unite ourselves to the witness of these first Christians of Antioch not long after Christ’s death, resurrection, and ascension to heaven.

Antioch today is in Syria. Christians are a small minority there and are threatened by political unrest, by Syria’s dictatorship, and more recently by the evil of ISIS. And yet still Antioch, this ancient cradle of our faith, can seem remote to us. We face our own challenges as a nation; as a city. We awaken this morning to the destruction in Baltimore; the ravages of gang violence and racial inequity here in these United States. Many not far from us awaken to broken relationships; families; marriages.

And so how are we to remember the first or even the current Christians of faraway Antioch when we are faced with so many events; challenges closer to home? How do we remember the first people who put a name to our belief in Jesus’ promise that we hear today in John’s Gospel: “I know them, and they follow me.  I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish”?

Families and households: I encourage you to pray together at least once a day. Pray in thanksgiving for blessings. Ask God for what you need in time of trial. Pray even in silence for a few moments. Pray together!

All of us: I encourage us to commit to non-violence by word and action; to upholding the dignity of human life, of people of every race and tongue. I encourage us to speak and act for the rights of the working poor; for migrants and refugees. I encourage us to be mindful of our duty to protect creation; the earth God has given us. Pray for those persecuted for their faith. Visit the sick and the dying if you are able.

These are a few ways in which we can make ancient Antioch somewhat less remote. We bear the name “Christian” as they did in Antioch just after Jesus’ time. Like them, then and now, we witness to Christ’s promise to all of us: “I know them, and they follow me.  I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish.”

Homily for Monday, 30 March 2015‒ Monday of Holy Week

Readings of the day: Isaiah 42:1-7; Psalm 27:1, 2, 3, 13-14; John 12:1-11

“I… have called you for the victory of justice,” God says through the prophet Isaiah in today’s first reading. Of whose “victory of justice” does Isaiah speak?

Holy Week is our final preparation for the ultimate “victory of justice”: Jesus’ death on a cross for us. This is not a “victory of justice” brought on by anything we have done right or in retribution for what we have done wrong. This is God’s “victory of justice,” willed freely by God for our salvation.

And so is this not also our “victory of justice”? We are not mere spectators to God’s justice, so how do we make God’s “victory of justice” our own? Our answer to this question may seem obvious. We know what is right and just, and so we are called to act in ways that are right and just. Our Christian faith calls us to protect basic human rights, first and foremost that of life from conception to natural death. Our Christian faith calls us to use the prosperity we have to benefit the most vulnerable: People who are poor; the working poor; people who lack adequate shelter, water, and food; people who are ill; refugees and migrants. To protect the dignity of those most in need is our foremost “victory of justice”; how we become united in God’s “victory of justice.”

But what if we have little to give to help those who are in need? What if we cannot, as individuals, change social structures of sin that keep many mired in poverty; in violence; in injustice even in our own country? What if, even when we reject or at least do not participate in gossip or political partisanship, we see these continue and even increase in our culture? How do we promote God’s “victory of justice” then?

A saying by Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta comes to my mind when I think of how we might promote God’s “victory of justice” in our world today. Mother Teresa said: “We can do no great things; only small things with great love.” For whom have we or will we do a small act of kindness today? How will we show to somebody the “victory of [God’s] justice,” which is the same to me as the victory of kindness and mercy? Who has recently shown us God’s justice; God’s mercy; God’s kindness, even in a small way?

And, above all, when we know we have failed to show forth God’s “victory of justice,” may we never despair of God’s mercy. May we never despair, even when we fall into the same sins; the same lack of justice, and even confess these repeatedly. May we heed the words of our Gospel Acclamation to God this morning: “You alone are compassionate with our faults.”

Might Judas Iscariot’s greatest sin not have been stealing from “the contributions” to the poor; not have been his betrayal of Jesus, but despair? God keeps calling us to small acts of “great love,” so may we never despair! God knows our works, individually and socially, for and against justice. Still, God is “compassionate with our faults.” By Christ’s Passion and death God has redeemed us and made us co-workers in his “victory of justice.”

Homily for Tuesday, 24 March 2015‒ Tuesday of the Fifth Week of Lent

Readings of the day: Numbers 21:4-9; Psalm 102:2-3, 16-18, 19-21; John 21:8-30

Is there not something powerful about one of the shortest possible of complete sentences in English: I am? Has somebody ever asked you questions about where you are going or how you are feeling: “Are you going to see that great movie or play? Are you going for a walk? Are you going to Mass this morning? Are you feeling alright?” And has anybody here noticed how often we answer these kinds of questions with “I am”?

“I am” often stands for the rest of the sentence: I am going to the movie or play or for a walk; I am feeling well, thank you. “I am” can also be shorthand to identify us: I am a Christian; I am a priest; a sister; a tradesperson; a scientist; an engineer; a student; retired…

“I am” in Scripture stands as shorthand to identify God. In our reading from John’s Gospel today, Jesus repeatedly says to the Pharisees, “I am.” Many Pharisees, and many of the people, believed him: Jesus was claiming to be God. Enough people, especially of the religious authorities of Jesus’ time, thought Jesus’ claim, “I am,” to be blasphemy; a serious enough charge to have him put to death.

“I am who I am”: This is how God first identifies himself to Moses at the burning bush in Exodus. Whenever the people of Israel with Moses through the desert sinned, God gave them signs of his continued presence among them, as if to say to them continually, “I am.” Today, although God does not say, “I am,” in our first reading from the Book of Numbers, he sends “seraph serpents” against the wayward people of Israel and then, at Moses’ pleading, takes them away. Both the serpents and then the image God has Moses make of the serpent on a pole, a symbol of forgiveness and healing, stand for the presence of God among the people: “I am.”

Jesus picks up on the same sign to identify himself as God in John’s Gospel: “When you lift up the Son of Man, you will realize that I AM.” This would have been a scandal to many of Jesus’ hearers; Jesus is taking a sign of God’s presence to refer to his own death on a cross! He, not a serpent, will be “lifted up” to the world.

And our world will have, and we have today, a choice: Do we look at the scandal of the cross and turn away? We are here to worship the Christ; the one who was “lifted up” for us; “I am.” And so we are not, at least intentionally I do not believe, among those who count Jesus as just another blasphemer; another impostor. But many in our culture, by word and action, at best ignore the cross: It is just another symbol of a dated religion.

Do we not only look at a cross and walk past it, but maybe spend some time in prayer before it to meditate on it; give thanks for Christ’s victory over death; over our sin? How often do we give thanks for God’s presence on the cross, Jesus Christ; “the Son of Man… lifted up” for us? “I Am.”  

Homily for Tuesday, 10 March 2015‒ Tuesday of the Third Week of Lent

Readings of the day: Daniel 3:25, 34-43; Psalm 25:4-5ab, 6, 7bc, 8-9; Matthew 18:21-35

Have you ever found yourself caught between wanting to forgive somebody generously, as Jesus asks of us in today’s Gospel reading, and wanting to hold this person to account? Our Christian faith, based on our Scriptures, invites us to do both: forgive generously and hold one another to account for right and wrong. But how do we both forgive generously and safeguard accountability?

Jesus says to Peter in Matthew’s Gospel: Forgive “not seven times but seventy-seven times.” In other words, mirror God’s infinite forgiveness by forgiving one another infinitely and without calculation. But does not this call to infinite forgiveness pose problems for us and for our culture?

The first problem is captured in a neat but flawed little phrase. Who here has ever heard, “Forgive and forget”? To “forgive and forget” is not God’s way. It is not the way of our Christian faith. To “forgive and forget” is not what Jesus asks of Peter in our Gospel reading and of us. Sin hurts, and so it should. Sin causes a breakdown of trust; a breakdown of relationship: Our relationships with God, with one another, and with ourselves.

Trust and relationships, once broken partially or completely by sin (the difference between venial and mortal sin), must be rebuilt and repaired. In our Church, we have the sacraments, especially Reconciliation and Eucharist, which begin the process of rebuilding and repairing the damage to relationships caused by our sin. “Through the ministry of the Church,” God absolves; God grants us “pardon and peace,” but neither God nor we forget the damage caused by sin to our relationships. “Forgive and forget” does not repair the hurt relationship; does not serve accountability. The person sinned against continues to hurt, while often the sinner feels guilty, even when the guilt is not admitted or spoken; even when told to “forget about it” and move on from the sin. Has anybody here either been sinned against or been the sinner, hurt or been hurt by another person, and so you know all too well of what I speak?

Accountability, not “forgive and forget,” is at the heart of our Church’s teaching on purgatory. Sin, even sin that has been forgiven and absolved, has still caused a break in relationship. This broken relationship must be purified; rebuilt; repaired, even if the forgiven sinner will eventually go to heaven. Purgatory’s destiny is heaven; not “hell with parole” but a Catholic understanding of accountability.

And yet we are called to pair accountability with infinitely generous forgiveness. God is not the God of “forgive and forget”; neither is God the God of the record or ledger. Neither are we, then, to keep a record of one another’s or our own wrongs. This actually destroys us more than the sinner whose records we keep with an obsessive vengeance!

“Not seven times but seventy-seven times,” Jesus says to Peter. Not “forgive and forget” or record-keeping of wrongs, but God and our Christian faith invite us to both accountability and infinitely generous forgiveness.