Homily for Sunday, 21 July 2019

Readings of the day: Genesis 18:1-10a; Psalm 15:2-3, 3-4, 5; Colossians 1:24-28; Luke 10:38-42

16th Sunday in Ordinary Time

This homily was given at Our Lady of Perpetual Help Church, Sherwood Park, AB, Canada.

What are some cultural or other norms of which we are aware? How might our norms differ from those of other people or cultures?

Our readings today speak of the tension especially between hospitality and cultural or social norms. In Genesis, “three men” visit Abraham and Sarah “by the oaks of Mamre.” We might imagine “the oaks of Mamre” as a remote area. Abraham and Sarah were nomadic; they were constantly on the move, but had camped out at this location “by the oaks of Mamre.” There, they would have been vulnerable should just anybody walk into Abraham’s and Sarah’s camp and ask them for their hospitality. Abraham and Sarah would have had to protect themselves against the potential of being robbed by unscrupulous “guests” in the middle of nowhere, so to speak, let alone against guests who would simply overstay their welcome.

In Luke’s Gospel, the cultural norm among Jews in Israel of Jesus’ time we hear about today is one of gender: It was rare and culturally discouraged for women to take up the posture of a male disciple before a male teacher or master, as Mary does before Jesus in today’s Gospel reading. In Jesus’ time and culture, it would have been more acceptable for women receiving a guest in their home to behave as Martha does, preparing and serving the food to her male guests first. Martha, not Mary, chooses “the better part” insofar as the norms or expectations for women in the culture of their time were concerned.

Yet Jesus turns this cultural expectation on its head: Mary, not Martha, he says, “has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” And in Genesis, Abraham and Sarah receive their three guests in the middle of nowhere, “by the oaks of Mamre,” despite the risk to them that their guests could have had dishonest motives or simply overstayed their welcome. The three guests in fact leave Abraham and Sarah with a bizarre and, as the next lines in Genesis after the reading we hear today say, at least initially laughable prophecy: In their old age, Sarah and Abraham would “have a son” by the time the guests returned to them “in due season.” I suppose it could have been worse for Abraham and Sarah than one of their three guests leaving after telling what Abraham and Sarah might have perceived as a weird joke. Might Abraham and Sarah have perceived their guest’s parting words much as we would when our stereotypical eccentric relative says something weird or inappropriate at Christmas or Thanksgiving dinner, when the whole family is gathered together? Of course, we know the rest of the story for Abraham and Sarah: Ultimately the guest’s prophecy is true. The joke is God’s, and the prophecy thought to be a weird joke is at Abraham’s and Sarah’s expense: Sarah bears a son, Isaac, whose name means “the one who laughs.”

This episode shows, I think, that our God has a sense of humour. But God’s sense of humour—communicated to us so often through guests toward whom God invites us to show hospitality; through people we encounter on a day-to-day basis; through the guest who overstays his or her welcome; through the eccentric relative who says something inappropriate at a family dinner—has a way of challenging our cultural or social norms.

I have had the joy, over the years, of witnessing personally to God’s sense of humour in this way, in the people I have encountered in their countries and cultures around the world and in the people from other countries and cultures I have encountered here in our country, Canada; people who become immersed in or try to integrate into our culture. I have now lived for the last four years in Paris working on a PhD in theology, so I am becoming more and more used to particular aspects of French culture that occasionally differ from Canadian culture. And I observe that the people of Paris and elsewhere in France tend to appreciate and welcome tourists and expatriates to a greater extent now than even eighteen years ago, when I lived in France for the first time, on a year-long exchange in Lille. When I first arrived in Lille in 2001, even the simple French (and more broadly European) custom of a greeting kiss on both cheeks, “la bise,” was sometimes a bit awkward for Canadian or American students among us. Now, suffice it to say, I am more used to “la bise” than I was then.

Interestingly, just over fifty years ago, Vatican II re-integrated a custom like a greeting kiss (although usually, especially here in North America, it takes the form of a handshake… or a long-distance wave or peace sign) into our Mass, as the sign of peace. I still encounter the occasional Catholic, especially of an age so as to have been familiar with the pre-Vatican II liturgy, who finds the sign of peace to be an unwelcome or awkward distraction from the rest of the Mass.

“La bise” or the sign of peace aside, for about five years when I was a Basilian novice and then seminarian, I worked in refugee ministry in Windsor and Toronto, driving new arrivals to Canada to various appointments. Once, as I was walking between appointments with a Colombian couple and their nine-year-old daughter, having a lovely conversation with the daughter and translating what we were saying into Spanish for her parents, she paused suddenly and asked (as more typically Colombians have few reservations about asking): “How old are you”? Before I could answer politely (I was not shocked by her question, since I have also lived in Colombia), the girl immediately caught herself: “Oh, wait, I’m not supposed to ask that here, right”?

In the Holy Land on our Basilian Peace and Justice Pilgrimage a few years ago, we pilgrims encountered similar cultural norms around table fellowship and hospitality as those of which our readings today speak. The traditional roles of women preparing food and serving us at mealtimes while men were more likely to join us at table and in conversation persist, although to a less absolute extent, from the times of Sarah and Abraham and of Martha, Mary, and Jesus.

In Genesis, Sarah and Abraham behave as would have been expected of them around table fellowship and hospitality. At Abraham’s request, Sarah and “the servant” prepare and serve the food to Abraham and the three male guests. In Luke’s Gospel, it would seem that Martha, more than Mary, behaves according to the cultural expectation for women of the time. Martha busies herself with “many tasks” associated with welcoming Jesus “into her home,” whereas her sister Mary sits “at the Lord’s feet and [listens] to what he” says. It would seem, then, that Martha would be justified in asking that Mary join her in the more customary household tasks for women of service at table instead of allowing Mary to take on the more accepted role of a male disciple, listening and learning at the feet of his teaching master. So why does Jesus, however gently, chastise Martha, “You are worried and distracted about many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, and it will not be taken away from her”?

From the beginning of this story of the encounter among Martha, Mary, and Jesus, Luke shows his great teaching and writing skill and nuance as a Gospel writer. Luke describes Martha as having “welcomed [Jesus] into her home.” It would have been rare at the time (although the New Testament includes other examples of this in early Christian communities) for a woman to be the head of a home and therefore responsible for welcoming guests into her home. Already, Luke subtly but pointedly challenges the accepted gender roles in Middle Eastern societies of the time. Jesus’ reply to Martha’s demand that Mary help her to serve at table flows, then, from the challenge already inherent in Luke’s description of Martha as head of her home.

Still, though, Luke’s and Jesus’ challenge of cultural norms (which are not in themselves wrong) through this story of Martha, Mary, and Jesus is not only a challenge to the social-cultural norms of their time, but a “friendly challenge” to us: What social or cultural norms or, for that matter, norms of the Church and of this celebration at table, the Eucharist, might we allow to distract and worry us to excess? How might our worries and distractions inhibit our hospitality, especially toward anybody who needs our Eucharist to be a sign to them of healing grace, to point them toward greater holiness? This is not to say that norms, cultural and otherwise, are not important. Abraham and Sarah; Jesus, Martha, and Mary demonstrate that these norms are important and even good, but that there is something greater than slavishness to the letter of social, cultural, and even Church norms in ways that can close us off to God’s grace and hospitality. We, like Martha, are invited to choose this “better part.”

Homily for Sunday, 23 June 2019– The Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ (Corpus Christi)

Readings of the day: Genesis 14:18-20; Psalm 110:1, 2, 3, 4; 1 Corinthians 11:23-26; Luke 9:11b-17

This homily was given at the Hermance Family Chapel of St. Basil the Great at St. John Fisher College, Rochester, NY.

Have any of us ever received a gift from somebody, or has somebody ever done a good deed for us that we felt we could never possibly repay adequately?

This would happen regularly when I ministered in Colombia, among the poor of Cali and Santa Marta, where the Basilians have a parish and school and had a novitiate house. The people would be so grateful for any good deed or anything we could give them, and even simply for our presence as Basilians among them, that they would often say to us, to mean that they did not have anything to offer us in return for what we had given them, “Dios te pague” (“May God repay you”). More recently, Fr. Paul English, my brother Basilian and a graduate of St. John Fisher College (with whom some of us may be familiar), who knows several Colombian seminarians, both our own Basilian brothers and seminarians of dioceses in which he has served, has occasionally added humorously to his hello or goodbye greetings to these seminarians: “Dios te pegue” (“May God smack you”)!

Our reading this morning from the Book of Genesis places both the king of Salem, Melchizedek, and Abram (later Abraham) in a Dios te pague moment. In Genesis, just before the reading we hear today, four kings who were Abram’s enemies had been making war against kings who were Abram’s allies, including Melchizedek. Even Abram’s nephew, Lot, had been taken captive by one of the enemy kings. Abram pursues Lot’s captors until he is victorious in favor of Melchizedek and his other allied kings, ending the war and recovering Lot and the other captives. Interestingly, the name of Salem, Melchizedek’s kingdom, derives from the same Hebrew root as does shalom. Like many words in ancient languages, shalom, which is usually translated to English as “peace”—so we could think of Melchizedek as a figure representing peace who, in our first reading today, has in fact just won victory and peace, ending a disastrous war—has a greater range of meaning than we often realize. Shalom can mean peace, but also wholeness or completeness, harmony, or prosperity. It may also take on the meaning of a simpler greeting like hello or goodbye. If we were to translate shalom in this idiomatic greeting sense into Spanish, we might say, Dios te pague (“May God repay you”), although hopefully not, unless with good humor, Dios te pegue (“May God smack you”)!

Our reading today from Genesis places us on the scene of a meeting of two representatives of shalom, Melchizedek, king of Salem (or perhaps, appropriately, king of “shalom”), and Abram. This meeting between Melchizedek and Abram, after which Abram has returned goods and prisoners taken by their enemies in the war they have just won, is a shalom moment; a Dios te pague moment.

To thank Abram, what does Melchizedek offer him but simple bread and wine? Melchizedek realizes quickly that he is unable to offer Abram any appropriate gift for having saved his kingdom and his people from the enemy kings who had attacked him and taken his goods and people captive. So Melchizedek offers Abram simple bread and wine, accompanied by a blessing of these gifts. Melchizedek’s offering to Abram of bread and wine, with a blessing, may call to our minds what we do every time we celebrate Mass; every time we celebrate our Eucharist (a Greek-derived word that means “thanksgiving”), especially on this feast focusing on the gifts of the Eucharist, the Solemnity of the Body and Blood of Christ.

Like Melchizedek, we offer bread and wine because we can offer no more. When we bring bread and wine to the altar during our Eucharist, we bless it. The priest blesses the bread and wine with a prayer that is often silent, especially at Sunday Mass, but a prayer that hearkens back to Jewish table blessing prayers: “Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, for through your goodness we have received the bread we offer you: Fruit of the earth and work of human hands, it will become for us the bread of life… Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, for through your goodness we have received the wine we offer you: Fruit of the vine and work of human hands, it will become our spiritual drink.”

And then, through our Eucharistic celebration, our offering of bread and wine to God because nothing we might offer to God measures up to God’s goodness to us, something altogether miraculous happens before our eyes: This blessed bread and wine, our all-too-little gift to God, becomes “for us the Body and Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ.” God chooses this simple bread and wine, “work of human hands,” as the sacramental means by which God offers himself, God’s Son, really, truly, and fully to us. This becomes our Dios te pague moment: “May God repay you.”

More than we could ever repay God, God “pays” us with his very self, really, truly, and fully, in our Eucharist, under the form of simple bread and wine. God’s Son Jesus Christ has been offering himself really, truly, and fully since the night he freely accepted being “handed over” in an act of betrayal by one of his own apostles; an act of denial by another; an act of fearful fleeing from Jesus’ passion and death by still others. On that night, Jesus offered us his very self really, truly, and fully: “This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me… This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.” This deepens our Dios te pague moment and projects it into our history, as it becomes our Church’s celebration “in remembrance” of Christ’s passion and death, until he returns at the end of time.

But this first Dios te pague moment in which Jesus hands himself to us; this Dios te pague moment now projected into our history as Church, did not happen without any previous sign to prepare us for the moment when Christ gave himself to us under the form of bread and wine. This preparatory sign of Christ’s real, true, and full self-offering to us first at the Last Supper is recounted to us in the Gospel we hear today from Luke.

Any sign, any miracle, properly-speaking, is not only a nature-defying action of God, but it involves our action. At the Last Supper, Jesus said to his Apostles as he handed himself over to them, to us, really, truly, and fully: “Do this in memory of me.” What, then, are we to do in memory of him? What could we do; what could we offer God that could measure up to God’s real, true, and full gift to us of his very self?

Nothing we could offer could ever measure up to God’s offering of God’s very self to us: This is precisely the point of the Last Supper. This is precisely the point of Jesus’ miracle of the multiplication of the loaves and fishes of which we hear from Luke today. Still, Jesus says to the Twelve, who have asked him to “dismiss the crowd” following them to buy themselves some much-needed rest and quiet: “Give them some food yourselves.”

This, without a doubt, would have caught Jesus’ disciples off guard. They were unprepared to “give them some food” themselves, out of the little they had to offer; out of their own poverty. For the Twelve, this was not only their Dios te pague moment—“May God repay you”—but, with all the due gentleness and good humor of the Son of God, it was Jesus’ Apostles’ Dios te pegue moment: “May God smack you.”

“Give them some food yourselves.” In other words, Jesus says to us, offer what you are able out of your poverty, and I will multiply it beyond your wildest imagination. But I will wait to multiply your gift; I will wait to work a miracle until you are confronted with your poverty, your inadequacy in offering any gift that could possibly measure up to God’s real, true, and full offering of self. I will wait until you are confronted, “smacked,” with having to bless and offer simple bread and wine, or five loaves and two fish for five thousand people.

I will wait until your Dios te pague moment meets a Dios te pegue moment. Give one another and the world “some food yourselves.” “Do this in remembrance of me.” Offer this world shalom, and only then will I multiply your “work of human hands” beyond your wildest imagination.

Homily for Friday, 28 July 2017– Ferial

Friday of the 16th week in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: Exodus 20:1-17; Psalm 19:8, 9, 10, 11; Matthew 13:18-23

What commandments do we find the easiest to keep? And what commandments do we find the most difficult to keep?

Today we hear in Exodus of God calling Moses up Mount Sinai to give him the Ten Commandments. We know that the people of Israel whom Moses was leading through the desert were able to hear God as he gave the Commandments to Moses, so God hid nothing from the people as to the Law he expected them to observe. Do we ever wonder, though, if the people of Israel were standing at Mount Sinai, hearing God give the Ten Commandments to Moses, and thinking if not saying things like these among themselves: “That commandment not to kill should be easy enough, but that commandment not to covet— what does “covet” mean again?— may be more difficult. We know that one of the first of the Ten Commandments the people of Israel would break, when they made the golden calf, was the commandment not to make idols; images of other gods. What were the most and least difficult commandments to keep for the people of ancient Israel?

We might ask the same question of our time and culture.  Almost ten years ago now I was a postulant, just beginning formation with the religious order I belong to now, the Congregation of St. Basil or Basilians. I am originally from here in Edmonton, and the first place to which I was appointed by the Basilians was Cali, Colombia, to teach high school French and English. An article at the time written in a religious newspaper or magazine reflected on the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience that we in religious orders both of men and women take. Let me say, on this note, that poverty, chastity, and obedience are not only vows that set men and women of religious orders apart from the rest of us. These are standards by which we are all called to live by our Baptism and any specific vocation that flows from Baptism: Religious life, priesthood, single life, married life, and so on. Poverty, chastity, and obedience are called “evangelical counsels”; they are essential standards for all of us to live by. They are somewhat like commandments.

The article, as I remember, said that in more wealthy parts of the world, poverty is the most difficult of the evangelical counsels to live by, and obedience is the least difficult. In less wealthy regions, as in my experience in Colombia, poverty is the easiest of the counsels to live by. I do not mean this, and neither did the article, simply because regions like these have less material wealth, although might less wealth allow us to live with greater gratitude and take less for granted? And, at the same time, there tends to be a greater focus in wealthier regions on social and moral order, and so obedience.

Each of us; each culture and region of the world has its commandments; its social and moral standards that are more or less difficult than others to keep. Let me suggest that, hearing the Ten Commandments from Exodus, our prayer today might be one of thanksgiving to God for the commandments we find easier to keep, and for help with those we find more difficult. In this way, in the words of our Psalm, we might more and more hold God’s commands in reverence, as “words of everlasting life.”

Homily for Monday, 24 August 2015‒ Feast of St. Bartholomew

Monday of the 21st Week in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: Revelation 21:9b-14; Psalm 145:10-11, 12-13, 17-18; John 1:45-51

What is in a name? 

Today on this feast of St. Bartholomew, one of Jesus’ first Twelve Apostles, our readings center on the importance of names. The Book of Revelation gives us an image of the heavenly Jerusalem. This city, appearing “out of heaven,” has twelve gates, three facing each of the four directions and each inscribed with a name of one of the Twelve Apostles.

The names of Jesus’ Twelve Apostles, a reflection of “the names of the twelve tribes of Israel” in the Old Testament, are important in Revelation. But one difficulty is that neither the Book of Revelation (in which the Apostles are not actually named together) nor the four Gospels agree on the names of Jesus’ Apostles, only that there were twelve. John’s Gospel today highlights one of the most significant differences among the Gospels in names of the Apostles.

Today, on St. Bartholomew’s feast day, Bartholomew is not even mentioned in our Gospel. Instead we hear of Nathanael, who is found by Philip under a fig tree and introduced to Jesus, and then joins the other Apostles. But who is Nathanael (or Bartholomew?) but the kind of follower and friend Jesus seeks: “a true child of Israel”; honestly seeking God and what is right, without “duplicity”? Beyond this, we cannot know much about who Nathanael (or Bartholomew) was or were.

Yet this and other differences in the Apostles’ names among the Gospels is not necessarily a problem for us. It is possible, even probable, that Jesus’ Apostles had multiple names. We know that Peter, “the rock,” was also known as Simon, “God has heard,” and as Kephas, “the head.” After Jesus’ Ascension into heaven, his Apostles are traditionally understood to have spread our faith to faraway lands and cultures. St. Bartholomew is said to have gone as far as India. Could Jesus’ Apostles have acquired names and nicknames in these places? This, too, is possible. Having served in several countries as a Basilian, I have acquired nicknames and variations on my own given names. Colombian Basilians will often call me by my middle name, Roger, because Warren can be difficult for them to pronounce. Most moving is when they add “Hermano” (“Brother”) to Roger. Since my ordination, my Colombian confrères have delighted in stringing together excessively pious nicknames on top of “Hermano Roger” when calling me. This would irritate me if it were not clearly a lighthearted mark of affection from my Basilian brothers in Colombia.

And so it is possible for Jesus’ Apostles to have had many names. Bartholomew, the “son of a ploughman,” could also have been Nathanael, meaning “God has given.” But does this matter to us?

Our names matter. God called us to birth; to his service in this world by name. God will call each of us home to heaven by name. In baptism, before the priest or deacon asks what the parents and godparents seek from the Church for their child (presumably baptism), we ask, “What name will you give your child”?

We have one name that matters: That of Christian. From our baptism we Christians, like Nathanael (or Bartholomew), have been called to serve God as “true” children “of Israel”; children, friends and Apostles of Christ, with “no duplicity in” us.

Homily for Monday, 22 June 2015‒ Diocese of Rochester Patronal Feast of Sts. John Fisher and Thomas More

Monday of the 12th Week in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: Genesis 12:1-9; Psalm 33:12-13, 14-15, 20, 22; Matthew 7:1-5

We pray in our Psalm today, “Blessed the people the LORD has chosen to be his own.” Have we not all been “chosen to be [God’s] own” by our baptism? But how many of us have been chosen for a task or vocation, especially when this was a great change in our lives, temporary or permanent? Maybe the point at which you were “chosen” was when you began your first job. Maybe it was when you were married (if you are or have been married) when you were chosen to be another’s “own,” in loving service to your wife or husband; to your family; to God. Maybe you experienced being “chosen to be [God’s] own” if you became Christian; Catholic as an older child or adult. Maybe it was when you were asked to care for somebody in special need, possibly sick relative or friend. Maybe you have been the person to whom your family has looked for strength in a time of loss of a loved one.

I have felt the blessing of being called God’s “own” many times. I was recently recalling having been called to serve for a few weeks in our novitiate in Colombia, with young men just beginning to discern their call to religious life and priesthood. On a Friday afternoon before Christmas, I was working quietly on my Advent Sunday homily when Fr. Morgan called from his meeting with the governing body of the Basilian order, in Toronto: “Would you be able to help for a few weeks in Colombia”? And then (somewhat less of a surprise than being asked to serve in Colombia) was my call to the priesthood. Again, I felt a deep sense of being blessed to share in Christ’s priesthood here at St. Kateri.

“Blessed the people the LORD has chosen to be his own.” Today we celebrate Abram, one of the first to have been “chosen to be [the LORD’s] own.” We hear in Genesis of how God chose Abram to “go forth from the land” of his family; from everything and everybody he knew. Long before God made good on his promises to Abram (later Abraham), Abram lived on nothing more than a promise. Abram lived on a sense that he and Sarai were blessed to be “chosen to be [God’s] own.” Abram’s trust in God’s promise of blessing made him our “father in faith.”

And today we also celebrate the feast day of St. John Fisher, patron saint of this diocese; Bishop of Rochester in England; cardinal of our Church; martyred by King Henry VIII, and St. Thomas More, Henry VIII’s Chancellor and also a martyr of Henry VIII. Both John Fisher and Thomas More had a keen sense of having been “chosen to be [God’s] own”; of serving God and following their conscience over their allegiance to the king. Perhaps St. Thomas More’s most famous line is, “I remain the king’s humble servant but God’s first.”

Sts. John Fisher and Thomas More were blessed to serve the king; blessed even more for having accepted martyrdom. They, like Abram, trusted in God’s promise of blessing, and call us to the same trust. “Blessed the people the LORD has chosen to be his own.”

Homily for Sunday, 24 May 2015‒ Pentecost

Mass during the Day

Readings of the day: Acts 2:1-11; Psalm 104:1, 24, 29-30, 31, 34; 1 Corinthians 12:3b-7, 12-13; Pentecost Sequence; John 20:19-23

Imagine for a moment that you are in your favorite place in the world. What is this place? Is it your favorite vacation destination, perhaps one of the world’s great cities; a remote place to enjoy nature; a beach in the tropics? Is your favorite place somewhere you enjoy spending a day off work? Is it a place to be still; to encounter God in prayer; perhaps in silence; perhaps at Mass? Are you with somebody or alone?

I feel blessed to have many favorite places all over the world. I have encountered God in prayer; in the Eucharist everywhere from here at St. Kateri to the parishes in which I grew up, St. Theresa’s and Our Lady of Perpetual Help in Edmonton; to Notre Dame and Saint-Sulpice in Paris, to the chaotic Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem and the calm of the shore of the Sea of Galilee, where Jesus once walked; to St. Patrick’s in busy New York City; to my highlights in Colombia in South America: At twelve thousand feet above sea level, Monserrate in Bogotá, for instance. This is one of the only churches of which I can think where the congregation remains standing during Mass, barely even able to turn, because of the number of people present!

Last week I enjoyed my parents’ visit here to Rochester; to St. Kateri. We visited places like the Corning Museum of Glass; wineries and breweries in the Finger Lakes, Sodus Point and El Rincón Mexicano, a favorite Mexican restaurant in Sodus to which Fr. Paul introduced me; Chimney Bluffs…  These are only a few of my favorite places near here to spend a day off; to eat; to learn; to enjoy nature. But it was particularly wonderful to be with people I love;  to be with Mom and Dad to enjoy some of my favorite places in New York State (and some places where I had never been before) during the week they were here.

Is there not something special about being together in one place with people you love; with family; with friends? This is the experience of Jesus’ disciples on Pentecost. We hear in our first reading from Acts that “they were all in one place together” when the Holy Spirit descended upon them. For Jesus’ first disciples, this is the necessary condition to receive God’s gift of the Holy Spirit. Their unity “in one place together,” in an upper room in Jerusalem, is the required setting for the birth of a community of faith, our Church. But why is this so? If God had so chosen, why could the Holy Spirit not have descended upon each of the disciples individually, alone, instead of descending upon them as a community?

The trouble here is that, unlike when we are enjoying quality time off; a vacation; perhaps peaceful time at prayer, Jesus’ disciples were not gathered in their favorite place in the world. Our Gospel reading today, from John, says that “the doors were locked” to the room “where the disciples were, for fear of” the leaders of “the Jews”; those who had put Jesus, their hoped-for Messiah, to a shameful death on a cross. But it is into this fear that the risen Christ enters and breathes the Holy Spirit upon the disciples as a community: “Peace be with you.” This Pentecost event would not have happened in the same way had the disciples have been scattered, facing their fears alone.

Pentecost, the descent of the Holy Spirit upon Christ’s disciples; the birth of the Church, is not a one-time event. We are reminded of this by today’s readings: The Acts of the Apostles and John’s Gospel speak of two distinct encounters with the Holy Spirit. In Acts the Holy Spirit appears to the disciples in “tongues as of fire”; as “a noise like a strong driving wind.” In John, the risen Christ breathes God’s Holy Spirit upon his disciples: “Peace be with you.”

And Pentecost continues to happen, here and now. The Holy Spirit continues to work; to be present among and within us. How is the Holy Spirit present, working among and within us? Might many of us here now be feeling anything but like you are in your favorite place in the world? For many of us there is no better place to be than here, on a beautiful Sunday morning, celebrating our Eucharist. And yet many more of us bring to this celebration our griefs and sorrows: Personal or loved ones’ illnesses; loss of loved ones; loss of employment or underemployment; struggles with our faith; marriage or family disunity. We bring to this celebration our distractions: Some of us barely awake; others with small children in tow with their own needs; still others finding it difficult to remain focused in prayer… And yet how blessed we are as a community of faith by one another’s presence: Joys, hopes, griefs, distractions and all! Still more of us may be bringing to this Eucharist very real fears: Our fear of death; what will happen after our death and how the people we love will cope; our fear of economic instability; our fears for those we love who have turned away from their faith; our fear for the state of our world, full of hope but with many instances of despair; violence; evil…

Our joys and hopes but also our griefs; our distractions; our fears are similar and every bit as real as those Jesus’ first disciples faced on the first Pentecost when they encountered the Holy Spirit. Some first encountered the Holy Spirit in the stillness of Jesus’ breath, “Peace be with you.” Others encountered the Holy Spirit amid their fear of death at the hands of those who had put Jesus to death. These first disciples encountered the Holy Spirit as they touched the risen Jesus’ wounds, an image of our own woundedness; our own sin; our own need for forgiveness and healing. And they encountered the Holy Spirit as fearsome, rushing wind and “tongues as of fire.”

Our encounters with the Holy Spirit are as varied perhaps as the encounters with the Holy Spirit of Jesus’ first disciples. The gifts we receive from God’s Holy Spirit are as varied as the encounters with the Spirit themselves: “Different kinds of spiritual gifts but the same Spirit,” St. Paul says in 1 Corinthians. But do we not have something else in common with these earliest disciples in how they encountered the Holy Spirit? We, like them, are “all in one place together.”

In this “one place together” our joys and hopes meet their source, our God whom we are united here to worship and to celebrate. Here our diverse “spiritual gifts” are refined; made ready through this celebration to be put to service of the one Body of Christ; one community of faith; one world; one human race. A “body with many parts,” we become, more and more, “one body, one spirit in Christ” in the words of our Eucharistic Prayer that we will hear and pray in a few moments.

In this “one place together” our griefs; our distractions; our fears are transformed by the Holy Spirit. Together we are invited to let our fears that could paralyze us without community; without God’s Holy Spirit be transformed into “fear” in the sense of awe and reverence in God’s presence. This “fear of the Lord”; awe and reverence in God’s presence is the first and greatest of the gifts of the Holy Spirit we all receive in baptism and confirmation.

In this “one place together” is our Pentecost. In this “one place together” we encounter God’s Holy Spirit who strengthens, gifts, unifies, and transforms us. In this “one place together,” my sisters and brothers, Church is born. In the whole world the best place for us to be; the place where God is; the place where we are prepared to serve God as Christian disciples in our world that hungers for God’s Spirit, is right here, in this “one place together.”

Homily for Sunday, 3 May 2015– Fifth Sunday of Easter

Readings of the day: Acts 9:26-31; Psalm 22:26-27, 28, 30, 31-32; 1 John 3:18-24; John 15:1-8

What does it mean to be connected to something or to somebody? Back in 2001, I went to study in France for the first time. Fourteen years ago, the flip phone was the latest in cellular technology, an increasingly portable way to remain connected. The communications company Nokia ran an English ad in France for its flip phones. At the end of the commercial, a child announced the Nokia slogan proudly in a French accent: “Connecting people”!

Nowadays, what are our ways of “connecting people”? Flip phones have led to smart phones. E-mail has led to Messenger. We have Facebook; Twitter; Linked-In for the more professionally-inclined… Technology has afforded us more ways than ever to be connected to one another. I communicate regularly with my family in Edmonton over Skype, and I am able to “Skype into” faith and Scripture sharing meetings with my brother Basilian priests from as far away as France and Colombia! Social media have become an indispensible tool for ministry, as long as they do not replace physically meeting people we serve.

But with all this electronic technology, is something not still lacking insofar as being connected? Some of us may ask, “What is lacking”? In John’s Gospel today we hear Jesus encourage us to rise to a new standard of being connected. All this technology is good. Actually to meet and speak with other people is better than technology. But Jesus speaks to us about the best way to be connected. What is the best way to be connected both to one another and to God; to Christ?

Jesus says, “I am the true vine, and my Father is the vine grower… I am the vine, you are the branches. Whoever remains in me and I in him will bear much fruit.” What does Jesus mean by all this: “I am the true vine, and my Father is the vine grower”? What does it mean to “remain in” Christ and for Christ to “remain in” us? How is Jesus asking us to “bear much fruit”?

We do not need to live on a vineyard to understand well enough what Jesus is saying here. We do not need to leave behind all of our electronic technology that helps us to stay connected to one another in order to gain a better sense of Jesus’ words, although “remain in me and I in” you may sound strange to our ears. No, Jesus speaks to us of how best to live in relationship with one another and with God.

And do we not all understand at least something about relationships? How many of us have a best friend, or a few very good friends? How many of us are married; belong to a religious community; have ever been in love? How many of us have brothers; sisters; parents; extended family whom we love dearly? This past week, speaking of relationships, my parents celebrated their thirty-ninth wedding anniversary. Their relationship of love is a model for me; for my priesthood; for my relationship of love with all of us, the Church, which I try to live out daily.

We understand a lot about relationships already. We are here to celebrate this Eucharist, Jesus Christ really present among and in us. And so we already understand something sacramentally about the greatest of all relationships: Our relationship with Jesus Christ. Our God has given himself to us as a human being, Jesus Christ, one like us in all but sin. Jesus lived among us, died for us, is risen for us, ascended to heaven for us, and now gives himself to us under the form of bread and wine: “This is my body… This is my blood…”

Many of our children here at St. Kateri Parish will receive their first communion; this sacrament of Eucharist for the first time today and over the next few weeks. Children of St. Kateri: Who are you receiving when you receive communion? You receive Jesus Christ. And so you already understand something about relationship with Jesus; with God.

Relationship is like being connected to somebody, but even better. Technology and information help us to stay connected, but being in relationship means something more. Relationship means to love one another. It means to want the best for one another, in the way that God wants the best for us. God wants us to be with him forever. This is why God gave us God’s only Son, Jesus Christ, now still with us in the Eucharist. “Whoever remains in me and I in him will bear much fruit.”

But this “remaining in” relationship with God; Jesus Christ and with one another is hard work. All the technology we have only goes so far. It keeps us connected without necessarily keeping us in relationship. Imagine this: “You have reached Big White Phone Communications Customer Service. For service in English, please press one. For service in Aramaic, please hold the line…”

Relationship, what Jesus asks of us in our Gospel reading today, is more than simply “connecting people”; more than being connected with God. To be in relationship means to keep a delicate balance between forgiveness and accountability. This, I think, is behind Jesus’ talk of pruning his disciples as a vine is pruned; trimmed of its branches that are unhealthy and no longer open to nourishment from the vine. Might pruning away the unhealthy branches seem harsh to us when we compare it to remaining in relationship with God as disciples of Christ? Jesus gives us a harsh saying here. And yet Jesus invites us to be mindful that both forgiveness and accountability; both the health of the branches nourished by the vine and the pruning of the vine require strong relationships; a strong and united community of Christian faith.

Unity; our comm-unity as Christians; as a parish; as a Church leaves no room for a silo mentality in which we become closed off in our own ministries. Christian community leaves no room for gossip. Christian community is not “I-God”; “I-Jesus” but all of us, together, in a relationship of love with one another and with our Lord that bears fruit in a great range of good works. The sacraments all depend on Christian community. They are sacraments of the Church; of community. We are brought into a community of faith by baptism and confirmation. We receive the Lord and become Christ to our world in community through our Eucharist. We are instruments of healing, and forgiveness in community through reconciliation and the anointing of the sick. In community we love and serve through the vocations of marriage and holy orders.

Community is not uniformity; all having the same ideas and never disagreeing with one another. Like the branches that “remain in” Jesus the vine, we might imagine ourselves as grafted onto the vine. Each branch joined or grafted onto the vine and receiving its nourishment contributes different useful characteristics to the plant: Better fruit; resistance to disease… So it is true with our community of faith. Is it not remarkable in our first reading from Acts that, as “the brothers” began to accept Paul after his conversion; as they had already accepted Barnabas (a very different personality with different gifts than Paul), the Church “was being built up and walked in [awe] of the Lord, and with the consolation of the Holy Spirit it grew in numbers”?

Christian community, we hear from the First Letter of John, depends on our keeping God’s commandments together. Who enjoys being commanded to do something? Not many of us like to be commanded to do something. But God gives us only two commandments in 1 John: “Believe in the name of his Son, Jesus Christ” and show the world (together) that we believe by how we act in Jesus’ name: “Love one another just as [Jesus] commanded us.”

“Believe” and “love.” These are whole community actions. “Believe” and “love,” and “remain”: Take in Jesus in the Eucharist and in our other sacraments of the Church; act for one another’s good in the world as Jesus has for us. This is community. This is relationship, not only “connecting people” but being at the heart of the Christian discipleship that Jesus asks of us: “Whoever remains in me and I in him will bear much fruit.”