Homily for Friday, 16 June 2017– Ferial

Friday of the 10th week in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: 2 Corinthians 4:7-15; Psalm 116:10-11, 15-16, 17-18; Matthew 5:27-32

Who among us is intense about our faith or knows somebody who is? I would describe most if not all of us here as intense in living our faith, simply because we are here now on a Friday morning at St. Kateri Parish at St. Cecilia Church to celebrate the Eucharist. How many people, even among the most devout Catholics, devote part of a Friday morning; part of almost every day for many of us, to our celebration of the Eucharist? We are in the minority, my sisters and brothers in Christ!

Please let me be clear: Many of our sister and brother Catholics, for reasons too many to count, are unable to be at Mass every day. They work, they raise families, they are aging, sick, or homebound… And many of these people live our faith just as intensely and devoutly as we who are here do. Add to this those among us who engage in ministries in the Church, or who work passionately for social justice causes including, fundamentally, the defense of the dignity of all human life and all creation.

I would say we are quite an intense group of people. And today our Word of God speaks to us and celebrates two of the most intense people who have ever walked this earth, St. Paul and Jesus. St. Paul encounters the intense pride of the wealthy Christian community of Corinth of the earliest Church. Yet Corinth’s intensity meets its match in St. Paul, who compares his ministry to death, uniting it in particular to the death of Christ.

A saint is one who knows how to die. A saint has received from God and applied in her or his life the grace of how to die to her or his own pride insofar as it inhibits this person’s ability to serve God in serving the needs of God’s people. A saint knows to die to any form of injustice, of lack of love or charity in action or speech. A saint knows when to die to one form of ministry or service to move to a new one. A saint knows the grace of death to partisan ideological narrowness; to gossip; to needless divisiveness. A saint knows how to die, in order to rise again; to ascend and transcend with Christ. A saint dies as she or he lives: Intensely.

This grace of dying in order to rise is true of St. Paul, so much so that many in his Corinthian audience likely found his message challenging, if not outright frightening, even morbid. And the same is true of Jesus himself. Jesus, and St. Paul after him, lived, died, and rose intensely. Today we hear Jesus’ second of six of what have been called “intensification” sayings in Matthew’s Gospel: “You have heard” this commandment, “but I say” live it more intensely; more demandingly.

It is not enough to obey this sixth of the Ten Commandments, not to “commit adultery.” If we so much as look at another person as no more than property to be used; to be taken from another (which is how Jesus views adultery, specifically the taking of another’s spouse for one’s pleasure), we will bear God’s judgment due to this sin. But the more we live self-control out of love, which is more demanding and intense than the commandment requires, as a kind of death to self, the closer we will be to rising to intense and eternal life.

Homily for Thursday, 6 August 2015– Feast of the Transfiguration of the Lord

Thursday of the 18th Week in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14; Psalm 97:1-2, 5-6, 9; 2 Peter 1:16-19;  Mark 9:2-10

What is the central message of the Transfiguration of the Lord, which we celebrate today? What truths does Jesus’ Transfiguration proclaim about Jesus and about us?

Before I became a Basilian, my spiritual director at the time asked me a similar question to these about the Transfiguration: What is this event’s central point? I felt hopelessly distracted from the central point of the Transfiguration by the dramatic narrative our Gospels place around this event.

To me, the Gospel accounts of Jesus’ Transfiguration read like the script of a brilliant drama or action film: Jesus takes his three most trusted disciples, Peter, James, and John, up a mountain alone. In Scripture, mountains are usually the place of encounter with God, so something is bound to light up the big screen! Almost on cue, Jesus’ “clothes [become] a dazzling white.” Then Moses and Elijah, the Law and Prophets in person, appear and speak with Jesus. Peter, James, and John are left by themselves in the distance. A cloud casts a shadow over them. Could this be the presence of God’s Holy Spirit? A voice from on high (Could this be God the Father?) says to “listen to” Jesus. We hear clear mention of “the Son of Man” having to die and then rise from the dead. Who is this “Son of Man”? Obviously on one level the Son of Man is Jesus, but could it also be all of us, daughters and sons of God; Jesus’ disciples? And what does death and “rising from the dead” mean, for Jesus or for us?

Understandably, Mark’s Gospel says, Peter and James and John “hardly [know] what to say, they [are] so terrified” at Jesus’ Transfiguration. But amid their terror, Peter, James, and John are in danger of missing the central point of the Transfiguration; what this event proclaims about us and about Jesus. And what is this central point of the Transfiguration? If only for a moment, Peter gets it right. Peter’s words reveal a truth about us: “Rabbi, it is good that we are here”! This truth about us is coupled with a truth about the identity of Jesus as God in the words spoken from heaven: “This is my beloved Son. Listen to him.”

The rest of this scene: The secluded mountain setting; Jesus’ bright transfigured clothing, the cloud; Moses and Elijah all point us to this dual truth. But these “special effects” can also be a distraction from a superb central plot line perhaps rarely seen in action films (I would give this one five stars): “Rabbi, it is good that we are here… This is my beloved Son. Listen to him.”

How many of us are vulnerable to similar distractions? Not only the fear of death can be this distraction, as it was for Peter, James, and John on the mountain of the Transfiguration. Can our fears; worries about loved ones’ or our own health and well-being; our work or lack of work; our struggles with prayer not also distract us?

And so we ask God to center us on the truths of Jesus’ Transfiguration; truths about us and about Jesus and our response to Jesus: “It is good that we are here… This is my beloved Son. Listen to him.”

Homily for Friday, 15 May 2015– Friday of the Sixth Week of Easter

Readings of the day: Acts 18:9-18; Psalm 47:2-3, 4-5, 6-7; John 16:20-23

Have any of us noticed how, in these last few days of the Easter season, especially now between the Solemnity of the Lord’s Ascension and Pentecost (the Sunday after next), our daily readings have become dark; troubling?

Today the Acts of the Apostles speaks of Paul being brought once again to trial, this time before Gallio, the Roman “proconsul of Achaia” in Corinth. Is our Gospel reading today not especially ominous? Jesus speaks of his upcoming death, a painful experience for both him and for his disciples: “Amen, amen, I say to you, you will weep and mourn, while the world rejoices.”

Would we not think that, during the Easter season, our readings would be somewhat more uplifting? Why must we hear amid such a joyful season of these events of deep pain and suffering: Apostles like Paul arrested, facing trial and eventual death for their faith; Jesus preparing his disciples for his own death?

Our readings, I think, remind us that we live in an “in-between” time; a time of transition. We live in a time that is an intermingling of joy and sorrow; of order and chaos; of new life and death. In our Church’s liturgical year, we are between Jesus’ Ascension into heaven, a joyful event but also a kind of death; joy mingled with sorrow because Jesus is no longer here on earth, and Pentecost, the Holy Spirit’s descent upon the Apostles and the birth of the Church. Each of us is between birth and death.

Our baptism marks both death and resurrection in Christ, again sorrow and joy mingled together. Jesus speaks of the experience of childbirth. Anyone who has brought a child into the world or witnessed a birth: Can you not relate to the intermingling of pain and joy of which Jesus speaks? The events of our world today are often troubling: natural and human-made disaster; disease; war; extremism… And yet we see signs of hope.

How many of us have experienced the loss of a loved one and yet remember forever with fondness and joy the goodness of your loved one? How many of us have experienced severe illness or that of a loved one, and yet amid illness perhaps experienced perseverance with joy by the sick person and those who care for her or him?

In these and many more ways, we experience an in-between time; joy intermingled with sorrow; life with death; wellness with illness; order with chaos. And in this in-between time, our readings today encourage us. “Do not be afraid,” Paul hears and we hear in Acts. “You will grieve, but your grief will become joy,” Jesus says in John’s Gospel, “so you… are now in anguish. But I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy away from you.”

Take courage; “do not be afraid.” This is not to deny suffering; pain; sorrow; even death. These are part of the in-between time we are living. But they are temporary. Christ will reign victorious over all these realities. This is our hope; our reason, in this in-between time, to be here; to continue to persevere in faith; to live with joy. And “no one will take [our] joy away from” us. 

Homily for Saturday, 15 November 2014– Memorial Mass, Holy Sepulchre Cemetery

Readings of the day: Wisdom 3:1-6, 9; Psalm 23; Colossians 3:1-4; Luke 23:44-49, 24:1-6

This homily was given during the monthly memorial Mass at the Christ our Light Mausoleum Chapel of Holy Sepulchre Cemetery, Rochester, NY.

“Why do you search for the Living One among the dead”?

Whenever I hear these words from Luke’s Gospel, spoken by the “two men in dazzling garments” at the tomb of Jesus to the women who had gone with burial spices for Jesus’ body, I am always deeply moved. How would the women at Jesus’ tomb have responded to the men’s presence and to these words? How would we respond, if we were in the women’s place?

In one word, our Gospel reading captures the women’s reaction to encountering the “two men in dazzling garments”: The women are “terrified.” Their terror is understandable; they had just witnessed our Lord’s horrible suffering and death on a cross. They had stood “at a distance watching everything.” This was the end for somebody they had considered Lord and friend.

I wonder if they were any less terrified after the men’s words that came next: “He is not here; he has been raised up.” What the men say is incredible; the dead do not simply rise from their tombs in the flesh! But then, while the women; these first witnesses to Jesus’ resurrection are terrified and probably unconvinced that Jesus “has been raised up,” the men ask the women to do something. What do the men ask the women to do? “Remember what he said to you while he was still in Galilee.” Remember how Jesus said that he would suffer, die, and rise again.

“Remember.”

Is this not why we are here in this chapel of Christ our Light Mausoleum; here at Holy Sepulchre for our monthly memorial Mass? We remember. Most if not all of us remember a loved one who has gone to God before us; perhaps a loved one buried here in this place. It is a tremendous act of courage to be here amid the sadness; the confusion; even the terror of death to remember. For your courage I and the Church thank you; we pray for you, for your consolation. And at the same time we remember…

We remember that “first day of the week, at dawn,” when the women at Jesus’ tomb heard the news from the “two men in dazzling garments”: “He is not here; he has been raised up.” We do not remember Jesus’ resurrection because it was a one-time event. We remember because in Jesus’ resurrection is the same promise of resurrection to eternal life for every one of us. These are the words we will hear in a few moments at the beginning of our Eucharistic prayer, as gifts of bread and wine are brought to the altar to be transformed into the Body and Blood of Christ: “In [Christ] the hope of blessed resurrection has dawned, that those saddened by the certainty of dying might be consoled by the promise of immortality to come.” Christ’s resurrection is our hope of resurrection. That first “dawn,” “the first day of the week,” is our first dawn, our promise of eternal life with our loving God. This is why we are here. We remember.

We remember, in the words of our first reading from the Book of Wisdom, our loved ones who are loved by God; who have gone to be with our loving God. We remember that “they are at peace.” We remember that are loved ones are among “those who trust in” God. What does the Book of Wisdom say about our loved ones who have trusted in God; who await their resurrection from the dead? Wisdom says that “those who trust in him shall understand truth, and the faithful shall abide with him in love, because grace and mercy are with his holy ones, and his care is with his elect.” This we remember.

While we celebrate the entry of our loved ones into eternal life and hope for the same eternal life for ourselves, we remember in the words of St. Paul to the Colossians: Our beloved have been “raised up in company with Christ” and “when Christ our life appears,” we “shall appear with him in glory.” Remember…

Let us remember, as we celebrate our departed loved ones with this memorial Mass, the act of courage that has brought us here. We remember the Lord who “is our shepherd… from death into life” as we pray this response to our Psalm. Let us remember this amid our sadness; our loss; our grieving, when we “walk in the dark valley.” God is with us. Our loved ones are with God, whose “rod and staff give [us] courage” in these difficult times.

We are not a people who “search for the Living One among the dead.” We remember that our Lord Jesus “is not here; he has been raised up.” Our loved ones have also “been raised up.” We, too, will be “raised up” after our Lord Jesus Christ. This is the promise given to us by our Lord “while he was still in Galilee”; while he walked this earth among us. We do not “search for the Living One among the dead.” We are here, the living ones among the living ones, in the real presence of the Living One; those raised from the dead together with those awaiting the same promise of resurrection. This is why we are gathered here. This is the purpose of our memorial Mass.

We remember.

Homily for Sunday, 2 November 2014– Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed (All Souls)

Readings of the day: Isaiah 25:6-9; Psalm 23:1-3a, 3b-4, 5, 6; Romans 6:3-9; John 6:37-40 (Any readings for Masses for the Dead may be used on this day.)

What is heaven like? What happens to us after we die? Does anyone know the answers to these questions? I presume that none of us do fully. But then if nobody really knows what heaven is like or what happens after we die, then what is the point of our celebration today, our Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed; of All Souls?

Our commemoration; our remembrance of all who have gone before us in death and are experiencing or awaiting heaven would be pointless if it were about knowledge. While we live here on earth, we cannot know fully what heaven is like, or what will happen at the end of our earthly lives. Jesus’ first disciples saw him after his resurrection and witnessed his ascension into heaven. They have handed on to us their experience of these events. But none of us, as far as I know, have experienced firsthand what happens after our earthly lives end.

What we lack in knowledge of what happens after death, we make up for in hope. The point, the foundation, of our remembrance as Church of All Souls is hope. In what specifically do we hope? We hope in eternal life with God, for those who have gone before us in death and, one day, for ourselves also.

But is hope not a kind of unreasonable desire or foolish optimism? Some of us may hope to win a lottery, for instance, but this expectation would be unrealistic. Our hope for eternal life is not this kind of expectation of the near-impossible. Ours is a founded hope: Based on God’s past and present loving, merciful action in our favor, we hope in God’s future promise of eternal life.

Our first reading, from the book of the prophet Isaiah, and our Gospel reading today from John speak especially about this founded hope we have in eternal life. God has been with us in the past, Isaiah says to a people in exile, many of whom were dying without ever seeing Israel, their homeland, again. This, Isaiah says, is the God “to whom we [have] looked to save us.” God has saved us already, many times: In the garden after Adam and Eve had first fallen into sin; in protecting Cain although Cain had murdered his brother Abel; from the waters of the great flood; through Moses from slavery in Egypt…

This history of God’s past loving, merciful action; of God’s salvation is all in Isaiah’s background as he speaks. Based on this history of God’s salvation, Isaiah invites an exiled people to hope in God’s promise of an even greater fullness of this salvation. The same God who has saved us in the past and is with us in the present “will destroy death… will wipe away the tears from all faces… On that day it will be said: Behold our God, to whom we looked to save us”! Have hope in God who has saved us before, is with us to save us now, and will save us again, once and for all, in the future, Isaiah says.

We hear this same message through Jesus’ raising of Lazarus in our Gospel reading. God has been with us and has loved us in the past. God’s saving presence and love carries over into the present. Even those who did not believe that Jesus was God acknowledged the love of God past and present being worked through him: “See how he loved” Lazarus. Jesus trusts and hopes in our Father because of God’s past saving action: “Father… I know that you always hear me.” Because of this trust; this founded hope, Jesus is able to make God’s past saving action present: “Lazarus, come out”!

And there is more: Jesus, like Isaiah, invites us to hope in future fullness of salvation. “Untie [Lazarus] and let him go,” Jesus says to the crowds.  This act is only possible for the people to whom Jesus speaks if they have hope; founded yet nonetheless bold hope. The raising of Lazarus is a sign of the decisive salvation to come through Jesus’ own resurrection. We are invited to hope for salvation and, even more remarkably, Jesus asks us to cooperate with him, with God, in God’s work of salvation; of untying the bonds of death that hold us; of raising us all to eternal life; of bringing us home to our God who made us and has loved us all along.

Might we imagine salvation; what happens to us after our lives on earth end; eternal life as going home? We pray this in our Eucharistic Prayer; words we hear at funerals and will pray here in a few moments: “For your faithful, Lord, life is changed, not ended and, when this earthly dwelling turns to dust, an eternal dwelling is made ready for them in heaven.”

Our baptism is especially a sign of our salvation; eternal life; going home. St. Paul reminds us in our second reading from Romans that “we who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death” but that “if we” are united “with [Christ] in a death like his, we shall also be united with him in the resurrection.” We are united by baptism with Christ in his death and in his resurrection, and we are also called by this same sacrament to be united with Christ in going home one day to our loving God.

After a long journey, how many of us want nothing more than to be home? Joseph Bernardin, the late Cardinal Archbishop of Chicago, also understood our entry into eternal life as going home. In his final memoir, The Gift of Peace, Cardinal Bernardin reflects on a visit to his “parents’ homeland… in Northern Italy,” a place he had only seen previously through his “mother’s photo albums.” Cardinal Bernardin writes of his visit, “As soon as we entered the valley, I said, ‘My God, I know this place. I am home.’ Somehow I think crossing from this life into eternal life will be similar. I will be home.”

An experience of mine is similar to that of Cardinal Bernardin. Ten or more years ago, my mother worked out the genealogy of her mother’s (my grandmother’s) family. I helped by translating records and newspaper clippings that were in French into English for non-French speakers in my family. But I had never been to the little village north of Toronto where my grandmother and her ancestors were from. Between my last two years in seminary, I finally went with my parents to Grandma’s birthplace. We were met there by Grandma’s cousin and his wife, who drove us to the house of another of Grandma’s cousins. This cousin, named Jim,* had lived most of his life as a recluse after finding his father’s body in a barn. Jim’s father had taken his own life. Unexpectedly, Jim came out of his house to greet us that day. And then he was at supper with us, regaling us with stories of our family history! Like Lazarus in our Gospel reading, did Jim respond to a call to “come out” from years of loneliness and sadness to share his story? Were we who were at table that evening the people asked by Jesus, “Untie him and let him go”? There was joy at table that evening, Jim’s and all of ours; a sign of the eternal joy that I imagine awaits us in heaven.

I could have said with Cardinal Bernardin upon visiting my ancestral homeland, “My God, I know this place. I am home.” I think similarly of what eternal life will be, for me and for all of us. This, at least is my hope. Is it our hope? It is a bold hope not based on knowledge, but nonetheless a founded hope. God has been with us and loved us in the past, is with us and loves us in the present, and calls us to future hope; our hope we first expressed through our baptism into Christ’s death and resurrection; our hope in the fullness of God’s salvation, when together we “will be home.”

*Name has been changed.