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.”

Homily for Friday, 9 June 2017– Memorial of St. Ephrem

Readings of the day: Tobit 11:5-17; Psalm 146:1b-2, 6c-7, 8-9a, 9bc-10; Mark 12: 35-37

Friday of the 9th week in Ordinary Time

Has anybody here ever heard something or somebody and been delighted? Perhaps we have been to a great concert, or heard a rousing speech. For me, whenever I am in our St. Kateri Parish rectory at Christ the King, or when I visit St. Kateri School and greet the students in the morning, I hear the squeals of children in the school playground, I exchange high-fives with them at the doors and try to remember as many of their and their parents’ names after two years away now, and I hear and try to answer their often brilliant questions, and maybe try to teach them some French… All this (and children in general; I am also an uncle to a delightful niece, Molly, and nephew, Liam) fills me with special delight! I have enjoyed my two years in Paris, although among a few things I miss about St. Kateri, being with our children and young people are among the most significant.

“The great crowd” who heard Jesus teach “in the temple area,” as we hear in Mark’s Gospel today, had the experience of being delighted: “The great crowd heard this with delight.” What did Jesus say that day “in the temple area” that so delighted the crowd? Let me suggest that what so delighted the crowd who heard Jesus had less to do with what he said than what he, the “Son of David”; the Son of God, did.

The crowd saw and heard something royal from Jesus; something that reminded them of Israel’s great King David, and yet something more. Jesus, drawing upon a title “the scribes” had given him, “Son of David,” recalls David when speaking of himself. The crowd sees and hears that, like David, Jesus has been “inspired by the Holy Spirit.” Jesus’ words and his works have God’s own authority behind them. The God who inspired and gave authority to David’s rule and words gives the same authority to Jesus when he speaks the same words: “The Lord said to my lord, ‘Sit at my right hand until I place your enemies under your feet.’”

What does Jesus mean when he speaks these words of King David? As in Jesus’ time, perhaps too many people today imagine Jesus, and want him to be, a great military ruler. For too many people, then as now, including too many people in positions of power, to “place [our] enemies under [our] feet” means to crush them by military force or by economic oppression as immediately as possible.

But this is not the way of Jesus or of his kingship. The Gospel of Jesus Christ is not the “prosperity gospel,” the might-makes-right gospel, or the gospel of terror and oppression. At best, responding to the violence of an enemy with violence will give us temporary delight, while the enemy actually persists and often more enemies are created through violence.

Jesus’ words and works, even more than those of King David, are experienced with more permanent delight by “the great crowd.” We are still delighted in Jesus today, so much so that we gather here in this space, more than two thousand years after Jesus spoke near the temple, to worship and celebrate him. And yet our mission as Christians is to move from this worship celebration to remind the world authentically of Jesus by our words and works, so that, because of Jesus, our world may delight in us.

Homily for Saturday, 3 September 2016– Feast of St. Gregory the Great

Saturday of the 22nd Week in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: 1 Corinthians 4:6b-15; Psalm 145:16-18, 19-20, 21; Luke 6:1-5

What is the purpose and meaning of the Sabbath? For the Pharisees of Jesus’ time and indeed for any faithful Jew, the Sabbath meant a day of rest from any and all work. This is why, in the Gospel reading we hear today, the Pharisees become angry at Jesus and his disciples for “picking… heads of grain” from the fields, “rubbing them in their hands, and eating them.” Jesus’ disciples had been doing work.

This concern among devout Jews about not working on the Sabbath day may seem foreign to our culture in which many people work and many workplaces and businesses are open on Sundays. But the Sabbath rest is not simply some practice of the distant past. I was reminded of this when I visited the Holy Land three years ago. In multi-storey buildings in Tel Aviv, where our pilgrimage stayed for a few nights, there are so-called “Sabbath elevators” that stop automatically on every floor. There is no need to push a button to stop the elevator on the desired floor; this would be considered doing work.

I am not trying to criticize either cultural practice: A more relaxed attitude toward work on Sundays here or the “Sabbath elevators” in the Holy Land. And yet, in our Gospel, Jesus calls us beyond the mere question of whether or not to work on the Sabbath, to question more deeply the motivation behind our actions. If we choose to keep the Sabbath day by not working this is well and good. If, as Christians,  we choose to go to Mass on Sundays as our way of keeping the Commandment to “keep holy the Sabbath day,” or not to shop on Sundays, or other practices, these, too, are excellent and to be encouraged.

But the purpose and meaning of our Sabbath; our worship once a week or more, is deeper than simply not working or gathering to worship one day a week. All our work and our worship, even on days that are not Sunday or the Sabbath, are to be oriented toward service to God by serving one another, especially people in any kind of need. Jesus is clear about this by his reminder to the Pharisees that King David once served the hungry people of Israel “the bread of offering” that “only the priests could lawfully eat” or even touch. Meeting human need is greater than slavishness to laws. The commandment to “keep holy the Sabbath Day” has an ethical component; it is meant to free us for service,  justice, and mercy toward one another, not simply to forbid us to work for one day each week.

Pope St. Gregory the Great,  whose feast we celebrate today, also reminds us of this greater purpose of the Sabbath day; of any human labor;  of our worship. In a homily, St. Gregory says that “when we attend to the needs of those in want, we give them what is theirs… We are performing a debt of justice.” And so our service; our works of justice and mercy;  our meeting of human need are the true meaning and purpose of the Sabbath day. Our service; our works of justice and mercy;  our meeting of human need ultimately point us toward God; toward “the Son of Man [who] is Lord of the Sabbath.”

Homily for Sunday, 21 December 2014

4th Sunday in Advent

Readings of the day: 2 Samuel 7:1-5, 8b-12, 14a, 16; Psalm 89:2-3, 4-5, 27-29; Romans 16:23-27; Luke 1:26-38

Father,
I abandon myself into your hands; do with me what you will.

Whatever you may do, I thank you:

I am ready for all, I accept all.

Let only your will be done in me, and in all your creatures.

I wish no more than this, O Lord.

Into your hands I commend my soul;

I offer it to you with all the love of my heart,

for I love you, Lord,

and so need to give myself,

to surrender myself into your hands,

without reserve, and with boundless confidence,

for you are my Father.

For how many of us is “abandonment” a strange or scary word? It can convey a sense of recklessness, as in “reckless abandon” or avoiding responsibility. Abandon can mean accepting to give our lives for our faith; accepting martyrdom. This was likely the sense of abandon weighing on Charles de Foucauld, the Trappist monk who wrote the prayer I have just shared. Knowing his life was in danger, Charles de Foucauld wrote his “Prayer of Abandonment” not long before armed bandits broke into the desert hermitage where he was living in Tamanrasset, Algeria, kidnapped him and killed him on December 1, 1916. Blessed Charles de Foucauld lived and died in service to God; in service to the Touareg people whose language he learned and wrote down; to whom he brought our Christian faith. He lived and died by the words of his prayer: “Father, I abandon myself into your hands; do with me what you will…”

Can abandonment not have another sense, no less strange or scary? Abandonment can mean, as I think it does in the truest sense of Blessed Charles de Foucauld’s “Prayer of Abandonment,” total self-giving trust in another; total trust in God. This trust is not reckless, but neither is it passive: “We’ll just trust in God and all will be well. We do not need to work to make God’s presence felt in our world.” No, the kind of abandonment of which I speak, the kind of abandonment that is Charles de Foucauld’s example of trust in God, is complete, active, and creative. If, in our Advent journey, anybody here has achieved complete, active and creative abandonment; trust in God, I hope to see you after Mass, because I do not think I have achieved this yet.

In Advent, do we not begin with anticipation?  Is not Advent is a time of anticipating the celebration of Christmas; of when God first sent his Son, Jesus Christ, among us in a manger in Bethlehem? In Advent we also anticipate in a more focused way the return of Jesus Christ at the end of time. If we move beyond anticipation in our Advent journey, we may be able to prepare more actively for the Christ. Our preparation to receive Christ may mean deeper examination of conscience; of where God is in our lives; building peace and mending broken relationships; attention to prayer; to opportunities for kindness and mercy toward one another; penance for the times we have fallen short in our preparation for our Christ. Our Advent preparation may lead us to profound joy, shown especially when we light the rose candle on our Advent wreath! But the goal of our Advent journey, complete, active, and creative abandonment into God’s hands, to God’s will, is a most difficult and scary goal to meet.

What do I mean by complete, active, and creative abandonment into God’s hands? This is the example of abandonment; trust in God given us by the Blessed Virgin Mary in our Gospel reading today from Luke. “May it be done to me according to your word,” Mary says to God through the angel Gabriel.

Luke’s Gospel says that Mary “was deeply troubled at” Gabriel’s announcement: She was to bear and give birth to the Son of God. And yet do we not still, at least sometimes, think little beyond the beautiful, peaceful aspects of this event (and so, I think, it is right that we be taken up by the beauty of this Advent and Christmas time)?

Gabriel visits Mary to say that she will bear Jesus, the Son of God. Mary agrees to God’s plan announced by Gabriel. Joseph silently trusts in God; also abandons himself to the will of God; to God’s plan for our salvation in which he, too, is now a part. We end up with a cute little baby, Jesus, in swaddling clothes in a manger on Christmas morning.

But how often do we think of how scary these events we celebrate, the Annunciation; the Birth of Jesus, must have been to Mary and to Joseph? The lifetime of Mary, Joseph, and Jesus was troubled, with the Romans exerting a reign of terror over Israel. No one, I am sure, would have wanted to find themselves expecting a baby they had not planned for, then or now, even if this baby were conceived by “the Holy Spirit”… and then to travel a great distance by donkey and on foot, only to find no room in the inn and to give birth in a stable. Imagine this!

And yet Joseph abandons himself to God; trusts in God’s plan through Mary; silently takes Mary as his wife and cares for Jesus as though he were his own son. Mary speaks the words of abandonment that change our world; that save us and our world, even amid the fear she must have been feeling: “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to your word.”

Would we be capable of this same abandonment to God’s will as Mary and Joseph were? Or would we attempt to limit God in our times of fear? Would we try to limit God by political ideology; by wanting to plan each aspect of our lives to a fault (I can be bad for this); by believing, as a society, in God, as long as our God interferes as little as possible in our lives; by our well-meaning plans and actions, like those of King David in our first reading from 2 Samuel, that are still subtle attempts to limit God…

But what does God do with our attempts to limit him? Consider David’s experience: David knows that God will give him anything he wishes. “The LORD is with you,” the prophet Nathan says, giving his blessing on God’s behalf to David’s plan to build a temple, a permanent house of God in place of the Ark of the Covenant. But then God asks David: “Should you build me a house to dwell in”? God has created our universe. God has created us to be the house for God to dwell in. It is futile to try to contain God; to “put God in a box,” even if this were possible.

And so, like David, we have a choice: Abandon ourselves into God’s hands; trust in God, or not. Do not most of us desire to abandon ourselves to God, and yet do so imperfectly? Let us not worry; in this way our imperfect abandonment to God is part of being human. And yet we have the example of abandonment of Mary and Joseph; of Blessed Charles de Foucauld; of many saints; of people as human as we are. Their trust in God is an invitation to us to the same complete, active, and creative abandonment in our lives; to pray and to ponder in the times when this abandonment scares us: “May it be done to me according to your word,” in our Blessed Mother’s words. Or, in the words of Blessed Charles de Foucauld:

Father,
I abandon myself into your hands; do with me what you will.

Whatever you may do, I thank you:

I am ready for all, I accept all.

Let only your will be done in me, and in all your creatures.

I wish no more than this, O Lord.

Into your hands I commend my soul;

I offer it to you with all the love of my heart,

for I love you, Lord,

and so need to give myself,

to surrender myself into your hands,

without reserve, and with boundless confidence,

for you are my Father.

Homily for Friday, 7 February 2014– Ferial

Friday of the 4th week in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: Sirach 47:2-11; Psalm 18:31, 47, 50, 51; Mark 6:14-29

Have you ever admired a public leader, whether in civil society or in the Church? What qualities did you most admire in this person?

Today our readings present us with two kings, David and Herod. For most of our first reading, from Sirach, David’s qualities are glowingly praised. In contrast, Mark’s Gospel says little to nothing good about Herod as he recounts Herod’s beheading of John the Baptist. I have thought occasionally whether or not David was as good a ruler as he is presented in some parts of the Bible, and whether or not Herod was as evil as he is often depicted.

Amid Sirach’s generous praise for David, one verse especially stands out for me. Sirach says of David: “The LORD forgave him his sins.”

Without this verse, the praise for David in the rest of our first reading would seem excessive: David the conqueror of Goliath and all of Israel’s enemies; David the king with “tens of thousands” of admirers; David the nation’s leader in worship; David who could do no wrong.

We know, not least from our daily Mass readings of the last several days, that David was not that good. He sinned… and repented of his sin frequently. David is set apart because of his willingness to recognize his own sometimes significant sins and to ask forgiveness from God for what he has done wrong. In this way, David sets an example for us of sincerity and trust in God’s forgiveness.

In this, David contrasts with Herod, who is too insecure to trust God to uphold his leadership and to forgive him his sins. Herod is not totally evil, since Mark’s Gospel says that he was, to a point, receptive to John the Baptist’s message. But his insecurity gives way to fear of the repentance that John asks of him; fear in place of trust in God. This fear drives Herod to kill John, and even then he comes to fear that Jesus will challenge his kingship.

Our readings today invite us first to trust in God’s forgiveness for the times in which we have sinned and second, to ask ourselves the question: Whom we admire in a public leader and why?

No leader; none of us is perfect. But just as we are invited to trust in God’s forgiveness, I ask: Are there any leaders you know in our households; our families; our Church; our society who have perhaps done wrong, even significantly, and yet been sincere, open to and trusting in God’s forgiveness and strength to guide their leadership?

Perhaps we are or will be called one day to forgiveness of our leaders who ask us for pardon with a sincere heart. Perhaps some of us are or will one day be called to be a leader after David: repentant, sincere, trusting in God’s forgiveness and strength to guide our leadership.

Homily for Thursday, 6 February 2014– Memorial of St. Paul Miki and Companions

Thursday of the 4th week in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: 1 Kings 2:1-4, 10-12; 1 Chronicles 29:10, 11ab, 11d-12a, 12bcd; Mark 6:7-13 

Have you ever had conversations with the people you love most about your hopes and dreams for their future?

Often we do not like to think of death, and what will happen to our loved ones after we are called home by the Lord. In our first reading from the First Book of Kings, though, David does just that. David gives his last will and testament, if you will, his final “instructions to… Solomon,” his son and the future king of Israel.

Solomon would come to be known especially for two reasons: he had the first temple of Jerusalem built, and he was recognized for his wisdom. But at this point, as David’s long reign was about to end, Solomon’s future and the future of Israel’s kingship was unclear.

David finishes his last conversation with a promise to Solomon: “You shall always have someone of your line on the throne of Israel.” But there are conditions to this promise: David’s line of kings will only continue if Solomon and his sons “remain faithful to [God] with their whole heart and with their whole soul.”

We know from the rest of the story of Israel’s kings that unfortunately Solomon was not perfectly faithful to God, and then some of the kings after him were much less faithful, and ultimately the kingdom of Israel would collapse. Today, though, we hear David’s last hope that his son will carry on his line. 

When I was a small boy, I had a favorite fire safety cartoon from the National Film Board of Canada that was also a parody of the Biblical creation stories, called “Hot Stuff.”[1] As he is about to pass away, the old caveman in the cartoon, who had invented excellent uses of fire, for example the flaming “wheel,” passes his invention to his son with the halting words: “C- c- carry on and use it wisely!” David’s advice to Solomon is similar: “Carry on and” rule faithfully and “wisely.”

To those of us who have children: Have you ever had great hopes for them: That they might be interested in the same things that interest you; that they might use their gifts and talents wisely; that they might carry on the family business if you have had one; that they might be happily married; that they might be happy in whatever vocation to which God calls them; or perhaps that they might continue to practice or return to their faith?

It can be heartbreaking for those of us who have seen those dreams for our loved ones not quite realized. I invite those who have experienced this first to continue to pray for your loved ones, and second not to give up on them. God does not give up on us, even though we have all, at one time or another, fallen short of what God wills and dreams for us. For those times, God is always ready to forgive us.

Most importantly, let us be assured that the Church, I as a minister of the Church, and all of us as one community of faith hold you and your hopes and dreams for our loved ones in our prayer.  

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[1] Zlatko Grgic, National Film Board of Canada, “Hot Stuff.” http://www.nfb.ca/film/hot_stuff. Accessed 5 February 2014.

Homily for Friday, 31 January 2013– Memorial of St. John Bosco

Friday of the 3rd week in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: 2 Samuel 11:1-4a, 5-10a, 13-17; Psalm 51:3-4, 5-6a, 6bcd-7, 10-11; Mark 4:26-34

When you hear a story like that of David having Uriah slain and then taking Bathsheba as his wife, do you ever think, “What a horrible thing to do?” Does this natural indignant feeling even progress toward hoping that God will exact retribution on people like David?

Let us think about this, since from time to time our society and individuals in it react similarly toward some of its worst and most violent criminals, and even some of its more minor sinners: “How could such a sin be forgiven?” or “This person must be punished,” or even “This criminal deserves to die.”

I ask, especially if anyone here has ever been a victim of crime or knows someone who has, that you not understand me to mean that I am against correction of evil or especially of criminal behavior. Even David does not escape from the consequences of his actions. The child he and Bathsheba conceive dies, if you will pardon me for giving away a central event in tomorrow’s first reading! And yet David is given the chance to repent, and he does. Then, as we know from the rest of the story, the key point is that God builds the kingdom of Israel upon David the repentant sinner.  

God gives us the chance to repent; to echo the Psalmist: “Be merciful, O Lord, for we have sinned”; to say at the very beginning of our Mass, “Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy.” Then God builds God’s kingdom upon us.

This building of God’s kingdom upon repentant sinners is only possible if God is not primarily a God of retribution but a God of patience; a God of forgiveness; a God who allows the mustard seed of goodness and faith of which Jesus speaks in our Gospel parable today to grow into a strong plant in which others can take shelter under our own branches of patience and forgiveness.

God’s patience and forgiveness was the example of St. John Bosco, whose feast day we celebrate today. St. John Bosco, a patron of the Basilians and founder of the Salesians, is known for his work among the poor youth, the street children, including convicted criminals of nineteenth century Turin.

Don Bosco’s motto was one of patience and forgiveness: “Not with blows, but with charity and gentleness must you draw these friends to the path of virtue.” For rejecting retribution and punishment in favor of patience and forgiveness; “charity and gentleness,” St. John Bosco was thought insane by many. Some tried unsuccessfully to block his canonization for this reason.

“Not with blows,” not with retribution, “but with charity and gentleness”; patience and forgiveness: On this foundation God is building God’s kingdom upon us, repentant sinners every one.