Homily for Sunday, 19 December 2020– Fourth Sunday of Advent, Year C

Readings of the day: Micah 5: 1-4a; Psalm 80: 2-3, 15-16, 18-19; Hebrews 10:5-10; Luke 1:39-45

The “rags-to-riches” motif is one of the more common ones in storytelling, because it resonates, does it not, with our heartfelt human inclination to encourage the heroic underdog to overcome the odds against her or him. In reality, these kinds of scenarios may be less common than we would like them to be: So many poor, maligned, marginalized people remain poor, maligned, and marginalized in our world. But occasionally some people overcome all odds against them, or at least they become the heroes of their stories or of pivotal moments in the greater history of our world or a society, or they keep other people from suffering the same marginalization as they have.

From the word of God, we hear today from the prophet Micah. Maybe the most memorable verse from Micah, at least for me, is his admonition about what the LORD requires of his people: “To do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.” I especially love this verse from Micah because it does not only exhort the people of Israel (and us) to act with justice, kindness, and humility. The Hebrew words Micah uses, which are notoriously difficult to translate but that we hear in English as justice, kindness (or mercy), and walking humbly, apply attributes of God to the people: Do justice, because God is just; love kindness, because God is kind and merciful; and, maybe most strikingly, “walk humbly with your God,” who walks humbly with us.

This verse, Micah 6:8, portrays God himself, and God’s prophet Micah, as by nature just, kind, merciful, and humble. And Micah is known as just that: A just, kind, merciful and, above all, humble prophet. Micah lived and preached at the same time in Israel’s history as much more famous prophets than he: Amos, Hosea, and Isaiah. These other prophets were from Jerusalem (in Isaiah’s case) or small towns. Micah, though, was from the countryside, between the downslope of the Judean mountains away from Jerusalem and the Mediterranean Sea coast. Other prophets preached to kings; Micah was the prophet of the common people.

And the part of the Book of Micah we hear today, Biblical experts say, may not have been his but an interpolation or insertion of a text from another, even more anonymous prophet. How is that for a humble situation, that of the prophet Micah? And his message today is one of the humble becoming great. Not from big, showy Jerusalem, with its mountains and its temple, but from little Bethlehem, the “house of bread” in Judah, the economic “have not” region of Israel in Micah’s time, would arise a great king in David’s line: “One who is to rule Israel, whose origin is from of old, from ancient days.”

We Christians have traditionally understood this prophecy of a great ruler in David’s line from little Bethlehem in light of the earthly life of Jesus Christ. And that is fine. Our Gospels often connect Jesus with the Davidic line of kings of Israel. But Micah looks back into Israel’s history in order to look forward, too. Micah’s references to David today are clear: David was a native of Bethlehem. He was a humble, obscure shepherd before slaying the giant Goliath and inheriting the throne of Israel. The ruler of Micah’s prophecy, like King David, will be a shepherd from Bethlehem. And, Micah says, while the king of whom he prophesies rules, he will return to be on a level ground with the common people; he will rule precisely by shepherding: “And he shall stand and feed his flock in the strength of the LORD, in the majesty of the name of the LORD his God.”

The Psalmist carries on Micah’s shepherd-king contrast: “Give ear, O Shepherd of Israel, you who are enthroned upon the cherubim, shine forth.” Here God himself is depicted as a shepherd and, at the same time, a heavenly and mighty ruler. God is mighty in his humility, and humble in his might. If we are to be anything like God, we are called, as Micah once said, to “walk humbly with [our] God,” because our mighty God walks humbly with us.

Our mighty God was born, humbly, to us in Bethlehem yet again, in the person of Jesus. This Jesus, shepherd-ruler of the universe, was born into a stable; a manger where animals eat, in Bethlehem, as a vulnerable human baby. We are less than one week from celebrating the birth of this shepherd-king who has saved this universe, sisters and brothers, by choosing to walk humbly with us and inviting us to walk humbly, justly, kindly with him and among one another.

If God’s humility is shown to us in the Nativity of Jesus, it is shown that much more in Jesus’ giving of his life for us on the cross. When I was in my first parish as a priest, St. Kateri Tekakwitha in Rochester, New York, one of my favourite liturgical elements during this time of Advent and Christmas was the conclusion of the Prayer of the Faithful (or General Intercessions), which reminded us how “the wood of the cradle” was fundamentally connected to “the wood of the cross.” May we always remember this connection, sisters and brothers.

The letter to the Hebrews today reminds us, in a way, of this same connection of the wood of the cradle and the wood of the cross; of Bethlehem to Calvary. Hebrews draws on the Psalms and prophetic writings, especially those of Isaiah, and places them on the tongue of Jesus: “Sacrifices and offerings you have not desired, but a body you have prepared for me… See, God, I have come to do your will.”

I admit that Hebrews’ reflection on sacrifice is challenging to me personally: Not only that Jesus made the ultimate, saving sacrifice of himself on the cross, but that doing God’s will, in an ambiguous sense in our reading, somehow replaces or “abolishes” the need and the value of religious acts of sacrifice. Even our Eucharistic celebration is often called “the holy sacrifice of the Mass.” I do not think, then, that Hebrews is saying that what we celebrate here is worthless. By no means! But any religious ritual, including our Eucharist, can only have meaning if it is God’s will for us. And Jesus, at his Last Supper, commanded his disciples, “Take and eat… Take this cup and drink from it… Do this in memory of me.” This is how we know that our Eucharist is God’s will for us. In our Eucharist, we celebrate a historical action by Jesus, his sacrifice of himself through his passion and death on the cross, that is finished and past. We make it perpetually real and present through our memorial of Jesus’ passion and death, Jesus’ once-forever sacrifice, but that sacrifice can never be replicated or outdone.

This is the surpassing humility of God that we remember and celebrate here: “Sacrifices and offerings you have not desired… See, God, I have come to do your will… Do this in memory of me.” It is the surpassing humility of God that impelled the preaching of Micah about a shepherd-king to arise from little, insignificant Bethlehem; a shepherd-king who would save Israel; humankind; the entire created universe. It is the surpassing humility of God that impelled the song of the Psalmist that called upon the LORD: “Stir up your might, and come to save us.”

And it was the surpassing humility of God, whom the Virgin Mary carried within her in human form, as she “went with haste to a Judean town in the hill country” to visit and care for Elizabeth, also pregnant, with John the Baptist. Luke’s Gospel gives us many sublimely beautiful words and images today. Luke gives us Elizabeth’s greeting, on which part of our “Hail, Mary” is based: “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.” Elizabeth is described as “filled with the Holy Spirit,” as Mary was from the moment she conceived Jesus at the Annunciation. John leaps with joy in Elizabeth’s womb when Mary greets them.

But maybe the most moving moment of today’s Gospel for me is in Elizabeth’s question to Mary: “And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me”? Elizabeth was not lacking in humility, by any means. But this event, the Visitation and these last days of preparation for the Nativity of the Lord, are greater than Elizabeth. These events are greater than us. They are greater than a simple lowliness-to-riches scenario. We could ask the same question as Elizabeth does: “Why has this happened to us, that our Lord has chosen to be born as one of us, to come to us through the Virgin Mary, through a humble manger in Bethlehem”?

This event is all about God’s humility: That not only would God send his Son into our world in this way to save us, but that now God regards us, little and insignificant though we are (if we think about it), as fit to do his will: To feed his flock (that is, one another); to act with justice and kind mercy; to “walk humbly with our God,” if only because God has chosen to walk humbly as one of us.

Homily for Tuesday, 24 July 2018– Ferial

Tuesday of the 16th Week in Ordinary Time


Optional Memorial of St. Sharbel Makhluf

Readings of the day: Micah 7:14-15, 18-20; Psalm 85:2-4, 5-6, 7-8; Matthew 12:46-50

This homily was given at the Kateri House Women's Residence Chapel at St. Joseph's College, Edmonton, AB, Canada.

“Who is my mother, and who are my brothers” and sisters?

Do any of us sometimes wonder with what tone Jesus asked questions like this one, which we hear from Matthew’s Gospel today? Of course, I believe that Jesus was sinless, although he was like us in his humanity in every other way but sin. And yet we know from other passages in the Gospels that Jesus experienced anger and irritation from time to time, whether at the religious and social leaders of his time, his own disciples, or even, at one point if I remember correctly, an apparently innocent fig tree! Anger and irritation are emotions we all experience if we are truly human. They are not in themselves sinful; how we deal with our anger, irritation, or other intense emotions we would usually rather not feel, and may be right or may be sinful, especially if how we act on our anger is destructive of other people and relationships.

Still, can we not imagine Jesus, in today’s Gospel, tired after a long journey; tired of the heat of the Holy Land; tired of the crowds asking him the same question ten times and not listening to his answer? At this point, imagine somebody interrupting Jesus yet again to remind him that his relatives have arrived and want “to speak to him.”

How would Jesus have responded to this latest interruption? We know that, however he would have responded, he would not have sinned. But, short of sinning, might Jesus have allowed himself a rhetorical question with just a slight edginess, in response to the endless interruptions and fatigue?

I imagine Jesus’ rhetorical question, “Who is my mother, and who are my brothers,” as having some bite to it, especially since he goes on to answer his own question… sort of: “Here are my mother and my brothers! For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.”

Would Jesus’ relatives, who had been waiting to speak with him, been annoyed that he had essentially ignored them, only to extend the notion of father, mother, brother, and sister beyond blood relationship?

What would the great crowds have thought at hearing Jesus’ mild irritation behind his words? Would they have been irritated in turn at Jesus for not quite answering their question? Can we not almost hear somebody in the crowd say, “Lord, but how exactly do we do God’s will enough to be considered an extension of your family”?

This, I think, would have been an excellent question, one I would perhaps have asked Jesus if I had been in the crowd that day. Yet I think this question of how we are to do God’s will, and so be considered mothers, brothers, and sisters of the Lord, is fleshed out in our other readings and in the lived example of St. Sharbel Makhluf, whose feast we celebrate today.

The prophet Micah speaks in our first reading of the great compassion, forgiveness, and faithfulness to the covenant relationship with Jacob-Israel. Our Psalm speaks of God’s surpassing “mercy and love.” St. Sharbel once said, “When placed on a scale, God’s mercy prevails over the weight of the mountains.”

Mercy, my sisters and brothers in Christ, moves mountains. In showing one another mercy, forgiveness, faithfulness, and loving kindness, we become the Lord’s and one another’s mothers, brothers, and sisters.

Homily for Monday, 23 July 2018– Ferial

Monday of the 16th Week in Ordinary Time


Optional Memorial of St. Bridget of Sweden

Readings of the day: Micah 6:1-4, 6-8; Psalm 50:5-6, 8-9, 16bc-17, 21, 23; Matthew 8:18-22

This homily was given at the Kateri House Women's Residence Chapel at St. Joseph's College, Edmonton, AB, Canada.

What is the minimal requirement for something, anything?

I am now into my third summer here at St. Joseph’s College as a sessional instructor. A significant part of any course outline I prepare details the minimal requirements for the course: Which courses students must complete, if any, before taking my course, the assignments required in the course and what percentage of the final grade each assignment is worth, and so forth.

Today, the prophet Micah imagines the people of Israel complaining to God that they do not know what God expects of them. Micah structures this section of his book as a trial speech or dialogue, in which God is the defendant and the people of Israel are the plaintiffs. The people of Israel, in Micah’s time, are being overrun by more powerful nations surrounding Israel and, as Micah and other prophets warn Israel, are about to be overtaken completely and taken into exile in Babylon.

But Israel protests to God through Micah: You say we must change our ways; that our sacrifices of “burnt offerings, with calves a year old” are not enough to stave off conquest and exile. What, then, God, do you require of us? What is required to pass this course, and how much is the final exam worth?

In these kinds of trial speeches, which are fairly common in the prophetic books of the Bible, an important feature is that, when the plaintiff begins by presenting the case against the defendant, in this case God, immediately the defendant has a chance to defend himself. In our reading today from Micah, God does just that against the charge of being unclear to the people of Israel as to God’s ethical expectations of them in order not to be exiled to Babylon.

We hear God say essentially through Micah that he has done everything to uphold and save the people of Israel in their worst moments in history, and now the onus is on Israel to behave ethically, especially by defending the dignity of the most vulnerable and in need of this land, Israel, God has given them. “I brought you up from the land of Egypt, and redeemed you from the house of slavery; and I sent before you Moses, Aaron, and Miriam,” God pleads with the people of Israel. What more could Israel want from God?

As an instructor, if I were challenged on clarity of requirements in my course, I might be tempted to say to a student: “The requirements for the course are in the syllabus. Please download and read it”! Might we imagine God saying, “The ethical requirements to avoid exile have been made clear by the example of my relationship, called a covenant, with you in history.”

And yet, as in many prophetic trial speeches and like a good instructor in class, God patiently and repeatedly answers the people’s questions as to what is required of them: “To do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.” God is our living example of justice, kindness, and humility; of doing more than what is minimally required of us. God is just, kind, and humble (which is always poignant to me, because how often do we think of God as humble?). God’s lived example to us of how to behave ethically is better than any course outline on paper could ever be.