Homily for Sunday, 24 March 2024‒ Palm Sunday of the Passion of the Lord

Readings of the day: At the procession with palm branches: Mark 11:1-10. During the Mass: Isaiah 50:4-7; Psalm 22:8-9, 17-18, 19-20, 23-24; Philippians 2:6-11; Mark 14:1-15:27

I have yet to become a major aficionado of the series, “The Chosen,” not by any means because I dislike it or think it is overhyped, but… I need some time to catch up on viewing it. From what I have seen, it is a very well-done series.

Yet in one episode of “The Chosen,” Jesus returns to his hometown, Nazareth, which is overrun with people wanting to see him. Jesus has sent his disciples out on mission to heal the sick and work wonders. He cuts through the noise of all the people who want to see him, the hometown crowds, his friends growing up… And he visits his mother Mary for dinner.

In the introduction credits scene of this episode, Jesus is shown as a little child. Mary and Joseph are affectionate toward Jesus and each other. Jesus receives toys and other gifts from relatives. It is a festival scene. Jesus takes his first steps. One of the gifts he receives at that feast is a bridle for a donkey’s colt. It is a gift from Joseph. A donkey’s bridle would be a strange gift for a toddler, except that this bridle had been passed down through generations to Jesus on Joseph’s side, all the way from King David.

In the homecoming dinner scene between Jesus and Mary, Mother and Son have a long conversation. Mary wants to know all about Jesus’ disciples, his “students”: Who is doing well, what they are doing, who is having a rough time. Jesus says that they are all “quite well” at that moment. And then he pauses; he takes Mary’s hand. And then Jesus asks Mary for the box with the bridle. Mary’s face suddenly shows discomfort.

And Mary asks Jesus, “Are you sure this is your last time here” at home? Jesus replies, “I believe that my time is coming.” This part of the conversation ends with Mary saying to Jesus, “I don’t know that I’m ready.” And Jesus replies finally to Mary, with Mary speaking his words back to him at the same time: “I know how you feel. But you also know that I must do the will of him who sent me.”

Sisters and brothers, on this Palm Sunday of the Passion of the Lord, we are not ready. But Jesus has visited his earthly homes, probably his childhood home, the home of his mother Mary, one last time. He is now at the gates of Jerusalem. We greet Jesus, picking up palm branches and casting them at his feet as he rides through the city gates on the donkey, restrained by the bridle Jesus had picked up during his last visit home. We cry out joyfully, as we have to open this Mass: “Hosanna to the Son of David… Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord”!

We are not ready for what is happening or about to happen. We can commemorate this Palm Sunday, Holy Week of which today is the beginning, once every year, all our lives. And we will never be ready for what this Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion, for what the Lord’s Passion, death, and resurrection that we will celebrate all within this next week, will mean for us. This Holy Week we can and will hear two different accounts of the Passion of Our Lord Jesus, in the voices of three readers each: Today, Mark’s account of Jesus’ Passion and, on Good Friday, John’s account of the same events.

We can, and we will, hear Isaiah’s four prophetic hymns of a “suffering servant”: The third of four today; the four in order on Holy Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Good Friday this week. And we will not and cannot be ready. We can and will hear St. Paul’s hymn to the Philippians of a Messiah whom, paradoxically, we worship because, “although he was in the form of God… he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross.” And we will not and can never be ready for Jesus to accept this, “death on a cross.”

I speak for myself first and foremost, a sinner preaching to sinners: I will never be ready for Palm Sunday, for Holy Week, for Holy Thursday of the Lord’s Supper, Good Friday, Easter of the Lord’s Resurrection, no matter how many times I celebrate these days with us. If Mary was not ready—the sinless Virgin Mary—then we can never be ready.

Jesus does not wait for us to be ready, sisters and brothers. Jesus walks from Nazareth to Jerusalem’s gates carrying a bridle, the last thing he retrieves from home, for a donkey’s colt. He will go from carrying a bridle to carrying a cross, from riding on that donkey to dying on that cross, within less than a week. Jesus does not wait for us to be ready, to accept death for us, to save us from our sin. No, so single-mindedly does Jesus choose to do “the will of the one who sent” him. And the will of the one who sent him is our salvation, our life forever, in our heavenly home.

Homily for Wednesday, 25 July 2018‒ Feast of St. James

Wednesday of the 16th Week in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: 2 Corinthians 4:7-15; Psalm 126:1bc-2ab, 2cd-3, 4-5, 6; Matthew 20:20-28

Does anybody, like me, wonder why readings were not chosen for this feast of St. James that could have cast this great Apostle in a better light than our readings today do?

St. James is the only one of the twelve Apostles whose martyrdom, under Herod Agrippa, is explicitly accounted for in the New Testament. Could the Church not have chosen for today’s feast the passage from Acts 12 in which James becomes the first of the Twelve to give his life for Christ? This event is alluded to in our Prayer over the Gifts today. We will pray in a few moments: “Cleanse us, Lord, by the saving baptism of your Son’s Passion, so that on the feast of St. James, whom you willed to be the first among the Apostles to drink of Christ’s chalice of suffering, we may offer a sacrifice pleasing to you.”

And yet the Church gives us a Gospel reading from Matthew today in which James, along with his brother John, through their mother, try to ensure their own prestigious places, one at Jesus’ right and the other at his left, in the Kingdom of Heaven. James and John seem to have understood nothing about what this “saving baptism of [our Lord’s] Passion,” or what we might term the Universal Call to Holiness, entails for any follower of Christ; for any Apostle, sent into service in our world in Christ’s place.

In his apostolic exhortation, Gaudete et exsultate (Rejoice and Be Glad), Pope Francis connects the Universal Call to Holiness to a Christian’s acceptance of suffering and humiliation in a remarkable way. Pope Francis says in Gaudete et exsultate: “Humility can only take root in the heart through humiliations. Without them, there is no humility or holiness. If you are unable to suffer and offer up a few humiliations, you are not humble and you are not on the path to holiness. The holiness that God bestows on his Church comes through the humiliation of his Son.”

Understandably, the other ten Apostles become angry with James and John for seeking the prestigious places in the Kingdom of Heaven. Jesus’ question to James and John is crucial in today’s Gospel: “Are you able to drink the cup that I am about to drink”? Jesus’ question to James and John is so significant because he asks the same question of us today: Are we willing to suffer misunderstanding and ridicule for our faith, if not outright persecution or threats to our lives, which are rare in a secularized society like ours but still affect so many of our Christian sisters and brothers in our world?

At some point, St. James grew from seeking prestige for himself, not understanding that seeking prestige over others is inimical to the Kingdom of Heaven, to becoming the first of the twelve Apostles to accept suffering and death for Christ. And so today, we do not celebrate somebody who was perfect throughout his life (except that, by celebrating the feast of St. James, we celebrate Jesus, who was perfect). No, we celebrate the imperfect St. James, one whom the Lord perfected until he was able to drink Christ’s cup of suffering and death; until he was fit for eternal life. And we celebrate ourselves, insofar as we are willing to grow in perfection, holiness through humility, as St. James did, until we enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

Homily for Sunday, 4 September 2016

23rd Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: Wisdom 9:13-18b; Psalm 90:3-4, 5-6, 12-13, 14-17; Philemon 9-10, 12-17; Luke 14:25-33

This homily was given at St. Kateri Tekakwitha Parish, Rochester, NY.

What would we be willing to give up in order to be disciples of Jesus Christ? What should we reasonably expect being disciples of Jesus Christ to cost us?

We might imagine ourselves among the “great crowds” that Luke says “were traveling with Jesus.” At one point, where today’s Gospel reading begins, Jesus stops and speaks to these “great crowds” about the demands of being his disciple; of continuing to follow him. But here Jesus does not speak in terms of what is required to be among his disciples: Do this, go there, take this with you… No, Jesus speaks in terms of “non-starters”; of what any would-be disciple of his would need to give up in order to follow him. First, Jesus says, “If anyone comes to me without hating his father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple.” Even if we understand “hating” not as an intense dislike toward another person or thing but, in its rightful sense in Jesus’ time, to mean “to turn away or detach one’s self from” somebody or something, this saying of Jesus still sounds harsh. Who here would be willing to leave behind all our loved ones; our friends; our family immediately and forever, even if doing so were the only way to be a true disciple of Jesus? Who here would not hesitate to give up life itself to follow Jesus? 

I suspect that to leave behind the people dearest to us immediately and forever would be difficult for most if not all of us. And, as if giving up our loved ones and even our lives is not enough to be Jesus’ disciples, Jesus says that anybody who “does not carry his own cross and come after [him] cannot be [his] disciple.” Not only does Jesus expect us, in order to be his disciple, to leave behind the people dearest to us and even to give up our lives, but Jesus expects us to be ready to lay down our lives in the most shameful way possible. It is true that Jesus would go on to die this kind of shameful death on a cross, yet even Jesus, God in human flesh, would pray to our Father to “take this cup from” him,  “but not my will but yours be done,” so horrifying was the suffering he would undergo for us. Could Jesus reasonably expect the cross to be a minimal requirement to be his disciple?

Can we not imagine now the “great crowds… traveling with Jesus” beginning to thin?  After all, Jesus’ demands of any would-be disciple go against his earlier teachings on the dignity and value of human relationships;  of life itself.  And yet Jesus continues to speak:  “Anyone of you who does not renounce all his possessions cannot be my disciple.”

Already Jesus seems to be softening his message, if only slightly. If we are unable to leave behind the people we love most; if we are not quite ready to give up our lives for Jesus, then at least some of us may be able to part with our material possessions. Then again (I speak for myself and probably everybody who belongs to a religious order), I have not yet been able to detach myself from many material possessions, and I am under a vow of poverty.

And so what does Jesus truly expect of anybody who would be his disciple? Are our efforts to be Jesus’ disciples, those of us who attend Mass faithfully every week if not more often; whose worship so often inspires works of great love, justice, and mercy toward those most in need in our communities, not enough? Fortunately, in among Jesus’ three sayings about those who have not been able to leave behind loved ones,  are unprepared to give up their lives, or are unable to part with their possessions, and so “cannot be” his disciples, Jesus offers us two images of the process of weighing the cost of our discipleship. Jesus offers us the images of the builder of a tower and of the king who wages a battle against another king who has a much larger army.

Both of these images invite us to ponder prayerfully the important questions about our own discipleship of Jesus Christ: What is the cost of being a disciple of Jesus? What cost are we willing to pay? Our process of weighing these great questions is lifelong. And I propose that there are at least three kinds of answers to these questions. There is the premature, individualistic, and foolishly optimistic answer, which usually.  amounts to no more than mistaken pride: “Whatever the cost, I am willing to pay it. I am fully ready to be a disciple of Jesus. I am even ready to die for my faith in Jesus Christ, here and now. No matter the cost of building the tower or going into battle outnumbered, I will start building that tower now; march into battle now.” Besides exceedingly few Christians, let me suggest that most who, in this way, respond without weighing and praying over the cost of their discipleship are setting themselves up to fail.

There is also the pessimistic and even cynical answer: “The cost of discipleship is too high. There is far too much evil in the world for one person to conquer alone. The tower is too expensive to build; the opposing king with twice as many troops too powerful. Why even try”? This answer, I believe, is just as individualistic, proud, and foolish as the excessively optimistic approach to discipleship.

And then there is the patient, prayerful,  trusting answer to what the cost of discipleship is and how much we are willing to pay. This response requires of us the most time, the most effort, and the most prayer. This kind of answer places not ourselves but God first. Discipleship will mean putting God ahead of family, friends, and loved ones, and even my own life. It will mean service; intentional works of justice, love, and mercy. Discipleship will mean building unity; community; communion. Discipleship will mean risking misunderstanding and even ridicule for speaking and acting as Christ would speak and act. But God will make up for what we lack in strength; in courage; in knowledge; in wisdom. Not we, but God, will overcome the evil in our world, because by Christ’s death and resurrection God has already overcome it.

The same calling in our Gospel to patient, prayerful weighing and acceptance of the costs of discipleship with trust in God is present in the Book of Wisdom and in St. Paul’s letter to Philemon, from which we hear today. Wisdom speaks of the limitation of the human mind and body. Without God and God’s spirit within us, we are nothing. But with God’s spirit we become everything; the “paths of those on earth [are] made straight.”

And St. Paul gently calls the slave owner Philemon to accept his runaway slave Onesimus back willingly, “no longer as a slave, but [as] a brother.” St. Paul is aware of the cost to Philemon should he take Onesimus back as a free “brother” in Christ. St. Paul urges Philemon no longer to be a slave to the law that would have allowed him to punish Onesimus severely as a runaway, but to free himself to love; to free himself for following after Christ; for discipleship. And so St. Paul’s letter to Philemon offers us yet another image of weighing and acceptance of the cost of discipleship, trusting more and more fully in God.

Only by placing God first in this way is it possible to ponder rightly and to accept the cost of discipleship, slowly, patiently, and prayerfully, little by little over the course of our lifetimes.  Only then is it possible to give ourselves ever more fully to God; to Christ in loving service to one another. Only then are we made truly free, sisters and brothers and true disciples of Jesus Christ.

Homily for Sunday, 14 August 2016

20th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: Jeremiah 34:4-6, 8-10; Psalm 40:2, 3, 4, 18; Hebrews 12:1-4; Luke 12:49-53

Who enjoys a confrontation every now and then? I do not imagine many of us enjoy or go seeking confrontation with other people. Our Christian faith favours a non-confrontational, certainly non-violent approach to resolving disagreements and conflicts. Does Jesus himself not teach us to “love one another,” even our enemies; people we find disagreeable, to be kind, to control our anger, and to forgive others’ wrongs generously? Does Jesus not show us the way of love to its fullest by giving his life on the cross for us; submitting meekly to the worst of human evil? The God of the Old Testament is first and foremost a God of mercy; of “steadfast love”; of “loving kindness.” Confrontation and destruction, even of the worst sinners, are the last resort of the God of the Old Testament.

Not many, let alone God, enjoy confrontation. But then why do our readings today seem to suggest otherwise? Jesus seems ready to confront those who choose not to hear his message and to act against him; against his Gospel: “Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the world? No, I tell you, but rather division”! The “division” he brings will affect even families: “Five in one household will be divided, three against two and two against three.” What kind of Saviour is this? Here, Jesus is looking for a fight. And he seems to realize that his divisive message will cost him his life. We hear Jesus speak of bringing “fire to the earth” and of a “baptism,” his own passion and death or perhaps the final judgment at the end of time, for which he longs to be “completed.” This is hardly the nice, peaceful Jesus with whom we’re comfortable.

And the prophet Jeremiah in our first reading is no more nice and peaceful than Jesus is in our Gospel. Jeremiah works from a position of privilege: He is an “official” prophet of several kings of ancient Israel; a member of the royal court. Israel’s kings often would hire personal prophets to guide them in government. David and Solomon had Nathan as prophet. Nathan is famous for convicting David of his wrongful relationship with Bathsheba (later Solomon’s mother) and for having Bathsheba’s husband Uriah killed in battle in order to take Bathsheba as his wife. Nathan is to David and Solomon whom Jeremiah is to Uzziah through Zedekiah, of whom we hear in today’s first reading. Jeremiah is Zedekiah’s personal prophet. For those of us who are into sports or fitness, we could think of the royal prophet’s role as like the “personal trainer” of heart, soul, and conscience to the king and his officials.

The kings’ personal prophets were expected to confront kings or their officials if they were doing serious evil. But Jeremiah goes too far for the liking of Zedekiah’s officials. By the time Zedekiah becomes king of Israel, the nation and its monarchy are in deep trouble. Several prophets have been warning Israel’s kings and people for years that Israel is more and more in danger of being taken over by the more powerful nations around it like Assyria and Babylon. The way to avoid being taken over, its people being deported to these other lands, and the destruction of Jerusalem and its temple especially, was to trust in God to deliver them and to look after the most in need in Israel with justice and mercy. Do not make alliances with other nations and worship their gods, the prophets would say. Many kings and other elites would not listen to the prophets.

Yet Jeremiah goes too far for the liking of Zedekiah’s officials, who listen to him but do not like what they hear. Jeremiah’s message is that it is now too late to turn from their worship of foreign gods and trust in other nations instead of in God. They are better off accepting a time of exile in Babylon (which actually happened), where they would repent of their sins of injustice and worship of false gods.

To Zedekiah’s officials, Jeremiah’s message that the people of Israel should “go out to the Chaldeans,” to Babylon; into exile, and abandon their homeland is treason, and so they demand that the king have Jeremiah put to death. In this way, Jesus’ story is similar to that of Jeremiah: Jesus, like Jeremiah, risks his life by confronting the people of his time with a message they did not want to hear.

Jeremiah was not dropped into a cistern by Zedekiah’s court officials, and Jesus was not crucified; taken outside the city and made to die the shameful death of an outcast, without reason. What was in Jesus’ message that made many of his hearers so angry? What drove these people to have Jesus killed?

These questions are difficult to answer based only on today’s Gospel reading. But we know, because Jesus himself predicted this: His message would cause divisions even within the closest of human relationships, families; households. Jesus will “bring peace to the earth” at the end of time. This is God’s promise to us for which we praise God every time we pray at Mass, “Glory to God in the highest and peace to people of good will.” Yet until then we have a decision to make: Are we for or against Jesus Christ; for or against the core of his message; of his lived example; his Gospel?

Our answer to this question will either unite and bring us peace or divide us, from the most distant to the most intimate of relationships. And what is at the core; the foundation of the Gospel of Jesus Christ? Let me propose that at the foundation of the Gospel of Jesus Christ is and has always been the most essential of human rights: The right to life from the moment of conception to natural death, without exception.

And defense of this human right to life is not limited to any one particular issue. Nor is it a permission to speak for the right of a person to be born, but then not to defend this person’s basic dignity: The right of children to be cared for and raised by her or his mother and father; the right to adequate water, food, and shelter; the worker’s right to a living wage; the right to social assistance in situations of poverty or other crises; the right to freedom of movement and expression; the right of migrants and refugees to be treated with dignity, not to have their families separated or to be subject to policies that put their lives in danger.

Defense of these human rights is defense of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. This means for us to confront any injustice, near and far; any affront to the human right to life and rights that flow from it; from the Gospel. And the Word of God we hear calls us not to enjoy or seek out confrontation; not to gossip; not to create undue division, whether in our world; our Church; our families and households. To seek out division and confrontation on purpose is sinful. Yet the Word of God; the Gospel of Jesus Christ; the message of Jeremiah we hear today call us to face confrontation; to face any abuse of human life and dignity; any sin, individual or social, with courage.

Our second reading today, from the Letter to the Hebrews, reminds us that we “have not yet resisted to the point of shedding [our] blood.” Fortunately for us, Jesus has already resisted in this ultimate way to the point of death against sin. His resistance has redeemed us; has made our salvation possible. Not many, if any, of us will be called to be martyrs in the sense of being killed for our faith, although I encourage us take time to pray today for the people in our world who do continue to witness to our faith; to give their lives in the confrontation in our world against sin; against evil.

They, like us, do not seek out confrontation. But the martyrs, Christ’s witnesses who have given their lives, like us, recognize the stark choices before them: Good or evil; trust in God or trust in false gods; unity and peace or division within human relationships; eternal life or death. And the closer we are to the core; the foundation of the Word of God; of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, which is our human good; our dignity; our salvation, the less there is a middle ground in these choices we have before us.

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, 17 April 2015– Friday of the Second Week of Easter

Readings of the day: Acts 5:34-42; Psalm 27:1, 4, 13-14; John 6:1-15

Is Jesus’ feeding of the multitudes not a very familiar story to us? It is one of the few events of Jesus’ life that is recounted in all four Gospels. Today we hear John’s version of Jesus feeding of the multitudes from five loaves and two fish.

This event is familiar to us on many levels. Perhaps because Jesus’ actions here are at the core of our liturgy; our Eucharist, are we most familiar with Jesus’ taking, blessing, breaking, and distributing the loaves to the people? We hear every time we are at Mass how Jesus “took bread and, giving thanks, broke it, and gave it to his disciples.” And so the feeding of the thousands anticipates Jesus’ Last Supper with his disciples; his Passion and death; his giving of himself to us under the form of bread and wine. He took; he gave thanks; he broke; and he gave: These actions are openly Eucharistic. On this level, we are familiar with this event of Jesus feeding of the multitudes in our Gospels.

But is there another level at which we are invited to become more familiar with this event; to live this event more deeply in our own lives? On one hand, how often do we consider our talents; our gifts we have been given by God for one another’s good? How often have we, on the other hand, ever complained of a lack of expertise for some tasks, or a lack of resources or time? Can we put ourselves in the place of the Apostles Philip or Andrew in today’s Gospel?

Philip sees the great, hungry crowds and says to Jesus, “Two hundred days’ wages worth of food would not be enough for each of them to have a little.” Andrew asks “But what good are these [loaves and fish] for so many”? I do not think that here Philip or Andrew show a lack of faith. Philip and Andrew likely knew at this point that Jesus was capable of a miracle if he willed it. But the two Apostles respond to the immediate need in front of them: Too many people and not enough food.

Remarkably, Jesus does not scold Philip or Andrew but calms them by asking them to “have the people recline.” Have the people take up a communal meal posture that was familiar to anyone in Israel in Jesus’ time. Jesus multiplies the loaves and fishes, but in so doing he asks us what he asked of Philip or Andrew: What do you bring to help in this situation? What talents do you have; gifts from God that we are invited to use effectively? What is familiar to us in this situation?

Jesus does not ask us to work miracles. But in order to reach the point at which God can work a miracle, we are invited to give back to God what God has given us: Our gifts, our talents. We give to God what God gives us in this Eucharistic celebration. Is this a miracle before our eyes? Indeed, and yet even here we begin with our gift; the “work of human hands”; bread and wine; again, the familiar with which God works miracles.