Homily for Sunday, 8 May 2022– Fourth Sunday of Easter, Year C (Good Shepherd Sunday)

Readings of the day: Acts 13:14, 43-52; Psalm 100:1-2, 3, 5; Revelation 7:9, 14b-17; John 10:27-30

Appropriately, on this Good Shepherd Sunday, the fourth Sunday of Easter, our readings present us with all kinds of images and metaphors of shepherds and shepherding; of lambs and sheep. And, every fourth Sunday of Easter, especially if I am in an urban area with few if any sheep or shepherds (like Edmonton), I think how amazing it is that this image of shepherding; of sheep is still one of the most pervasive images we have of Jesus. This is true even of people who have little or no experience of sheep or shepherding.

Jesus is the Good Shepherd. We have art and icons that depict Jesus slinging a lamb over his shoulders, carrying it to safety. Today we hear the end of Jesus’ Good Shepherd Discourse from John’s Gospel. Jesus makes bold claims to be no ordinary shepherd. While the best of shepherds, we could presume, would protect their sheep from predators and other threats to their life and well-being in this life, only Jesus can claim that he, the Good Shepherd, guarantees his sheep “eternal life”: “They will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand.”

If we continue in John’s Gospel just past the end of today’s reading, John says that the Jewish leaders who listened to Jesus became infuriated with him: They “took up stones again to stone him.” Going back to the Book of Leviticus in the Old Testament, stoning was the penalty prescribed for blasphemy; for claiming to be God.

Today Jesus clearly claims to be one and the same with the one God of Israel: “The Father and I are one.” To address God in this way, let alone claim to be God, was preposterous and a great evil in Israel of Jesus’ time. Such a claim would violate the great commandment-prayer of Deuteronomy: “Hear, O Israel, the LORD is God; the LORD is one.” If the LORD is one, Jesus, this man of Nazareth, could not possibly be the LORD, God of Israel, so the Jewish leaders thought, in a way reasonably.

Put another way, as I remember Dr. Denis Lamoureux, Science and Religion professor here at St. Joseph’s College, saying, Jesus’ claim to oneness with the one God of Israel would have left the people hearing Jesus with three ways to interpret his claim: First, that Jesus is out of his mind; second, that he is a liar; and third, that he is in fact God.

We know the answer as to which of these three options is true. Or at least we presume and believe it, or else we would not be here: Jesus is God. But we (I think we need to understand) have the gift of hindsight that the people who first heard Jesus claim, “The Father and I are one,” did not have.

Even before Jesus got to this decisive line, “The Father and I are one,” his use of shepherding metaphors were clear references to the depiction of the God of Israel as a shepherd in the Old Testament. We can think of one of the most memorable Psalms of trust and consolation, Psalm 23: “The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.” The prophet Isaiah also depicts the God of Israel; our God as a shepherd: “He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep.” And we know that when the St. Louis Jesuits write a hymn after a Bible passage, it is a memorable passage: “Like a shepherd he feeds his flock, and gathers the lambs in his arms; holding them carefully close to his heart, leading them home.”

There are other people in the Bible who are shepherds. We might think of Moses, “tending the flock of Jethro his father-in-law” before he climbed Mount Horeb and encountered God in the burning bush. And King David is first introduced as a shepherd in 2 Samuel. But these great biblical shepherd figures are really stand-ins for the God of Israel. David was the shepherd-king after the LORD’s own heart. God worked through Moses to shepherd the people of Israel back to their homeland from slavery in Egypt.

The main point in all this, though, is that, when Jesus applies the image of the Good Shepherd to himself, it is no accident. Already, well before Jesus explicitly identifies himself as one with God the Father, he has claimed to be one with Israel’s God by invoking these Old Testament images of God the shepherd.

These are images that carry over into the New Testament. One of the most frequent ways of depicting God; depicting Jesus in the New Testament is that of the shepherd. We hear this today from the Book of Revelation, but with a counter-intuitive twist. In John of Patmos’ vision of the “great multitude” of the saved—the “great multitude” of those who had given their lives for our faith—the Lamb seated on the heavenly throne is also the shepherd. This lamb, also the chief shepherd, Jesus Christ, “will guide” these martyrs for our faith, all who are saved, “to springs of the water of life, [where] God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.”

The image of the sacrificial lamb who becomes the chief shepherd, and who leads the saved to springs of living water, also recalls several Old Testament depictions of lambs and shepherding, and other images of agriculture; growth and giving of life. If we were at the Easter Vigil, the mother-of-all-church-celebrations that begins this fifty-day celebration from Easter to Pentecost, we would have heard (not really a shepherding metaphor, but) the majestic song from the prophet Isaiah to which we respond, “With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation.” Psalm 23 refers to the LORD as shepherd leading the Psalmist “beside still waters.” Our Psalm today speaks of us as God’s “people, the sheep of his flock.”

In the familiar story of the first Passover, the people of Israel are prepared to escape slavery in Egypt, shepherded by Moses and Aaron. The LORD tells the people of Israel to slaughter a lamb per household and eat it hurriedly. The people of Israel are also to put blood from their lamb on the doorposts and lintels of their houses. The LORD will pass through Egypt and “strike down every firstborn” of Egyptian households but leave the firstborn of any house showing lamb’s blood at its entrance.

These images that compare God; compare Jesus to a lamb, a shepherd, or both at the same time continue in history through the prayer of the Church; our liturgical prayer as a community of faith and individual prayer. Our prefaces that introduce our Eucharistic Prayer during Eastertime are especially rich in these images of the Lord as a lamb. The preface we will pray today says that Christ “never ceases to offer himself for us, but defends us and ever pleads our cause before [God]: He is the sacrificial Victim who dies no more, the Lamb, once slain, who lives forever.” In our prayer after communion, we will pray, “Look upon your flock, kind Shepherd, and be pleased to settle in eternal pastures the sheep you have redeemed by the Precious Blood of your Son.” And, of course, just before we receive communion (and at the beginning of Mass, during the Gloria), we pray together, “Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us… Lamb of God… Grant us peace.”

So we remain familiar with these images and metaphors of lambs, sheep, and shepherding to describe the Lord and his relationship with us, down to the present day. And it does not matter whether we have ever (or often) seen a real shepherd or sheep.

We understand, we believe, and we celebrate, sisters and brothers: Jesus Christ is both lamb and shepherd. He is the Passover lamb sacrificed once for all, “who dies no more.” Yet he is the shepherd who “leads us by still waters” to nourishment, peace, protection from evil, and to eternal life. He is not out of his mind, or a blasphemer, or a liar. He is God; the Good Shepherd-“Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world.” In him and only in him, the Good Shepherd, do we find salvation.

Homily for Sunday, 21 November 2021– Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe

Readings of the day: Daniel 7:13-14; Psalm 93:1, 1-2, 5; Revelation 1:5-8; John 18:33b-37

I am not sure how many of us realize this: When we pray the Nicene Creed, as we will in a few moments, we mention only three human beings by name; three people in the whole Creed. The first two are more obvious: Jesus and Mary. But the third human figure mentioned in the Creed is Pontius Pilate.

Pontius Pilate, according to ancient Roman records and those of Flavius Josephus, a Roman-Jewish historian of the time, was not whom we might consider a good, benevolent, much less effective ruler. He was Governor of the Roman province of Judea for about ten years, coinciding with the passion and death of Jesus. Pilate was known for impulsive and brutal acts of violence toward anybody he saw as a threat to his own or imperial Roman authority. This impulsiveness and brutality was possibly his downfall; Josephus records his suppression of “an armed Samaritan movement at Mount Gerizim” that resulted in Pilate’s removal by Caesar Tiberias (although maybe a comfortable retirement; this is unclear) as Governor of Judea. Pontius Pilate has been portrayed frequently as somewhat of a coward in art and speech: The term “to wash one’s hands” of responsibility for a decision derives from Pilate’s evasion of responsibility for Jesus’ condemnation to death by washing his hands.

But Jesus was no threat to Pontius Pilate’s, or Roman, authority. Pilate knew this, or so it would seem by his provocation of the Jewish authorities who had brought Jesus to him under the charge that he claimed to be a king; equivalent to Caesar; a threat to Roman authority. Can we not hear Pilate mocking the Jewish authorities who brought Jesus to him bound? “Ecce Homo,” Pilate sneers, “Behold the man”! Behold, this Jesus of Nazareth: “Really? A king? A threat to Caesar? Maybe this Jesus of Nazareth is a threat to my afternoon power nap, but he is no threat to Caesar’s or my authority.”

Yet Pilate also knew to humour the Jewish authorities who had disturbed him with such rabble. He had Jesus scourged—a beating that, even if it were not followed by crucifixion, would often be enough to kill a condemned person—and then presented him to the crowd: “Do you wish to irritate me further? Well, then, behold your ‘king,’ bloodied and on the point of death. Take him yourselves and crucify him”! Just to be sure, though, Pilate takes Jesus to his seat of judgment, and asks him the questions that are at the centre of today’s Gospel proclamation, from John. Pilate’s questions to Jesus are at the very centre of today’s Solemnity of Jesus Christ, King of the Universe: “Are you the king of the Jews?”…“So, you are a king”?

Jesus gives Pilate, and us, the key answer about his kingly identity: “My kingdom is not of this world… You say I am a king.” But what does Jesus mean when he says his kingdom “is not of this world”? If Pilate, a pagan Roman governor, struggled to understand a kingship “not of this world,” let me venture to say that our world, and maybe especially our Church, have struggled all the more since Jesus’ answer to Pilate to understand and apply what Jesus meant.

We can point to many instances in our Church’s history that show our Church’s often tense relationship with worldly power and authority; when and how it has claimed that authority for itself. Let me be clear: I am not saying (far from it!) that any claim or exercise by our Church of authority “of this world” is bad. Often it is necessary and even good. Yet our papacy and concepts of the ministry of the pope, bishops, and priests have historical foundations in challenging, but also often mimicking monarchical (absolute royal) forms of government; power; authority.

“My kingdom is not of this world”: Our struggle not to identify Jesus, much less the pope or other Church leaders, with worldly royalty goes back to the crowds in our Gospels who wanted to take Jesus away to make him king. Even our celebration today of “Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe” is historically grounded in our Church’s often tense relationship with worldly powers, if not its identification as a worldly power in its own right.

Today’s celebration of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe dates back in our Church to December 11, 1925. On that day, Pope Pius XI proclaimed this Solemnity of Christ the King in an encyclical letter to the bishops of the Church, Quas Primas (“In the First”; the title of any Church document is derived from its first words). Why “In the First”? “The First” there refers to Pius XI’s first encyclical letter, entitled Ubi Arcano Dei Consilio (“When in the Inscrutable Designs of God,” published just before Christmas, 1922), in which the pope lamented the “manifold evils in the world… due to the fact that the majority of people had thrust Jesus Christ and his holy law out of their lives.” If these evils continued, said Pius XI, “there would be no really hopeful prospect of a lasting peace among nations.” What did Pius XI propose as a solution to this problem? He created this Solemnity of Christ the King as a counterweight to “individuals and states [that] refused to submit to the rule of our Saviour.”

Also debated at the time was the so-called “Roman question”: Should the Church be granted sovereign rule over a physical territory, much like any nation state in our world? The Church had lost its rule over the Papal States in the second half of the 1800s. Then there was the massacre of World War I. Finally (and through a complicated and controversial process), in 1929 the Vatican City State as we know it today was created through a Church treaty with Mussolini’s Italy. The Church had its sovereign rule over a (very small) physical territory, just like any other nation state, and political and diplomatic independence from Italy and other nations. We see the tension in this: On the one hand, our Church had become a power sovereign over a physical territory and, by Church law, the pope enjoys universal jurisdiction over the whole Church but, on the other hand, we worship a king, Jesus Christ, whose “kingdom is not of this world.”

So what kind of kingdom or kingship is the kingdom or kingship of Jesus? Many if not most portrayals of Jesus as king, from the Infant of Prague with the sceptre in one hand and a globe in the other, or the icon of Jesus, Ruler of All (“Pantokrator”) show Jesus much like the monarchs of this world; they portray Jesus as the kind of worldly king he actively resisted becoming during his earthly lifetime.

“My kingdom is not of this world.” But even the readings we have just heard for this Mass witness to the limits of human language around kingship, especially when we apply kingship to Jesus; to God. We hear today of Daniel’s vision of “one like a son of man” (a common royal, messianic title in our Bible, which Jesus even uses of himself) who will have dominion over the universe: “His dominion is an everlasting dominion that shall not pass away, and his kingship is one that shall never be destroyed.”

Our Psalm, one of our Bible’s beautiful “royal Psalms,” speaks of the LORD as king, “robed in majesty… girded with strength.” The Book of Revelation speaks, at the beginning and end of our reading today, of Jesus as “ruler of the kings of the earth… ‘The Alpha and the Omega’… who is and who was and who is to come.” I find it fascinating, though, that, between these two statements about Jesus’ everlasting kingship, Revelation also affirms that we have a share in Christ’s kingship: Christ “made us a kingdom, priests serving his God and Father.”

How can we, as worldly creatures, have a share in Jesus’ kingdom that “is not of this world”? The simplest answer to this question, which Revelation gives us, is three words long: “By his blood.” Jesus is King of the Universe, not because he holds any traits of a worldly king. He has no physical territory to govern, no throne, no sceptre. He has no globe in his hands, but only the cruel marks of nails in his hands and feet by which he has saved our universe and everything and every creature in it.

“By his blood”… “My kingdom is not of this world.” And, by his blood, we have a share, sisters and brothers, in the kingship of Jesus Christ that indwells this world, and will fully so on the day of the Lord’s return in glory, but “is not of this world.” We share, by our baptism, a priesthood. And I do not mean the priesthood of the ordained (people like me); I mean priesthood in the sense of our having a share and a responsibility in the communication of the presence of God—the “other-worldly”—to this world by the way we live. Our priesthood and, in a perfect way, the one priesthood of Jesus Christ, is a priesthood of servant leadership. Our priesthood, in all we say, act, and do, serves God by serving and loving one another, to the point where we would be prepared to give our lives for one another, as Christ did for us.

This is the kingship of our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe. This is the kingship in which we share “by his blood”; a kingship evermore indwelling our world but not of this world; a kingship that is the only kingship that will save us, this universe, and everything and every creature in it.

Homily for Tuesday, 21 July 2020– Barbara Schmidt Funeral Mass

Readings of the day: Ecclesiastes 3:1-7, 10-11, 14; Psalm 23 (music setting); Revelation 21: 1-5a, 6b-7; John 14:1-6.

This homily was given at the funeral Mass for my paternal grandmother, Barbara Janice Schmidt, at the Church of the Assumption, Powell River, BC, Canada. Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and may perpetual light shine upon her.

“Sure and certain hope”: These words from the Prayer of Commendation, the last prayer of a Catholic funeral Mass, which we will hear and pray together in a few moments, have always been deeply moving to me. “Into your hands, Father of mercies, we commend our sister Barbara, in the sure and certain hope that, together with all who have died in Christ, she will rise with him on the last day.”

My dear family; sisters and brothers gathered in Christ our Lord to remember and pray for eternal rest in our Lord for our mother; our grandmother; our great-grandmother; our friend; our sister in Christ, Barbara Janice Schmidt: Is it not somewhat bold to pray (or to suggest that we are praying) “in the sure and certain hope” that God will receive our Barbara into eternal life? Is our hope, as long as we live this life on this earth, ever fully “sure and certain”? Or are we maybe more like the Apostle Thomas of our reading for this celebration from John’s Gospel; Thomas who responds with great uncertainty and alarm to his growing awareness that Jesus is about to be taken away from him and the other Apostles to die, rise and ascend to heaven? Are we not much like Thomas who, even though Jesus reassures his Apostles, “Where I am going, you know the way,” replies, “Master, we do not know where you are going; how can we know the way”?

Like Thomas, our uncertainty and our grieving are not signs of weakness or lack of faith or hope in eternal life, whether for our beloved Barbara or for ourselves. “How can we know the way?” is a humble recognition that “sure and certain hope” is more about the journey to eternal life with our God, to heaven, than about the destination. When we commend our faithfully departed to the mercy of God, “in the sure and certain hope that… all who have died with Christ… will rise with him on the last day,” we, like Thomas, pray in one sense for our God to build on the hope and the faith we already possess but that have not yet reached their fullness.

Our God, mysteriously, has called his and our beloved Barbara home to heaven in these extremely uncertain, even unsettling times. We gather here, with many more of our relatives and friends (whom I want to acknowledge with special gratitude) joining us from afar thanks to modern technologies of communication, amid a worldwide pandemic with no known cure or resolution yet, to celebrate, remember, and pray for eternal life, not only for Barbara but for ourselves. We would not be here now, especially amid the uncertainty and the unsettling nature of our world, if we did not hope; if we did not have faith.

Our faith in God’s saving grace; our “sure and certain hope” can and must coincide with the uncertainty inherent in living in this world; with our cry, like that of the Apostle Thomas: “How can we know the way”? It is only if we have the courage; the hope; the faith; the humility of the Apostle Thomas—courage, hope, faith, and humility that were certainly modeled for us by our beloved Barbara Janice—that, by allowing ourselves to plead with the Lord, “How can we know the way,” we may be open to and take heart in Jesus’ reply: “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father, except through me.”

Throughout Grandma’s life, “How can we know the way” met “sure and certain hope” in ways that were open and took heart in our Lord: “I am the way and the truth and the life.” How so? A beautiful dialogue between “sure and certain hope” and “How can we know the way”; between God and our Barbara Janice, began just over ninety-four years ago. It continued on a farm in Rochfort Bridge and in a one-room schoolhouse where she taught in Jalna, Alberta; and then in Oakland, California, where Grandma met, married, and raised a family with a dapper U.S. Air Force veteran, Clem, Grandpa. And when God called Clem home to himself at a young age, Grandma’s dialogue with God, “the way,” led her back to Rochfort Bridge; to the farm where she cared for her father in his later years. In the meantime, “the way, the truth, and the life” led Grandma to raise five children—John, Raymond, David, Anne Marie, Nanette—to hope in God the way she did.

I suppose we could fill pages, and I could speak here forever (we almost certainly do not want that!), about the lifelong dialogue between God and our Barbara Janice: “How can we know the way”? “I am the way and the truth and the life.” This dialogue; this encounter; this life of Barbara Janice in God and his Christ, which we have witnessed and we celebrate here today, has been God’s sign to us in this earthly life of the reason for our “sure and certain hope” in eternal life, for Barbara and for ourselves.

In many ways, our Grandma’s life on this earth has mirrored the wisdom of the Book of Ecclesiastes from which we have heard this morning. There is, for Grandma and for each of us, “a time to give birth and a time to die” and, in between these, “a time for every affair under the heavens.” Why does the wise “teacher,” the author of Ecclesiastes, teach us that “there is an appointed time for everything”? He teaches us this so that, as he says, God may fill our hearts with what is “timeless,” so that by our experience of this truth, God “may be revered.”

Grandma exemplified this truth; this reverence for the timeless God through the time-bound realities of our earthly life. For our Grandma, there was a time for great generosity with any time; any talent; any material wealth she had. Grandma experienced poverty, especially as a widowed mother caring for five children and her father, and never forgot this as she supported various causes throughout her life in favour of the less fortunate; the forgotten; the poor; truly in favour of the intrinsic dignity of the human person, from conception to natural death.

For Grandma, there was time for great tenderness and love. There was time for healthy and endearing doses of sassiness. There was time for joy; time for music and nature; time for devoted service at the rectory of this Church of the Assumption in Powell River for fourteen years. There was time for Grandma, in her waning years, to be cared for by family both here and in Vernon, and by the home care nurses of BC Interior Health’s Choice in Supports for Independent Living program, to whom I and our family are especially grateful. There was time with her beloved and many friends, relatives, her husband Clem whom we pray is now re-united with Barbara in heaven; time with her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. There has been, and is, “an appointed time for everything”; “a time to give birth and a time to die.” And now is our time to “commend our sister Barbara” to God and the new life he offers her and will one day, we pray, offer us: A life “changed, not ended”; finite earthly life transformed by God into the infinite life of heaven.

I suppose, too, that, as we remember, celebrate, and pray for eternal life for God’s and our beloved Barbara, we might allow ourselves to envision what that eternal life might be for Barbara and for us. This vision might be something like the vision of St. John of Patmos in the Book of Revelation we hear today, the vision of “a new heaven and a new earth.” But let us not stop at envisioning “a new heaven and a new earth.” Instead, may we hear and take up God’s mission, entrusted to each of us, to build “a new heaven and a new earth,” beginning here and now, in cooperation with God’s grace.

How might we do this? Seek, first, the eternal life and the well-being in this earthly life of everybody. Seek and pray for this utmost well-being especially for people who have wronged us; people who are disadvantaged in any way; people who do not know or have forgotten their relationship with God; people who are sick; dying; alone; lost. Seek to be forgiven and to forgive for when we or our loved ones fail, as we all do by human weakness, to build one another up in Christian love and divine grace; for when we have hurt one another. Seek unity and charity (not necessarily uniformity, which is often a false unity), in our hearts; in our households and families; in our world. Seek to be generous and joyful.

These concrete actions were at the heart of the mission entrusted to our beloved Barbara: Grandma, Great-grandma, Mom, friend, sister in Jesus Christ. They are at the heart of how Grandma did her prayerful best to live, as a sign of God’s saving love for us. These actions are at the heart of our mission now as we pray for heaven for our Barbara and, one day, for ourselves. These are the ways in which we enter the dialogue between the “appointed time for everything” and “the timeless,” which God has put into Barbara’s heart and ours; between “How can we know the way?” and “I am the way and the truth and the life”; between us and God; between this finite life and eternal life, with “sure and certain hope.”

Homily for Thursday, 15 August 2019– Solemnity of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary

Mass during the Day

Readings of the day: Revelation 11:19a, 12:1-6a, 10ab; Psalm 45:10, 11, 12, 16; 1 Corinthians 15:20-27; Luke 1:39-56

Thursday of the 19th Week in Ordinary Time

This homily was given at the Kateri House Women's Residence Chapel, St. Joseph's College, University of Alberta, Edmonton, and Our Lady of Perpetual Help Church, Sherwood Park, AB, Canada.

My sisters and brothers, today we celebrate the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, body and soul into heaven. But do we really celebrate Mary on this day?

Let me offer a “yes, but” answer to my own question here. I was not about to scandalize us by saying that we do not in fact celebrate Mary on this Solemnity of her Assumption. Yet, if I dare say, there is more to this celebration of Mary’s Assumption than a celebration of a woman being taken up body and soul into heaven, in a way that might conjure some almost fanciful images in our minds if we think about it long enough: How is somebody taken, body and soul, into heaven?

There have been many artistic representations of Mary’s Assumption, but none, as beautiful as they are, quite do the event justice. Even one of my favourite depictions of the Assumption of Mary, the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe, draws on imagery from our reading from Revelation today and a superimposition of Mary on the mythical woman God promises to Adam and Eve in Genesis 3, who will crush the serpent’s head and so remit the sin introduced into the world in the Fall of Adam and Eve. Our Lady of Guadalupe is surrounded by twelve stars. She stands above the earth and heavens, on the crushed head of a snake, and she is supported by St. Juan Diego, who experienced this vision of Mary, clothed also in a tilma, an Aztec garment made from cactus fibre and overflowing with roses.

I suppose it is easy enough to depict, in art or icons, a beautiful woman ascending bodily into heaven. But how would we depict a soul? This is impossible, because a soul is not visible to our senses. How do we distinguish an ascension to heaven, like that of Jesus, from an assumption, like that of Mary? Why celebrate the Assumption of Mary anyway, since this event is mentioned nowhere in the Bible (but it is, from not long after the writing of the last books of the New Testament, mentioned in writings that reflect the beliefs of the earliest Christians)?

These are all wonderful questions but, first of all, I think the difficulty we have in answering them points to the Assumption of Mary as mystery. Second, do all these questions and all of our imperfect ways, even the most beautiful ones, of depicting the Assumption of Mary, not miss a very important point about why we celebrate this Solemnity as Church?

This important point, I think, is that the Assumption of Mary is less about Mary, as important as she is as Mother of God and model of the Church and all, and more about God and about us. What do I mean by this? Mary’s Assumption is not so much a form of witness to Mary’s own power but to God’s power to work through Mary to make her the ideal mother of God’s own Son made human, Jesus Christ. Our readings today give this due praise to God. 1 Corinthians says that Jesus is the only way to the destruction of death, and so eternal life. Mary herself, as well as Elizabeth before her, also praise God, Mary through her Magnificat—“My soul magnifies the Lord”—and Elizabeth through her recognition that Mary is “the mother of my Lord”; of our Lord.

Mary, uniquely in history, has been raised to heaven body and soul by God immediately after her earthly life ended. But we, too, await not only an ascension to heaven of our souls when we die, but of our bodies, too, between now and the end of time. So we pray, especially when we pray the Apostles’ Creed, that we believe “in the resurrection of the body.” The gift Mary receives in being raised body and soul to heaven immediately is a gift we will receive, too, only in a more deferred way.

But Mary’s Assumption is nonetheless the great witness to the power of God over death itself, and to the promise of eternal life, body and soul, that awaits us and that we celebrate here and now.

Homily for Saturday, 29 November 2014– Ferial

Saturday of the 34th week in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: Revelation 22:1-7; Psalm 95:1-2, 3-5, 6-7ab (R: see Revelation 22:20c); Luke 21:34-36

“Marana tha! Come, Lord Jesus!” This Aramaic then English response to our Psalm is not actually from the Psalms. It is the next-to-last verse of the Book of Revelation, following what we have heard today, also from Revelation, in our first reading. Clearly these are words of anticipation of the Lord’s return in glory. Would this response, “Marana tha, Come, Lord Jesus,” not fit best with our season of Advent, which we begin this evening?

Why do we have this anticipation of Advent? Why this prayer, “Marana tha! Come, Lord Jesus”? It is a very ancient Christian prayer, going back to the earliest Church. It is a prayer for the end times; for Jesus to return in glory. It was originally a plea to Jesus in a time of crisis and persecution of the first Christians. How might we make this our prayer; how might “Marana tha! Come Lord Jesus” become more real to us in our social context, as Christians in 2014?

Would this prayer become more real to us if we were to think of it not only as calling to mind the end times; Jesus’ return in glory (which it does), but also as drawing us back to our beginning; to creation; to our re-creation as daughters and sons of Christ in baptism?

The Book of Revelation, for all its strange imagery, is all about God’s act and our cooperation in this act of re-creation. It is no accident that John’s last vision in Revelation, the river flowing in all directions from the tree of life, “serving as medicine for the nations,” recalls the paradise of the Garden of Eden in Genesis. The river and the tree of life in Revelation are a reversal of sin; of the Fall of Adam and Eve and the confusion of the Tower of Babel in Genesis. They are images of restoration; of re-creation.

When in our lives have we experienced restoration; re-creation; total freedom from the Fall (or, as many call it, Original Sin)? We experience this act of restoration; re-creation; total freedom from sin not first as an end, but as a beginning, in our baptism. We experience this again and again in the other sacraments, especially in our Eucharist, in reconciliation (a kind of “second baptism”), and in the anointing of the sick. We experience this continually as “medicine for” individual souls; “medicine for the nations.” Our lives as Christians are a continual experience of restoration; re-creation; freedom from sin. From our baptism to our death and entry into eternal life; from beginning to end, our lives are a continual experience of “Marana tha! Come, Lord Jesus!”

Our Scriptures, too, are our continual experience of God among us, from creation to re-creation; from the river and the tree of life in Eden to the river and the tree of life in John’s vision in Revelation; from “in the beginning,” the words in Genesis that introduce God’s creation of the universe, to a new beginning that we anticipate in Jesus’ return in glory. “Marana tha! Come, Lord Jesus!”