Homily for Friday, 25 December 2015– Nativity of the Lord

Readings of the day (for Christmas Mass at Night): Isaiah 9:1-6; Psalm 96:1-2, 2-3, 11-12, 13; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-14

This homily was given at Our Lady of Perpetual Help Parish, Sherwood Park, AB, Canada.

From the prophet Isaiah we hear tonight [this morning]: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness‒ on them light has shone.” And from Luke’s Gospel we hear of shepherds, about to travel to Bethlehem to meet our newborn Saviour, Jesus Christ. These shepherds are “keeping watch over their flocks by night” when their night watch is interrupted by “an angel of the Lord” who announces Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem, “City of David.” Their night watch is interrupted by “the glory of the Lord” that shines “around them.” And we hear from Luke that these shepherds “were terrified” at this light breaking into the darkness surrounding them.

And yet is this not what our celebration of Christmas is all about: light breaking into; interrupting our darkness? Yet, unlike the shepherds outside Bethlehem on the night of Jesus’ birth or the people of Israel of Isaiah’s time, I imagine not many of us are terrified at light taking the place of darkness. In fact we celebrate it; we celebrate him, Jesus Christ, with a joyous song of thanksgiving: “Today is born our Saviour, Christ the Lord”… “A child has been born to us, a son given to us… He is named Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”

We celebrate the Birth of “our Saviour, Christ the Lord,” in many ways. We celebrate by gathering together with family and friends. We celebrate by decorating our homes and often our workplaces and public spaces. We celebrate by exchanging gifts. Very importantly we celebrate by gathering here as a community of faith; a People of God to worship. Most of us here are anything but terrified.

But how many of us have experienced darkness as a reality deeper than physical, literal darkness? I think that here, in the centre of Alberta, we are somewhat privileged. We live far enough north to experience Christmas as near the shortest day of the year. I am now living and studying in Paris, France, and so on my way home to visit family here I have been keeping a close eye on the weather in the Edmonton area over the last few days, maybe like those shepherds near Bethlehem so many years ago, but for more selfish reasons: I wanted to be prepared for any extreme weather on my way here. Now, I expect cold weather in Alberta at this time of year. But in the corner of my computer screen, a reminder of the shortness of late December days here would stare me back in the face: Sunrise 8:50 am; sunset 4:15 pm. I love you, Alberta; even at your darkest and coldest you are my home; our home!

And still, amid not even seven and a half hours of sunlight each day this time of year, at Christmas we celebrate. The sun is unconquered by darkness. The unconquered Son of God, Jesus Christ, also promises to return. Christ promises once again to break into and interrupt our darkness, as he did more than two thousand years ago, to complete God’s work of our salvation at the end of time.

We celebrate, even though Christmas brings many of us face-to-face not with joy and light, but with our world’s darkness and, for some of us, the darkness in our families and among our loved ones and in our own experiences. Our world faces an unprecedented number of refugees and of people displaced within their own countries by violence and persecution: A record sixty million people worldwide who have been forced to flee their homes! More wars begin than end in our world today. The dignity of all human life; of creation is so often disregarded. This has led even the ever-joyful Pope Francis to lament recently that our world’s violence threatens to reduce our celebration of Christmas to a kind of charade!

But this does not need to be. Our celebration of Christmas, of Christ’s Nativity, has meaning if we renew here and now the Biblical call to welcome refugees and migrants; people who experience physical, mental, or spiritual illness; people who have lost family members or loved ones; people living in poverty; the unemployed; people with disabilities; people who are alone, without family or loved ones with whom to celebrate Christmas; people who are estranged from our Church... This parish, Our Lady of Perpetual Help, is a place where all these people are supported and given dignity. OLPH has sponsored refugee families. Through a wide variety of ministries OLPH supports the economically disadvantaged; the bereaved; those who are alone; those who are searching in their lives of faith. Here the heart of the Christmas message is lived out.

And our celebration of Christmas is meaningful as long as we do our best, knowing our imperfections; even our sin; our darkness, but also the light of God’s grace and mercy, “to live lives that are self-controlled, upright, and godly,” in St. Paul’s words to Titus. Our Christmas celebration finds meaning in our response to God’s call to welcome all who are on the same pilgrim’s path that we are all on, back to a manger scene in Bethlehem and forward to Christ’s return in glory.

Luke’s Gospel renews this call to us today by the simple remark that, when Jesus was born into our world, Mary and Joseph “laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.” There was no place amid the darkness of our world for our Saviour. In fact our world would reject its Saviour. Life that began in a manger would be nailed to a cross, in the greatest act of darkness and sin ever known. Yet even death would not stop Jesus Christ, the Light of our world. The manger, a place beneath human dignity where animals fed, would be transformed into a place where our God entered our world in human flesh from the Virgin Mary’s womb. The cross, a place beneath human dignity where common criminals were publicly tortured and killed, would be transformed into a place where our God gave his very life to save us. Likewise, are we allowing our lives, our experiences of light, goodness, and peace but also of darkness and sin, any experiences we have that are beneath our human dignity, to be places into which Christ is welcome? Are our hearts the “inns” into which Christ enters to transform; to redeem us?

Sure, our lives; our hearts probably are not, even by some of our own standards, fit to welcome the King of the Universe; our God. Fear not! Jesus is not asking us for a five-star hotel. After all, he first entered our world “wrapped… in swaddling clothes,” lying “in a manger.” Even there, in the darkness and stench of a manger, Jesus brought light. Even there, Jesus brought peace. Even there, Jesus calmed the fears of the shepherds who left their flocks and fields at the invitation of an angel, an invitation that left them “terrified” at first, to welcome Jesus into our world. Even there, from a manger, Jesus brought heaven and earth, angels and all “people of good will” to joyful song, a song we still hear in our world today; a song we still hear from the beginning of today’s celebration of our Eucharist: “Glory to God in the highest”!

Glory to Jesus Christ, Light of our world! Do we dare to join in this song of joy? Is our song too much of an interruption; a breaking into our world’s violence, hostility, and darkness for it to bear? Are we in need from time to time for Jesus to interrupt our own darkness with his light; his mercy? Is Jesus Christ; is his Gospel proclaimed and authentically lived in ways that are “self-controlled, upright, and godly” a danger to the security and comfort of some who would prefer to bar his way into our countries; our public spaces; our hearts; our relationships; our lives?

Yes, but this has yet to stop God in Christ. If Jesus must, he will enter as he has already entered our world in the deepest of darkness to bring us God’s own light. This is why Isaiah proclaims so boldly that  “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light”; that “those who lived in a land of deep darkness‒ on them light has shone.”

And this is why today, on this Christmas night [morning], we sing just as boldly as of old to welcome the Light that interrupts and breaks through our world’s darkness: “Today is born our Saviour, Christ the Lord”… “A child has been born to us, a son given to us… He is named Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”

Homélie du samedi, 12 décembre 2015– de la férie

samedi de la 2ième semaine de l’Avent

Mémoire facultative de Notre Dame de Guadalupe

Lectures du jour: Ben Sira le Sage 48:1-4, 9-11; Psaume 79 (80):  2ac, 3bc, 15-16a, 18-19; Matthieu 17:10-13

Les disciples de Jésus lui posent une question bizarre dans notre Évangile d’aujourd’hui de Saint Matthieu: «Pourquoi donc les scribes disent-ils que le prophète Élie doit venir d’abord»?

Pourquoi, avec Jésus présent devant eux, et alors qu’ils le croient déjà Messie, ses disciples lui posent-ils cette question à propos du second avènement d’Élie? Qui était Élie dans l’esprit juif de l’époque de Jésus, l’esprit par lequel les disciples de Jésus pensaient et agissaient?

La Bible témoigne de la grande importance d’Élie. Celui-ci était le premier prophète d’Israël de l’Ancien Testament, un personnage «pont», on peut dire, entre les origines tribales d’Israël et l’époque d’Israël comme nation sous des prophètes et des rois. Notre première lecture, de Ben Sira le Sage, raconte l’assomption, nous pouvons dire, corps et âme, d’Élie aux cieux parmi un «tourbillon» et des «coursiers de feu». (Nous croyons alors dans notre tradition catholique en l’Assomption de la Vierge Marie. Mais plusieurs juifs, même avant Jésus Christ, croyaient déjà que Dieu pouvait élever quelqu’un de spécialement digne intégralement aux cieux, bien que ces assomptions étaient rares). Ces juifs croyaient qu’Élie, qui avait été porté corps et âme aux cieux, allait revenir sur terre un jour pour annoncer l’arrivée imminente du Messie. Ceci est le contexte de la question des disciples à Jesus sur le second avènement d’Élie.

Cependant la réponse que donne Jésus à ses disciples leur est au moins aussi bouleversante que leur question: Élie est déjà revenu, mais en la personne de Jean le Baptiste! Comme Élie, Jean est aussi prophète; aussi un personnage «pont» de la Bible. Jean devient l’annonciateur de l’arrivée au monde de notre Messie, Jésus Christ. Mais ni Élie, ni Jean-Baptiste sont venus pour eux-mêmes. Ils sont venus pour nous, pour être prophètes de Dieu dans notre monde. Et Jean-Baptiste, comme Élie, nous donne une mission d’être prophètes à notre tour.

Donc de quoi et de qui sommes-nous prophètes? Nous ne sommes pas, prenant les paroles du pape Jean XXIII en ouvrant le Concile Vatican II, «prophètes de malheur». Nous ne sommes pas prophètes de la peur; de la violence; de l’exclusion de l’étranger, du réfugié ou de l’immigrant; de ceux et celles qui diffèrent de nous en religion ou en pensée. Nous sommes prophètes de bonheur; de joie; de justice; de bonté; de charité. Je suis donc confiant qu’il y en a parmi nous des prophètes, choisis par Dieu pour être, comme Jean-Baptiste et Élie, des personnes «ponts». Parmi nous sont celles et ceux qui nous amènent par parole et exemple vers notre rencontre avec Jésus Christ notre Sauveur à la fin des temps, ce que nous espérons en célébrant ce temps d’Avent.

Homélie du mardi, 27 octobre 2015– de la férie

mardi de la 30ième semaine du temps ordinaire

Lectures du jour: Romains 8:18-25; Psaume 125 (126): 1-2ab, 2cd-3, 4-5, 6; Luc 13:18-21

«À quoi le règne de Dieu est-il comparable»? «À quoi pourrais-je comparer le règne de Dieu»?

Jésus nous pose ces deux questions dans l’Évangile d’aujourd’hui, de saint Luc. Et puis Jésus répond à ces propres questions avec des paraboles: La parabole d’«une graine de moutarde» et puis celle du levain qui lève une grande quantité de pâte.

Nous comprenons facilement, comme ceux dans le temps de Jésus qui l’ont écouté en premier l’ont compris, le point central de ces paraboles. Ce point central est que «le règne de Dieu» est maintenant dans son état tout petit, pas encore en notre expérience développé jusqu’à sa splendeur maximale et parfaite. Nous vivons l’expérience du règne de Dieu encore comme une graine de moutarde ou une petite portion de levain. Et nous espérons, et puis Dieu nous donne le pouvoir de construire ici sur terre, l’amplitude du règne de Dieu imaginé par l’arbre qui donne un abri aux «oiseaux du ciel» ou par l’immense quantité de pâte levée.

Ces deux paraboles de Jésus nous appellent à l’espérance, une vertu chrétienne si important. Nous pouvons penser à plusieurs images qui se comparent au règne de Dieu, auquel nous espérons à la fin du temps en sa splendeur complète. Pour moi c’est peut-être l’image d’il y a plus de six ans d’avoir tenu pour la première fois ma nièce nouveau-née dans mes bras. Ce faisait des années que je n’avais pas tenu un bébé si petit, en train de se tortiller dans mes bras si elle ne dormait pas, donc j’étais un peu nerveux. Et puis je me souviens de ce qui a dit ma mère en ce moment-là, qu’«on oublie comment petits que sont» ces nouveau-nés après tant d’années sans en tenir dans les bras!

Nous oublions peut-être après plusieurs années comment petits et fragiles sont les nouveau-nés, mais j’espère au moins (voici le mot clef: espérer) que nous n’oublierons jamais l’expérience de tenir, de manière figurative, le règne de Dieu maintenant tout petit comme un nouveau-né ou bien comme la graine de moutarde ou le levain, dans nos mains; dans nos bras; dans nos cœurs; dans notre communauté de croyants, l’Église.

Nous parlons de l’espérance. À chaque fois que nous acceptons de Dieu de vivre notre vocation particulière, que ce soit la vie en famille (sur laquelle le synode des évêques à Rome qui vient de terminer en a passé des semaines à réfléchir, à discuter, et à prier), la vie religieuse, le sacerdoce… Ce sont tous des signes puissants parmi nous que nous espérons l’avènement de la plénitude du règne de Dieu que, par la grâce de Dieu, nous construisons actuellement dès son état de tout-petit.

Homélie du mercredi, 30 septembre 2015– Mémoire de Saint Jérôme

Ceci est ma première homélie donnée en France, de ce matin à la chapelle de la Maison Mère de la Congrégation de la Mission (Lazaristes), Paris.

Here is my first-ever homily given in France, from this morning in the chapel of the Motherhouse of the Congregation of the Mission (Lazarists), Paris.

mercredi de la 26ième semaine du temps ordinaire

Wednesday of the 26th Week in Ordinary Time

Lectures du jour/readings of the day: Néhémie/Nehemiah 2:1-8; Psaume/Psalm 137:1-2, 3, 4-5, 6; Luc/Luke 9:57-62

De quoi s’agit-il suivre Jésus?

Nous entendons aujourd’hui de l’Évangile de Saint Luc l’histoire un peu bizarre (pouvons-nous même dire exagérée?) de trois disciples aspirants de Jésus. À l’un de ces disciples Jésus lui demande de le suivre, mais il s’excuse en voulant enterrer son père. Les autres deux disciples ont d’encore moins bonnes excuses. Ils disent à Jesus, «Je te suivrai», mais eux aussi en mettent d’autres priorités devant celle de suivre le Christ.

Nous pouvons prendre ceci comme point saillant de notre Évangile d’aujourd’hui: Être disciple de Jésus Christ veut dire de n’avoir aucune priorité plus grande que celle-ci; de nous dévouer entièrement et sans réserve au Christ.

Cette suite de Jésus sans réserve est au fond l’histoire de la vie de Saint Jérôme, la fête de qui nous célébrons aujourd’hui. Saint Jérome avait une personnalité; une spiritualité dite dans notre collecte (notre prière d’entrée de cette Messe) «intense». Jérôme a vécu les plus de trente dernières années de sa vie intensément à l’oeuvre, nous pouvons dire, utilisant comme moyen de suivre au Christ son don de traduire les Écritures Saintes‒ la Bible‒ de l’hébreu ou le grec en latin.

Mais comment pouvons-nous devenir, comme Saint Jérôme peut-être, de meilleurs disciples du Christ au quotidien; faire notre priorité suivre le Christ? Le monde est plein de distractions, parfois des distractions bonnes et nécessaires. Mais pourrait-cela être notre prière d’aujourd’hui; notre prière de disciples: «Jésus, je te suivrai. Je veux être ton disciple. Aide-nous à réaliser mieux ce but à chaque jour». Déjà cette prière démontre notre volonté de suivre avec fidélité notre Seigneur Jésus-Christ.

Homily for Tuesday, 8 September 2015– Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary

Tuesday of the 23rd Week in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: Micah 5:1-4a; Psalm 13:6ab, 6c; Matthew 1:1-16, 18-23

How many of us recycle?

I am speaking primarily of a different kind of recycling than the kind that is good for our environment. I speak of the recycling, over and over again, of God’s love from the first moment of creation. Today we celebrate the Feast of the Birth of the Blessed Virgin Mary. I cannot help, on today’s feast day, to do a bit of recycling of my own.

It was this past December, a few days before our celebration of the Immaculate Conception of Mary. (This Feast of Mary’s Nativity is, of course, connected with the Solemnity of her Immaculate Conception, when Mary was conceived without original sin by Sts. Anne and Joachim. Today we are exactly nine months after the Immaculate Conception, December 8). On that day I was, as on most days during the school year, greeting the children as they entered St. Kateri School to begin their school day. This one day, a child stopped me in my tracks with a brilliant question: “How did God create Jesus and Mary”? Only occasionally is a priest completely outwitted by a third-grader!

A few days later, I had recovered enough from this St. Kateri School edition of “Stump the Priest” to try to answer the girl’s question in my homily for the Immaculate Conception, also last December’s monthly St. Kateri School Mass. “How did God create Jesus and Mary”? In short, my answer is this: God recycles.

God is a master recycler of love. Mary’s conception by Anne and Joachim, her protection by God from original sin and, about nine months later, her birth, was only one instance of God’s love for us. Through Anne and Joachim; through Mary, God was putting the finishing touches on his work of our salvation through Jesus Christ. But this was far from the first act of God’s love for us. Our Gospel reading today from Matthew includes a lengthy genealogy from Abraham, our father in faith, through to Joseph and Mary, “of [whom] was born Jesus who is called the Christ.”

Matthew’s genealogy includes three parts or “cycles”: Abraham through King David, David through “the Babylonian Exile,” and the Babylonian Exile through Jesus’ Nativity. Each cycle begins well but becomes tainted with human error and sin; with some questionable historical figures involved. And each time God, out of love for us, recycles. God constantly renews us: In Abraham, our father in faith, in Israel’s kings beginning with David (Matthew does not mention David’s predecessor King Saul, perhaps a false start), in the rebuilders of Israel after the Babylonian Exile, and finally in Jesus Christ.

God recycles. And today we celebrate one very significant step in this divine recycling of love for us, the Birth of Mary; the last step necessary for the Birth of Christ, the fullness of our salvation. But this was not the first time God recycled. Nor does God intend it to be the last. An Orthodox Christian prayer for today’s Feast proclaims: “From you,” Mary, “arose the glorious Sun of Justice, Christ our God.” The work of justice; of reflecting the light of Christ, the Sun of Justice; of God’s recycling of love in our world is now ours. And so I highly encourage us to recycle.

Homily for Sunday, 6 September 2015

23rd Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: Isaiah 35:4-7a; Psalm 146:7, 8-9, 9-10; James 2:1-5; Mark 7:31-37

“Ephphatha”! …“Be opened”!

How many of us remember our own baptism or have been to a baptism that we remember? Most of us here were probably baptized as infants and so do not remember our own baptism. But if anybody here has attended a child’s baptism recently, do you remember this strange but beautiful prayer over the ears and mouth of the newly-baptized child? We pray, touching the ears and mouth of the child: “The Lord Jesus made the deaf hear and the mute speak. May he soon touch your ears to receive his word, and your mouth to proclaim his faith, to the praise and glory of God the Father. Amen.”

This prayer is called the “ephphatha,” or “be opened” prayer. It is one of the oldest prayers of the Rite of Baptism of Children as we know it. The “ephphatha” in our Rite of Baptism is drawn from the Gospel reading we hear today, from Mark. We hear of Jesus’ encounter with “a deaf man who had a speech impediment.” Jesus takes this man “away from the crowd.” He puts “his finger into the man’s ears and, spitting, [touches] his tongue.” Jesus says to the man in Aramaic, “ephphatha”‒ “Be opened”! The man is able to hear and speak again. The crowd is astonished: “He has done all things well,” they exclaim. And the people who witness Jesus’ healing give us the words we hear to this day at children’s baptisms: “He makes the deaf hear and the mute speak.”

For me as a priest, at least some of the beauty of the “ephphatha” prayer at baptisms is not so much in the words of this prayer. But often at the moment I touch and pray over the child’s mouth, the baby will try to suck on my thumb. It is as if the baby, newly alive; baptized into Christ, is saying, “I’m opened, alright… And your thumb tastes way better than my pacifier”!

Is it not most beautiful that, from the moment of Jesus’ healing of the deaf and mute man; from the very moment of our baptism, we are called to “be opened”? And in what ways are we called by our baptism to “be opened”? What are some of our obstacles to being “opened”; to hearing and proclaiming the Word of God; the faith of Jesus Christ?

I ask you these questions. But in my two years here at St. Kateri, my diaconate and first year of priesthood, you have shown me; shown one another; shown our communities and our world in countless profound ways what it means to “be opened.” You show time and again by word and action what it means to live out the baptismal calling we have in common. The number of ministries and devotions here at St. Kateri is truly astounding. We have people here who visit and bring communion to the sick and homebound. We have people who accompany those who have lost loved ones; who help to prepare and assist at funerals. We have people who prepare the many aspects of our liturgies day after day; weekend after weekend. We have people who care for our young people; who prepare “care packages” for our college students; who are involved in Faith Formation and sacramental preparation. We support a lively parish formed from five parishes. We support St. Kateri School. We have the Ladies’ Guild, the Knights of Columbus, many other groups who build friendship; build social justice; build up the Kingdom of God. So many times I have entered one of our churches and seen a prayer group meeting here; a rosary or a novena being prayed there; somebody praying in private; in silence…

It is impossible for me to list all the ways in which we live here at St. Kateri by Jesus’ words: “Be opened.” If I have not named you here I certainly hold you in grateful prayer. I am blessed to be ordained a priest for you; for our universal Church; to have served here for these past two years. Yet my and my brother priests’ ordained priesthood exists to lead; to unite us in our common priestly, prophetic, and royal baptismal vocation. And if I may say this again, I believe we live this vocation very well here at St. Kateri. By ordination I am your priest; in baptism I am forever your brother in Christ.

Sisters and brothers in Christ, you are my great teachers in being “opened” as we are called in baptism. And yet we still may experience obstacles to fully living out our baptismal calling. What are these obstacles, and perhaps some remedies to what keeps us from being fully “opened”? One of the greatest obstacles we face to being opened, to hearing and proclaiming Christ, is fear. Isaiah speaks in our first reading to a people living in fear; people who were living in exile in the prophet Isaiah’s time. Isaiah says, “Be strong, fear not”!

What or whom might we fear? Do we fear speaking the truth; speaking for our faith in Christ, even if (as hopefully is the case) we speak and act with love? Perhaps we fear somebody with power over us. Perhaps we have experienced fear of those who disagree with us; those who are different from us. Perhaps we fear our own weakness; our own sin. Isaiah speaks to our fears the same words he once spoke to the people of Israel in exile in Babylon: “Be strong, fear not”! Here is your God. He comes with vindication. With divine recompense he comes to save you.” Isaiah’s prophecy of the deaf hearing, the lame leaping with joy; the tongue[s] of the mute singing is realized in Jesus’ healing of the deaf and mute man in our Gospel reading today.

Even more importantly, this prophecy is realized in us. In baptism we are called: “Be opened”! But there is another obstacle, related to fear, to our being “opened” to hearing and proclaiming Christ. This obstacle is undue “partiality”; exclusion of people or groups. St. James speaks in our second reading today of this kind of partiality in our churches; the temptation to give the rich places of honor while poor people, if they are present in our worship spaces at all, are sidelined and excluded: “‘Stand there’ or ‘Sit at my feet.’”

I do not see this kind of exclusion here at St. Kateri. Yet I invite us, in light of St. James’ words, to continue and to strengthen our effort to welcome those who are poor. I invite us not only to go out to our streets; to the House of Mercy; to Bethany House and the Catholic Worker to meet those who are poor and homeless but to take increasingly active steps to welcome the otherwise socially excluded into this worship space. In this way we make St. Kateri Parish not “our” space into which we allow a foreign group of people (“they” or “them”), but God’s space in which “they” become part of “us.” This takes a constant conversion of our hearts to be welcoming; a constant effort to “be opened.”

But if the horrific image this week of a drowned Syrian refugee boy on the shore of the Mediterranean Sea is any indication, our world presents us with many temptations against being “opened.” We hear cries from many countries to close borders; to limit the number of refugees and immigrants accepted; to build walls and prisons to keep the unwanted out. We hear attitudes, spoken or silent, shouted forth in their increasingly harmful effects on our society: Be closed to the right to life from conception! After all, some regard the unborn as mere commodities to be bought and sold. Be closed to those in need of social assistance! Be closed to racial integration! Be closed to the elderly; to the sick! Be closed to those who struggle to practice every teaching of the Church to my satisfaction! Be closed to reconciliation in our relationships; our families! Be closed to peace! Be closed to protecting the dignity of all creation! “Be closed”: This attitude is a direct countersign to the Gospel that calls to us, “Be opened”! And only death can result from being closed.

Our Gospel calls us to life. Christ’s Gospel; our Christian baptism calls us: “Be opened”! Isaiah’s prophecy of the deaf hearing; the mute speaking; the lame leaping; social need being met with justice and kindness; God’s “vindication” and “salvation” present and alive in our world is not something of the distant past. Isaiah’s prophecy was not only realized once, two thousand years ago when Jesus healed a deaf and mute man. This prophecy is being realized in us here and now, to the extent we live our Gospel; our baptismal calling: “Ephphatha! …Be opened!”

Homily for Thursday, 3 September 2015– Memorial of St. Gregory the Great

Thursday of the 22nd Week in Ordinary Time

Readings of the day: Colossians 1:9-14; Psalm 98:2-3ab, 3cd-4, 5-6; Luke 5:1-11

What are some of the emotions and images that run through our Gospel reading today, from Luke? Luke’s Gospel gives us today a lively account of Jesus’ call of his first Apostles, the fishermen Peter, James, and John.

We begin with emptiness: An empty boat “belonging to Simon” that Jesus enters while “the fishermen” are on shore “washing their nets; the empty nets of the fishermen after a long, fruitless night of fishing. This emptiness is filled: Jesus enters Simon’s boat. From this waterborne “pulpit” Jesus teaches the crowds, filling them with the Word of God. Jesus asks Simon Peter, James, and John to “put out into deep water and lower [their] nets for a catch.” And their nets, too, are filled, with a miraculous catch of fish.

We begin with a wide range of emotions; perhaps everyday distractions. What were the crowds thinking when they arrived at the shore of the Lake of Gennesaret to listen to Jesus? What were their concerns, both material and spiritual? Did they have questions for Jesus about their faith? Were they simply trying to make an honorable living; trying to care for their family and other loved ones? Peter, James, and John feel deep frustration: “We have worked hard all night and have caught nothing.” But this Jesus is not a complete stranger to the fishermen; Simon Peter calls Jesus “Master.” And so Simon takes Jesus up on his invitation to “put out into the deep.” And he, James, and John are rewarded with a great catch of fish. For a moment, this miracle only increases their fear; their insecurity; their sense of their own weakness. “Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man,” Simon Peter says to Jesus. But this fear gives way to a trust in Jesus almost as astonishing as the initial catch of fish: “They left everything and followed” Jesus.

Do these vivid shifts in images and emotions not seem to be a lot for us to absorb in a short episode of our Gospel? And yet I think the liveliness of our Gospel reading shows us something of who we are as human; as Christian disciples. We are alive, and our experience of Jesus Christ in the Word of God; in our Eucharist; in our love for one another and works of kindness and justice makes us all the more alive.

This brings us to the heart of our Gospel reading today. Jesus says “to Simon: ‘Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching men.’” This saying is especially strange in the original Greek of Luke’s Gospel. Jesus’ words to Peter are closer in meaning to “from now on you will be catching people who are alive.”

Only if we are alive can we experience the images and emotions the people in Jesus’ time; Jesus’ first Apostles did: Concerns of everyday life; fear; insecurity; the effects of our human weakness and sin; all this giving way to trust; to following Jesus without reserve. And because we are alive; because we are human Jesus calls us, too, to trust; to put aside fear enough to work with him in his mission; to be fishers of others who are as alive as we are.