Month: August 2021

The boss of me

A homily for the Twenty-Second Sunday in Ordinary Time, August 29, 2021

Dt 4:1-2, 6-8, Jas 1:17-18, 21b-22, 27, Mk 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23

When we think of gifts, we usually imagine big boxes wrapped in colorful paper tied up with shiny ribbons and a big bow. And as we tear into them, first ripping through the wrapping and then digging through the tissue paper to find the surprises inside, we try to imagine what toys we’ve been dreaming of could be inside.

Unless, of course, the gift is a pony. Then we just try to figure out how Mom and Dad got it into the box.

Regardless of the occasion — birthday, Christmas, First Holy Communion — we expect any gift we receive to be fun, or pretty, or at least something to keep our feet warm in the winter.

We don’t expect gifts to be stone tablets that tell us “No!”

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Decisions, decisions

A homily for the Twenty-First Sunday in Ordinary Time, August 22, 2021

Jos 24:1-2a, 15-17, 18b, Eph 5:21-32 or 5:2a, 25-32, Jn 6:60-69

As we break open today’s Gospel, we can be tempted to consider The Rock’s reply to Jesus’s question to be rhetorical:

“Master, to whom shall we go?
You have the words of eternal life.
We have come to believe
and are convinced that you are the Holy One of God.”

To whom, indeed.

The answer seems to be such a “Well, yeah, of course,” quip that it does seem rhetorical.

But this was a make-or-break situation for Simon Peter and the rest of The Twelve. There was nothing rhetorical about their reply.

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The real thing

A homily for the Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time, August 8, 2021

1 Kgs 19:4-8, Eph 4:30—5:2, Jn 6:41-51

My dad owned a few copies of “The Imitation of Christ,” by Thomas à Kempis, a guide to living in the footsteps of Jesus that, according to Wikipedia, was composed in Medieval Latin circa 1418–1427. That’s way back there.

I first noticed a copy prominently displayed on the bookcase in our living room about 530 years after its publication, when I had learned to read chapter books with big words and, as a good Catholic school second- or third-grader, when I was in desperate fear and hatred of the Antichrist.

You see, my vocabulary at that time grasped big words but not nuances, and I thought the book was about a fake messiah, the way imitation vanilla was fake and tasted fake. I wanted nothing to do with an imitation Christ. I wanted The Real Jesus.

I didn’t realize the title meant how to imitate Christ. So it was years before I attempted to open the book and take in its message.

Ah, youth.

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