A homily for the 12th Sunday in Ordinary Time, June 21, 2020
Jer 20:10-13, Rom 5:12-15, Mt 10:26-33
It’s officially summer. It’s Father’s Day. The Church has returned — for a long stretch — to Ordinary Time, a quieter time in the liturgical calendar. The green vestments are back indoors, just as green leaves are back outdoors. (The pollen too, but oh well.)
All’s right with the world. There’s joy in Heaven and on Earth.
Oh, wait.
These are not ordinary Ordinary times.
A homily for the Solemnity of the Body and Blood of Christ, June 14, 2020
Dt 8:2-3, 14b-16a, 1 Cor 10:16-17, Jn 6:51-58
Our solemnity today of the Body and Blood of Christ — Corpus Christi, in popular parlance — is a profound veneration of God’s gift of the Son to humanity as our Savior. Jesus gave us his literal body and blood as a sacrifice for our sins — those already committed and those yet to be committed — and he gave us his body and blood in the Eucharist so that we could do likewise in memory of him.
Now, if he were here with us today, and told us we had to eat his flesh and drink his blood, and we’d never heard that before, would we freak out as much as the Jews did in today’s Gospel?
Probably.
A homily for the Solemnity of the Most Holy Trinity, June 7, 2020
Ex 34:4b-6, 8-9, 2 Cor 13:11-13, Jn 3:16-18
We bless ourselves in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
And then we lock it in with a solid “Amen.” “It is so.” “Truly.”
We baptize this way. Confirm this way. The Trinitarian way.
A homily for the Feast of Pentecost, Sunday, May 31, 2020
Acts 2:1-11 , 1 Cor 12:3B-7, 12-13, Jn 20:19-23
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Take a deep breath. Let it out slowly.
Breathe deeply through your nose, yoga-style, then hold it for a count of 10.
Let it out slowly through your pursed lips, as if you were going to whistle. And whistle softly if you want; it’s optional.
Now let your breathing go back to automatic. It’s not that easy, is it? Not after doing controlled breathing exercises.
A homily for the Feast of the Ascension of the Lord, May 24, 2020
Acts 1:1-11, Eph 1:17-23, Mt 28:16-20
As they were looking on,
he was lifted up, and a cloud took him from their sight.
While they were looking intently at the sky as he was going,
suddenly two men dressed in white garments stood beside them.
They said, “Men of Galilee,
why are you standing there looking at the sky?
This Jesus who has been taken up from you into heaven
will return in the same way as you have seen him going into heaven.”
Let’s join the friends of Jesus as they stood together that day in the First Century A.D., and for a moment let’s assume we have the same knowledge of science and other academic disciplines that they did.
A homily for the Sixth Sunday of Easter, May 17, 2020
Acts 8:5-8, 14-17, 1 Pt 3:15-18, Jn 14:15-21
When it became clear, two or three months or so ago, that the novel coronavirus was becoming dangerous, then really dangerous, then life-threatening, most of us bugged out à la M*A*S*H from our places of work or school. Quickly. Messily.
Very quickly. Very messily.
We grabbed the essentials to continue as essential workers; we powered down everything else; we scooted out of wherever with barely a “See ya” or a “Take care.”
Unlike mobile Army surgical hospitals, we never had bug-out drills. We never practiced shutting it all down and setting it all up somewhere else. We exited without a playbook, making it up as we went along. Some things we got right. Too many things, we got wrong.
A homily for the Fifth Sunday of Easter, May 10, 2020
Acts 6:1-7, 1 Pt 2:4-9, Jn 14:1-12
Reach inside yourself for a moment.
No, not metaphorically or metaphysically.
Open your mouth, reach in, and pull out your soul.
Can’t do it? How about through your nose or ears?
Your bellybutton, maybe?
No?
A homily for the Fourth Sunday of Easter, May 3, 2020
Acts 2:14a, 36-41, 1 Pt 2:20b-25, Jn 10:1-10
We should start with a little history, my personal history. Nine years plus two weeks ago, the day after my ordination, I preached officially for the first time at my Mass of Thanksgiving, and it was this Gospel. Jesus as the Sheepgate. So it would be cheating — never a good thing for a man of the cloth — for me to dredge up that homily and post it today, hoping that my beloved parishioners would (a) have forgotten it or (b) remember it yet forgive me for playing a greatest hit.
And I think — I hope — my preaching has matured a bit since that nervous first homily.
Besides, I couldn’t find it.
A homily for the Third Sunday of Easter, April 26, 2020
Acts 2:14, 22-33, 1 Pt 1:17-21, Lk 24:13-35
The story of the Road to Emmaus is profound and iconic. For anyone who believes in the living God, who wants to see the face of Jesus, who wonders if Jesus is always beside them — he is — the notion of hearts ablaze with love and desire for the Lord is immediately relatable.
We know that Jesus is present in the breaking of the bread. That when two or more are gathered in his name, he is there. In Luke’s account, two men are discussing the events surrounding the crucifixion and Resurrection — thus, two gathered in Jesus’ name — and he joined them and became known to them as he broke the bread. As he said he would.
And then Jesus left them, but not really, because he has never, will never leave any of us.
Beautiful. Rich with make-you-think meaning and symbolism. And kinda neat and tidy, wrapped up and tied with a bow.
So much, in fact, it’s almost a fool’s errand to preach about this Gospel, because it takes little explanation and even less pondering to find the rich meaning in it.
So what else can we take away beyond the familiar?
Well, the Road to Emmaus is a rare Gospel in that its strong call to action is spiritual, personal and individual: Each of us is called to renew our relationship with Jesus and to seek him in every place he can be found. In this Gospel, there’s no call for us to serve the least among us, as Luke will provide in the next chapter. There’s no urging for us to become fishers of men, to go and spread the Good News.
No, on this road we’re asked to keep our eyes open for a divine traveling companion.
But beware of highway hypnosis.
As we deepen our bond with Almighty God into a mature relationship, it becomes easier and easier, it becomes more commonplace to know where to find Jesus, and to do it.
For starters, we find Christ in everyone we meet, six feet apart or otherwise.
After a while, though, doing things that have become easy and commonplace slips into the realm of rote and robotic. We might as well be doing them in our sleep.
Which doesn’t sound like our hearts were burning. It doesn’t sound like something Jesus would want.
It’s human nature, though, to stay in our comfort zones, to settle for Pizza Hut and McDonald’s because they’re consistent even if they’re not great (far from it). It’s human nature to rely on habit or even instinct when the goal is familiar.
But what if it weren’t?
Think for a second about how Luke describes what happened after Jesus broke the bread:
“With that their eyes were opened and they recognized him.”
When was the last time you had a truly eye-opening experience?
More importantly, when was the last time you allowed yourself to have an eye-opening experience? To be surprised or even a little startled?
We play some version of peekaboo with babies, then ease them into jack-in-the-boxes, piñatas, and graduate to haunted houses and hay rides and Great Adventure’s Fright Fest. We try out the newest daredevil roller coaster to get our hearts pounding on the next unexpected switchback.
And then — thud! — we grow out of it.
Maybe we don’t need Kingda Ka anymore, but we still need the capacity to be awed.
By all means, seek the Lord where he may be found, and call to him while he is still near.
But seek the Lord where you don’t expect to find him.
In a sunrise, a sunset, a thunderstorm, a gentle breeze. In the “burr-dee, burr-dee, burr-dee” call of a cardinal to his mate. In the fragrance of a hyacinth. In the cold and wet of dewy grass on bare feet. In a blinding sunbeam that sets your face aglow.
That can set your heart ablaze.
On the Road to Emmaus, when a figurative or literal grasshopper jumps at you from out of nowhere, and you feel that adrenaline rush, thank your Creator for your life, thank your Messiah for saving it and thank the Spirit for the wisdom and grace to recognize our Triune God in everything.
Welcome the surprise. Come back to life, heart ablaze, because of it. Because of Christ within it.
A homily for the Second Sunday of Easter, April 19, 2020
Acts 2:42-47, 1 Pt 1:3-9, Jn 20:19-31
The Nicene Creed and the Apostles’ Creed — their names derive from the Latin “credo,” “I believe.” Even the most recent (and much-maligned) translation of the Roman Missal swapped in “I believe …” for the former “We believe …”, to assert that each of us individually embraces the truths contained in these statements of faith.
God the Father, the Creator.
Jesus Christ, God’s only begotten son, the Messiah who saved all of humanity from sin and death.
The Holy Spirit, who sustains humanity on our path home to God’s kingdom with abundant grace for all who ask for it.
These truths also form the core of the baptismal liturgy, spoken as the encapsulated promises that parents make on behalf of their children during this Sacrament of Initiation — promises that all the faithful renew during the Easter Vigil. The conclusion to this litany wraps it all up neatly and reverently: “This is our faith. This is the faith of the Church, and we are proud to profess it, through Christ Our Lord. Amen.”
(Quick aside: As a youngster I thought the Nicene Creed was the “nicer creed” because it didn’t say “hell” while the Apostles’ Creed did.)
So our creed, in whichever form we choose to proclaim, is a complete summary of who we are as Catholic Christians, a fits-in-your-pocket list of things we believe. Much like the oft-quoted/paraphrased “If you pray nothing else but ‘thank you,’ that’s enough,” from Meister Eckhart, our creed keeps beliefs simple, compact. Easy to break open.
And that’s a wonderful thing.
In today’s Gospel from the evangelist John, Jesus tells Didymus, “Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.” Those include us, of course; we have not seen Jesus in the flesh.
And yet … we have, if we are in sync with the 25th chapter of Matthew’s Gospel (Mt 25:33-40), seeing Christ in all humanity, especially the least of us.
Because true faith requires action, which will return — must return — when the coronavirus crisis ends. The second Letter of St. James (Jm 2:14-26) declares faith without works to be dead. Harsh, but true.
So let’s be un-harsh.
Faith with works is alive, very much so.
Now, what do we know about living things?
First, they must be fed. To feed faith, we have the Eucharist, the Word, the reflections and ponderings and insights of Church — us, all of us — guided by the Spirit. Check.
They need shelter. Our souls and our hearts are perfect places for faith to reside. Check.
Living things should be exercised regularly. That’s where doing good works comes in. We need only eyes to see and ears to hear to know what needs to be done. Even now, physically distancing from each other, we can use any number of technologies to be social, to support each other. To do little tasks for one another, six feet apart and heavily sanitized, that recognize Christ in all of us. Check.
They should be loved and embraced. Hmmm.
“Credo” is an action verb. When we were baptized, when we repented and reconciled for the first time, when we received First Holy Communion, even when we were confirmed, we were not supposed to put faith on auto-pilot. We weren’t supposed to say “Sounds good to me; I’ll buy in,” and aim ourselves in a straight line at a constant speed on a smooth path to Heaven. No adjustments ever needed.
No, we were not supposed to.
“Credo” is an action verb that guides our lives full of twists and turns. Lives with a whole lot of activity.
Activity requires choices, which is why we must choose to love and embrace our faith. To think about, to deeply ponder what we believe, and then wrap our arms around it.
Daily.
Hourly.
Maturely.
Children believe in Santa and the Easter Bunny out of simple faith. They believe in something that brings them joy, and when they learn the truth, depending on how old and how mature they are, either they move on and they’re fine, or they have to have their naive belief pried from them, and they’re heartbroken.
As adults, we’re blessed with greater wisdom, greater experience, and far more options. We’re blessed with a grown-up, two-way relationship with God.
We’re blessed with the joy of Easter truth — that Jesus died for us, for all of humanity, to fulfill God’s promise of salvation. That Jesus rose from the dead of his own accord, to destroy death and show the way to the rooms he is preparing for us in his Father’s house. That Jesus is with us always, and that his Spirit is with us anytime we call.
There are many ways we as Christians can be the sheep of Jesus on judgment day, can be the ones who fed and clothed and visited him, even without immediately recognizing him. That’s faith with works, faith in action.
But consider this: The first thing we can do to put faith into action is to believe. To choose to believe. To choose to grab hold of the faith the way a parent holds a child’s hand in a crosswalk, the way a lifeguard clings to a drowning person and swims to shore, the way a person in peril finds that last ounce of strength when they’re dangling off the edge of a cliff.
To choose to weave Truth, God’s Truth, all of it, into the very fabric of who we are.
No, we haven’t seen the 33-year-old Nazarene carpenter and touched his wounds, as Thomas was finally able to, but we do see wounded 3-year-olds and 63-year-olds and 93-year-olds, and our active, energized faith is our blessing to them.
And to us.
