A homily for the Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Feb. 14, 2021
Lv 13:1-2, 44-46, 1 Cor 10:31—11:1, Mk 1:40-45
AMDG.
No, it’s not one of those cable news mesothelioma law firms.
AMDG — Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam — is Latin, meaning “for the greater glory of God.”
And while Saint Ignatius of Loyola’s reminder about the true purpose of our work and prayer and interaction as people sounds highfalutin’ — I mean, Latin and all that — it’s simple and meaningful.
A homily for the Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Feb. 7, 2021
Jb 7:1-4, 6-7, 1 Cor 9:16-19, 22-23, Mk 1:29-39
The cliché tells of the patience of Job, but today’s first reading sounds more like the whining of Eeyore, the tail-less donkey friend of Winnie-the-Pooh.
Is not man’s life on earth a drudgery? …
So I have been assigned months of misery,
and troubled nights have been allotted to me.
There’s heavy, and there’s soul-crushing. Then there’s this passage.
A homily for the Third Sunday in Ordinary Time, Jan. 24, 2021
Jon 3:1-5, 10, 1 Cor 7:29-31, Mk 1:14-20
In the gently beautiful movie “Field of Dreams,” Ray Kinsella, the Iowa farmer who felt compelled to plow under some of his corn to build a baseball diamond, drags a skeptical and unwilling Terence Mann, a writer who deeply inspired him, to a Boston Red Sox game.
As they are walking to their seats, they share this pivotal conversation:
Ray Kinsella: So what do you want now?
Terence Mann: I want them to stop looking to me for answers, begging me to speak again, write again, be a leader. I want them to start thinking for themselves. I want my privacy.
Ray Kinsella: No, I mean, what do you WANT? (gestures to the concession stand they’re in front of)
Terence Mann: Oh. Dog and a beer.
Misunderstandings can be like that.
Especially when people misunderstand God.
A homily for the Baptism of the Lord, Jan. 10, 2021
Is 42:1-4, 6-7, Acts 10:34-38, Mk 1:7-11
What would you do if, on any given day, the clouds parted, a blinding sunbeam spotlighted you, and a thundering shout — or a barely perceptible whisper — said, “I love you. You rock!”?
You’re not crazy. It’s not a practical joke. It’s not “Candid Camera” or “Punk’d.” It can — and should — be an everyday occurrence for each of us. We just need to understand that we have a role to play in the scenario.
Our role is a lot like Jesus’s role as he was baptized by John in the River Jordan: to serve and not be served, to lead our brothers and sisters to God by example from within the flock. To do the right thing at the right time, even if other people don’t think it’s necessary.
After I read Sarah Miller’s compelling New Yorker column “Cancel New Year’s Eve Forever,” not only did I agree, but I got to thinking about why people make such a big deal about the so-called new beginning the replacement calendar brings.
First of all, how many beginnings do each of us get? If the beginning involves a new craft, a new skill, a new project, a new way to improve our lives and the lives of others, then the answer is “an infinite number.” Because each of us should be ticking off items from a bottomless bucket list every day of our short and precious lives. The world is too big — the universe is too vastly big — for any of us to box ourselves in and limit our literal and figurative diets to corn flakes and fast-food cheeseburgers. Do you want fries with that?
A homily for the Feast of the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Dec. 27, 2020
Sir 3:2-6, 12-14, Col 3:12-21, Lk 2:22-40
Before we attempt to discern what makes a family holy, we should try to determine what makes a family.
Are blood relatives a family? Are people joined in a sacramental or governmental bond a family? Is a commune a family?
Are people who agree with each other a family? Can families disagree and not be disagreeable?
Do people have to like each other to be considered a family? Do people have to love each other to be considered a family?
A homily for The Nativity of the Lord (Christmas), Dec. 25, 2020
Is 9:1-6, Ti 2:11-14, Lk 2:1-14
This time of year, a couple of cable channels run a holiday favorite film nonstop for 24 hours. You know the one.
And even though “A Christmas Story” pales in significance when compared with The Christmas Story, the movie ends with a remembrance that could be scriptural:
The greatest Christmas gift I had ever received, or would ever receive.
That’s the core of The Christmas Story, the story we retell today and every December 25 and, we hope, every day of the year in words and actions as faithful followers of Jesus Christ, Our Newborn King.
A homily for the Fourth Sunday of Advent, Dec. 20, 2020
2 Sm 7:1-5, 8B-12, 14A, 16, Rom 16:25-27, Lk 1:26-38
Have you ever given or received a present marked “Some Assembly Required”?
Or, more accurately: How many times have you given or received a gift marked “Some Assembly Required”?
When we’re the recipient, we’ll sigh, make a snarky joke about “the gift that keeps on giving,” and then set to work putting all the pieces together. Sometimes we’ll even follow the instructions. And sometimes — sometimes — it goes together easily, correctly, with no pieces left over.
In any case, a gift that requires some — or much — assembly also requires some — or, often, much — commitment.
A homily for the Third Sunday of Advent, Dec. 13, 2020
Is 62:1-2A, 10-11, 1 Thes 5:16-24, Jn 1:6-8, 19-28
Once upon a time, there was a brilliant priest who grew up in Dallas, influenced by the spirit and enthusiasm of the Protestant Christian brothers and sisters who lived all around him. The kind of folks who, bless ’em, will gladly drop an “Amen” on you regularly.
He also was possessed of a Texas twang — not really a drawl, not really not — so when he pronounced his Latin … well, let’s just say that Caesar himself would have had a little trouble understanding him.
My priest friend, in particular, liked to greet folks on the Third Sunday of Advent with a hearty and heartfelt “guh-Dowty,” the Lone Star way of saying “Gaudete.”
A homily for the Second Sunday of Advent, Dec. 6, 2020
Is. 40:1-5, 9-11, 2 Pt 3:8-14, Mk 1:1-8
If you live in New Jersey or nearby, you know about highways and highway construction. Except in the coldest and snowiest months, a road somewhere in New Jersey is being built from scratch or rehabilitated.
We in New Jersey like our roads. We like them wide, we like them smooth, and we like them fast.
(The only thing we would like better than our roads is a “Star Trek” transporter to get us from Point A to Point B almost instantaneously, and that’s not happening in this lifetime, as far as I know.)
So the notion of “Prepare the way of the Lord, make straight his paths” is right up our alley.
Or is it?
