A homily for the Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time, June 23, 2024
Jb 38:1, 8-11, 2 Cor 5:14-17, Mk 4:35-41
The young people among us, and those of us who think we’re still sorta young, know this riddle:
If God is so powerful, can he make a rock so big even he can’t lift it?
I’m pretty sure the answer is yes.
I’m pretty sure the answer is yes — even though it seems confusing — because there’s nothing God can’t do.
A homily for the Tenth Sunday in Ordinary Time, June 9, 2024
Gn 3:9-15, 2 Cor 4:13—5:1, Mk 3:20-35
The first time I saw someone talking on a cellphone wearing wireless earbuds, I thought the person was … uh … possibly mentally ill. You see, they weren’t merely having what looked like a conversation with their self; they were arguing.
Loudly. Passionately. Did I mention loudly?
With vigorous hand gestures to no one in sight, some of them NSFW.
As were many of the loud words.
The earbuds were so small that I didn’t spot them right away.
A homily for the Solemnity of the Ascension of the Lord, May 12, 2024
Acts 1:1-11, Eph 1:17-23, Mk 16:15-20
Souvenez vous que nous sommes dans le sancte présence de Dieu.
A Christian meme made its way around social media recently, depicting Jesus ascending to Heaven on a cloud, with the caption “Ascension Thursday: When Jesus Christ started working from home.”
I have it on good authority he has great bandwidth at his place.
But even as we acknowledge through this holy day that the Son is where he belongs — on his throne at the right hand of the Father — we also must recognize that God is not far, never far from us.
A homily for the Sixth Sunday of Easter, May 5, 2024
Acts 10:25-26, 34-35, 44-48, 1 Jn 4:7-10, Jn 15:9-17
Not everybody is a hugger, and that’s OK.
Whether it’s trees or teammates, cheek-pinching aunts or long-lost buddies, hugging just isn’t for everyone. And with so-called social distancing the rule during the COVID-19 pandemic, a lot of us migrated toward social isolation.
Hugging correctly takes skill and emotion, regardless if we actually make physical contact or merely exchange sentiments from a few feet or even a dozen time zones away. Done right, a hug is a two-way sharing, a simultaneous giving and receiving.
For a hug to be done right, we have to take a huge chance and expose ourselves, our true selves, our inner selves.
A homily for the Fifth Sunday of Easter, April 28, 2024
Acts 9:26-31, 1 Jn 3:18-24, Jn 15:1-8
My brother Steve has lived in the Lancaster, Pennsylvania, area for at least two decades, and while his neighborhood can be described as all-American middle class, he and his family do encounter Amish people fairly often.
The Amish, also known as the Anabaptists or, more widely, the Pennsylvania Dutch, live in a closed society, pretty much. These descendants of German Protestant immigrants avoid most modern technologies. They travel in horse-drawn buggies and till their fields with horse-drawn plows. Actual horsepower, lubricated with elbow grease.
And because these Christians are so close-knit, their belief in all for one and one for all leaves The Three Musketeers in the dust.
A homily for the Third Sunday of Easter, April 14, 2024
Acts 3:13-15, 17-19, 1 Jn 2:1-5a, Lk 24:35-48
I was a guest at a wedding reception at a Jersey Shore restaurant on the Atlantic Ocean boardwalk. The sun-dappled waves were breaking almost under our feet; the food was delicious and plentiful; the other guests were fascinating and friendly.
A good time was had by all, to coin a phrase.
One element that truly elevated the evening, though, was the extraordinary service. The brigade of men and women attended to all our requests promptly and, in particular, delivered and removed the multiple courses of the meal cheerfully, seamlessly and efficiently. Not a detail was overlooked.
A+ service. A+++.
A homily for Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion, March 24, 2024
Mk 11:1-10, Is 50:4-7, Phil 2:6-11, Mk 14:1—15:47
Have you ever gotten a splinter?
A little shard of wood in your fingertip or palm?
Maybe in that spot between the first and second joints on your pointer?
The splinter might have been pretty long, or didn’t go in that far, and you could pull it out quickly, in one piece.
It might have buried itself deep, or the end snapped off, and you had to find some tweezers or stick the end of a pin in a match flame to dig it out.
Perhaps you didn’t get it out right away, and it got irritated, infected, red and sore and maybe really gross. You could get blood poisoning, and at this point you’d need a doctor.
For a splinter. This long. Weighing so little that only a scientific scale can measure it.
A splinter.
Jesus of Nazareth got splinters. As a contractor, as a carpenter in the first century, he worked with simple tools, rudimentary tools. Hand saws, hand planes, mallets, wedges. Nothing stamped “Craftsman” on the side, even though stories about him say he indeed was a craftsman.
His supplies came from around him – trees he or someone cut down, rocks chiseled and split, mud and mortar hand-mixed. Carried on his back, hauled in a barrow, dragged at the end of a rope. No Home Depot cart; no Lumber Liquidators delivery truck. Just the strength of a hard-working man.
Jesus got splinters.
And God though he was, it’s painfully likely that he mis-hit a nail and smashed his thumb with a hammer once or twice. Rocks and bricks gave him blisters and calluses and absolutely scraped his knuckles.
Jesus worked with simple tools and rough materials: Aleppo pine, Hawthorn, Sycamore, Laurel, Willow, cut not at a sawmill nor sanded smooth. The carpenter had his work cut out for him.
Jesus worked with simple tools and rough materials: tax collectors and prostitutes and fishermen. Andrew, James and John. Simon Peter. None of them sanded smooth. The rabbi had his work cut out for him. He preached in parables to keep his message understandable, relatable. He preached a new covenant of divine peace and a baptism of water and the spirit.
Jesus still works with rough materials: us.
Men and women who sin, who turn their backs on our loving God and Creator, who refuse to see Christ in all of Creation, and especially not in their sisters and brothers. Sinners who see differences as the key to labeling and sorting and, once everyone has had some sort of triangle stapled onto them, the most efficient way of pushing people to the margins. Once these undesirables are at arm’s length, it’s easy for those who turn their back on God to build walls to keep them out.
Jesus still works with simple tools. No implement of his is simpler or more elegant than the Law of Love.
Love God, the source of love, and thereby live in love.
Love your neighbor as yourself, for the love of God.
Jesus wrote this law not in ink, but in blood, his blood. Shed for us, for our salvation, on a cross of wood at a filthy place named for rotted corpses. A cross of wood exactly like the wood he had cut and trimmed and smoothed from his boyhood. Exactly like the wood that undoubtedly gave him splinters.
Just for a moment, let’s compare splinters to sin.
If you track sins in bookkeeper-fashion, if you count each stolen candy bar or bigger-than-a-little-white lie – or far worse transgression – as a sin, as a mark against you in the Book of Life, then any one of us could have contributed mightily to the wood of the cross, one splinter at a time.
But if you view sin holistically, if you consider sin to be a life lived in the darkness, committed by a person rejecting the Light of Christ, then you can see how all those splinters combined – millions and billions of them squeezed together like modern plywood – all those splinters gave the Sanhedrin and the Romans plenty of wood to hang Jesus on.
The sins of everyone who ever lived or ever would live.
History is hazy on how much of the cross the Christ drag-carried to Golgotha. A typical prisoner of the Romans who had been condemned carried the crosspiece, something like the landscaping ties we use in our gardens today. Estimated weight: 75 to 125 pounds.
The Nazarean was no ordinary prisoner, though, and to make a horrible example of him, the Romans may have forced him to carry the upright and the crosspiece, some 300 pounds of wood. No wonder the Cyrenean was pressed into service to assist Jesus. Despite his years of work, and the rugged body that came with it, the scourged 33-year-old with blood flowing from razor-sharp thorns mashed into his head had to struggle up Mount Calvary.
In Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol,” the ghost of Jacob Marley tells Scrooge about his fetters: “I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it.” Marley speaks of the sins he and Scrooge committed by choosing to steal, to extort. For him, for them, the sins accumulated as chain links.
Jesus was nailed to the cross all of humanity created. We made it splinter by splinter, and yard by yard.
We’re still adding to it.
Jesus accepted the will of the Father; he felt the pain, the agonizing, physical pain that mirrored the emotional pain our loving God feels when we walk in darkness, when we break our family ties with God.
And on our behalf, as a true representative of all humanity, Jesus conquered the cross. He conquered sin. Every sin. Millions and billions.
His resurrection from the dead gave us the new birth that we all need, that we all should choose.
In coming down from the cross and rising from the dead, Jesus shattered all misconceptions about how people are to treat each other on this earth, and how we are to daily renew and strengthen our relationship with God. To embrace the Law of Love.
We do this by avoiding the big sins that masquerade as tiny splinters, and by plucking out the ones we cannot avoid. We pray for forgiveness and healing and the grace of God to stay away from repeat injury.
We do this by never becoming splinters in the lives of our sisters and brothers whoever and wherever they may be, and by never being polluting splinters that diminish the glory of God’s creation.
We do this by remembering how the wood of the cross came to be, and by remembering how painful even the tiniest splinter can be.
To ourselves.
To God.
A homily for the Fifth Sunday of Lent (Scrutinies), March 17, 2024
Ez 37:12-14, Rom 8:8-11, Jn 11:1-45
Mom died in the hospital on Easter morning 1987 in the middle of telling her roommate a joke. The roommate said Mom headed to Heaven right before she delivered the punchline.
Yeah, telling jokes was more my father’s thing.
Julia Marie McCosker Zapcic was a month shy of her 58th birthday. She left behind a husband, six sons and several (forgive me; I forget how many at that time) daughters-in-law. She never met some of my brothers’ wives, nor did she get to play with 12 of her 14 grandchildren. Mom knew only my two now-grown offspring.
Our family often wondered what else she never had the chance to do.
A homily for the Fourth Sunday in Lent (Scrutinies), March 10, 2024
1 Sm 16:1b, 6-7, 10-13a, Eph 5:8-14, Jn 9:1-41
Long before Airbnb, a colleague of mine and his son toured Iceland by staying in several of the guesthouses Icelandic families offered to tourists to make extra income. As I recall, they took the trip near the end of summer, and they asked their hosts how they coped with the dark days and nights of Arctic winters.
As opposed to what? the Icelanders replied. It’s what they know, they said.
A homily for the Third Sunday of Lent (Scrutinies), March 3, 2024
Ex 17:3-7, Rom 5:1-2, 5-8, Jn 4:5-42
The fable of the city mouse and the country mouse has a few different versions with differing details — cats, porcupines, skunks, more cats — but the moral they share is always the same: Don’t be a snob.
Well, not precisely; it’s a bit more like we all live our own lives the way we want to, the way we know best. Each of us deals with our own challenges and celebrates our own joys, and what fits one of us may be the wrong size for someone else. And we all should respect that.
But we don’t. When someone thinks they’re better than someone else because of their respective ways of living, then, yeah, that’s snobbery.
