Homily: 33rd Sunday in Ordinary Time - Year A

Readings: Prv 31:10-13, 19-20, 30-31; Ps 128; 1 Thes 5:1-6; Mt 25:14-30

___________________________

When I was a boy, my dad would "recruit" me (that was the word the Colonel used) to spend Saturday mornings with him as he made things in his home workshop. Carpentry was his hobby, and he was good at it. I ended up doing little more than handing him tools or holding boards while he cut them -- useful but not very fulfilling work, at least not for me. I’d rather been out with my friends.

But his real reason for having me join him was to talk with me about life, and to listen to what I thought about the important things. Now the average 10-year-old boy – and that was me – didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about life’s great mysteries, and so I did much more listening than talking.

I recall one morning; he was making a wooden support, kind of a large plaque, on which to hang a ship’s bell someone had given him. The bell was very old and pretty cool. He wanted to hang it by the front door. While we were making it, he said, “You know, son, this bell, like every bell, can sound only a single note. No matter how loud or soft, when it rings, it rings the same note.”

Then he added, “A lot of people are like that. They play just one note, because they’re so focused on just one thing: themselves. And they miss all the wonders, and all the others, God has placed around and in their lives.” 

That thought has never really left me, and it popped into my aging brain the other day as I thought today’s readings.

We first heard, from the Book of Proverbs, a beautiful description of the worthy wife and all that she does. Indeed, like a carillon, she can ring a lot of different bells, all to bring about good and not evil.

And we celebrate her not simply for what she does, but for who she is. Her actions are driven by the love that resides within her. It is through that love, the reality of Her interior being, that we see its manifestation in her actions, in her love toward others. Her life, then, becomes an extension of herself as she reaches out to others, to her family, to the poor, all done for God’s glory. Yes, indeed, “the woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.”

Just as the faithful woman is praised, we encounter much the same in our Responsorial Psalm, this time aimed at the faithful man. Like the woman, the man of faith rings a lot of different bells, but they blend together into a beautiful hymn of praise. His wife, a fruitful vine; his children, olive plants around his table. As our family sat down to dinner, I sometimes called our children, “my little olive plants.” For some reason they took offense to that. I guess they hadn’t yet learned about metaphors.

But anyway, as the faithful man walks in God’s ways, he is blessed because he, too, fears the Lord. This Biblical fear of the Lord is really nothing more than an acceptance of reality, of God’s greatness. It’s the overwhelming sense of awe, of reverence, the awareness that everything comes from God, and demands our thanksgiving.

Then, in our second reading, we again encounter fear; although here it’s unstated, it’s still very present. St. Paul encourages the good Christians of Thessalonica to “stay alert and sober” because the “day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night.” Yes, God’s judgment can engender fear in some hearts, specifically those unprepared to face Him.

As St. Paul prophetically reminds us, the worldly ones, the politicians and others, try to sooth us with their bell and its single note of “peace and security” – while we, the uninformed, uninitiated one, look out into the world and see something very different. But even then, we should never allow that other kind of fear, a fear of the world, to enter our hearts and rule us. For it, too, is like that solitary bell, that sounds just one note.

We lived in Germany for a while when I was about seven or eight. One day as Mom and I walked to the local delicatessen, we heard the deep sonorous tone of a bell ringing from a local Lutheran church.

You know, “BONG!” And every ten seconds or so, it would ring again, another “BONG!”

Eventually, I asked, “What’s that sound, Mom? It’s kinda scary.” Her response, “Son, it’s a bell, for a funeral. It’s the sound of death.” Well, that certainly didn’t cheer me up.

But I think, in many hearts, it’s really the sound of fear. Perhaps, as they approach their own individual “day of the Lord” they fear that, in St. Paul’s words, “they will not escape.” How sad for them. And we see that sadness, that fear, in Jesus’ parable of the talents.

The talent Jesus speaks of is really a large sum of money – someone with five or more talents of gold would be today’s millionaire; so, in the most literal sense, the master is a very wealthy man.

But in the parable, the talents become interior, soul-bound treasures. And the master? He is God. We encounter God investing in each human person with specific and very personal gifts. He sees and knows each of us so very differently. These talents, each gift, is meant to be accepted as precious, not to be compared with what others have received. You see, brothers and sisters, God knows and loves each of us as if no one else existed.

The master, then, with complete trust, turned over all his property to his servants. One received five, one two, and the third, one. The master invested in each of them, that they increase those gifts with interest. Two didn’t hesitate. They went out, engaged the world, and traded well, fulfilling the master’s wishes.

The third, the fearful one, knowing he’d been given less, unwilling to confront reality, unwilling to grow, just buries his personhood in a hole in the ground. Consumed by his fears, striving only to ensure his own survival, instead he literally digs his own grave. As I think of him, I recall that bell in Heidelberg, sounding its single note of fear.

Jesus understood the disabling power of fear, for how often does He tell us: “Be not afraid.” Jesus is a true rejector of the status quo. He wants us to grow, and not allow worldly fears to hold us back.

The tragedy of the third servant is that, out of fear, he hid what had been entrusted to him, even though he had the ability to use it well. Because he did nothing, he never changed, never grew. We learn far more by doing, even if we encounter failure along the way. God has graced each of us in some way, to serve both Him and others. If we hide what has been given us, others are deprived.

Gerard Manley Hopkins, the English Jesuit poet, wrote a beautiful poem, "As Kingfishers Catch Fire," and in it there’s this amazing line:

“…the just man justices;

Keeps grace: that keeps all their goings graces.”

Yes, we keep and nurture God’s grace which keeps all our goings graces. What an ordaining thought: all our goings, all our doings, are graces, because of the graces within.

The parable has that one strong message. Jesus hopes to move us, to form us interiorly as the woman of Proverbs was formed interiorly. She lives, as she knows and receives herself to be, and we are called to the same interior change – not just to do things differently, but to be something completely different, to undergo conversion.

Hopkins ends his poem, showing how we are called to act in God’s eye, what in God’s eye we are.

“…for Christ plays in ten thousand places,

Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his

To the Father through the features of men’s faces.”

We don’t put on Jesus as we’d put on an item of clothing. No, He invests Himself in us and we repay Him through what we have become in our hearts. Jesus Christ has buried Himself in us that we might continually give Him flesh. God is ever in-fleshing with divine love, as an eternal dressing of humanity, always striving to present Himself to the world through us.

Sisters and brothers, we are called to be Jesus Christ to all whom we encounter, fearlessly ringing a thousand different, joyful bells. Then, at the time of judgment, won’t it be wonderful to hear those words: “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

Dogs as Comfort Critters

When I was a mere child, our family, like many families, enjoyed a number of different pets. We were pretty much a dog family and shared our home with several wonderful canines. 

The other day, while driving on back roads to conduct a cemetery committal service in rural Beverly Hills, Florida, I noticed two young children playing with a large dog in their front yard. I think the dog was one of those labradoodle mixed breeds, a good-looking animal. The children were young, a boy and a girl, maybe seven or eight years old, and they were really enjoying themselves, as was the dog. I sat at that stop sign and watched the three of them for maybe a half-minute before a pick-up pulled up behind me and leaned on his horn. That broke the spell, and off I went to bury the dead. But as I drove the rest of the way, I thought of all the dogs who blessed our family and my childhood with their presence. Dogs are truly wonderful creatures, just another gift from a God who loves us. I think He gives us dogs to teach us how to love unconditionally, just as He loves.

The first dog who shared our home with me was Patches, a Boston Terrier, of whom I have absolutely no recollection. I have a photo of me as a baby with Patches standing guard, but I think she died not long after that. Our next dog, the first pet I can remember, was Clipper, a German Shepherd. I have many memories of Clipper who used to sneak into my room and climb into my bed after my folks had retired for the night. He knew my mom didn’t appreciate his shedding on my blankets and sheets, but he and I openly conspired to disobey. Mom eventually relented. I always felt privileged that Clipper chose my bed and not that of my brother, Jeff, although I suspect Clipper based his decision on the amount of room available in each bed. Jeff was four years older and took up a lot more space. Clipper was a terrific dog, even though he did enjoy chasing down the chickens raised by one of our neighbors in rural Nichols, Connecticut. As I recall Dad was frequently forced to pay for recently slaughtered fowl. Here's Clipper enjoying himself in the snow (probably about 1948):

When I was about five, we moved to Larchmont in suburban New York, and Clipper moved with us. He didn’t care much for suburban life since he was no longer allowed to roam freely. Fortunately for Clipper and the entire family, after a year or two we moved to Panama City Beach, Florida when my dad, an Army reserve officer, was recalled to active duty at Camp Rucker (now Fort Rucker) in Dothan, Alabama. Dad rented a small 2-bedroom cottage right on the beach. He would spend weekdays at Rucker and weekends with us. Jeff and I attended the local public school, Drummond Park Elementary School, which in those days was segregated. Of course, as young boys, this meant little to us. We simply enjoyed living right on the beach where we’d romp in the surf with Clipper and watch out for dangerous critters like Portuguese Man o’ War and sand sharks. Here we are in our sandy Florida backyard — I’m the little one — with our dad and Clipper…

Our next move took us to Heidelberg, Germany, again thanks to the U.S. Army. But first my folks had to see about finding a renter for our home in Larchmont. And since we couldn't take Clipper with us to Germany, Dad sold him to a man who owned a butcher shop on Long Island. I expect Clipper spent the rest of his days living and eating well. We all missed him.

Heidelberg was fascinating. We didn't live in Army housing but lived "on the economy," renting a flat in a small apartment house in town. Jeff and I also attended German schools, so we certainly got a taste for the country and its people. This was in 1951-52, not too many years after the end of the war. I remember asking my mom why we couldn't get a dog, and she laughed and said, "That would just make Frau Sauer [our landlady] even more sour."  

But Dad surprised us when we returned to New York. He had purchased a Weimaraner puppy and had it shipped from Germany to our home in Larchmont. The dog's name was Heidi, although her official Kennel Club name was “Arnheid von Geisberg.” I always thought this more elaborate name made her uncommonly regal, and she certainly lived up to it. Heidi immediately became one of the family. Although she was a rather large dog, she was very happy being a homebody and adjusted quickly to our family's odd lifestyle. 

When she was about three my folks decided to breed her with another purebred Weimaraner, resulting in eight wonderful little puppies. We sold seven but kept the largest male, whom Dad named, "Der Alte," the same name the Germans gave Konrad Adenauer, a name connoting age and wisdom. Unfortunately, he didn't live up to his name and simply refused to grow up. I think living with his mother simply spoiled him. We eventually sold him to a man who lived on a large rural estate where Der Alte enjoyed himself for years.

Heidi was especially close to my mom, and used to sit with her, or on her, or beside her whenever possible -- see the photos above and at left. Only when mom wasn't around would she condescend to spend quality time with the rest of us. 

Heidi lived with us for more than a dozen years and during that time learned to tolerate all of our strange idiosyncrasies. For example, Dad acquired a very clever parakeet named Heinz who used to land on Heidi's head and talk to her in his broken English. Heidi ignored him, assuming he was just another of the odd creatures who inhabited her home. 

I was almost 8 years old when Heidi joined our family, and she died when I was home on summer leave from the Naval Academy. It was heartbreaking. 

Will our dogs join us in heaven? Well, if the lion will lay down with the lamb, I don't see why God won't let the dogs who loved us and cared for us, probably more than we cared for them, also be with us eternally. St. Thomas Aquinas may disagree, but I'll bet he never had a dog.