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

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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.”

Homily: Thursday, 28 Week in Ordinary Time

Readings: Rom 1:16-25; Psalm 19; Luke 11:37-41

In my previous parish, a retired bishop who summered in our town used to help us out by celebrating one of the Sunday Masses. One Sunday, just before the dismissal, the bishop blessed a couple who were celebrating their 50^th wedding anniversary. As you might expect, after the blessing the entire congregation applauded.

After Mass a parishioner approached me in the parking lot. He was very upset because of the applause which he felt was entirely out of place at Mass. At first, I thought he was joking, and my reaction probably wasn’t what he’d hoped for. He went from upset to furious. I tried to calm him down by explaining that when something especially good happens in the lives of members of our parish community, it’s entirely appropriate for the community to share in their joy. Applause is simply our culture’s way of expressing that joy. And doing so at the end of Mass, right before the dismissal, is also appropriate. It didn’t work. Family in tow, he stormed off to his car. I should have asked him why he complained to me and not to the bishop. I’m just a deacon.

Sadly, he always seemed to come across as a dour, joyless person, more focused on others’ faults than on the good in them. I didn’t doubt his faith, but I didn’t see a lot of Christian love there. But he seemed to be devout, and because only God knows his heart, I won’t judge him. We all have some of the Pharisee in us – some more, some less – and I mention this man because it seemed a bit more evident in his case.

In today’s Gospel reading Luke describes a meal Jesus had at a Pharisee’s home. I find it interesting that, for a group who didn’t trust or like Jesus very much, the Pharisees seemed to have Him over for dinner a lot. Well, as it turned out, Jesus neglected to perform the ritual washing before dinner – an omission that offended his host. I’m sure Jesus didn’t forget, but did this intentionally to put the spotlight on the man’s hypocrisy. Certainly, that was the result.

Our Lord used some harsh words in His rebuke:

“…you Pharisees! Although you cleanse the outside of the cup and the dish, inside you are filled with plunder and evil. You fools! Did not the maker of the outside also make the inside?”

Of course, He’s no longer talking about cups and dishes. He’s talking about the human heart. Jesus isn’t criticizing the ritual washing itself. No, He’s criticizing the Pharisee’s placing more importance on the ritual than on obeying the commandment to love God and neighbor.

For example, as Catholics we observe many rituals. We’re observing one now by following very specific rubrics as we celebrate this rite today. And this is as it should be, because the rite is as old as the Church itself, designed to bring us closer to God through hearing His word and receiving Jesus in the Eucharist. But the ritual is a means, not an end. The end brings us into communion with Jesus. When we let this happen, Jesus becomes one with us, and transforms our hearts and minds. In other words, what we do on the outside should help us change on the inside.  But when we focus solely on the externals, we break this connection.

Although not directed at Pharisees, Paul’s words today could be applied to them as well:

“…for although they knew God, they did not accord him glory as God or give him thanks. Instead, they became vain in their reasoning, and their senseless minds were darkened. While claiming to be wise, they became fools…”

Yes, we're all Pharisees sometimes, focused on the outside. And the more devout we are, the more susceptible we are to this not so little vice. We become so focused on the externals, that we neglect the internal. We can get so wrapped up in our devotions and rituals that our focus shifts to ourselves at the expense of others.

We won’t get to heaven by just worrying about ourselves and our own salvation. It’s another of those great Christian paradoxes: we’ll only reach our goal if we forget about ourselves and devote our efforts instead to helping others achieve theirs. When I talk with engaged couples, I always tell each of them, that their most important task is to help the other get to heaven. That's what true love is all about.

Gerard Manley Hopkins, the 19^th Century Jesuit poet, frequently corresponded with the poet laureate of England, his friend Robert Bridges. Bridges, an agnostic, once wrote, asking Hopkins how he could learn to believe. I suppose he expected some deep theological answer. Hopkins replied in a letter with only two words, the words Jesus left with the Pharisees: “Give alms.”

Yes, brothers and sisters, give alms. Care for others. Wash some feet. Imitate Jesus. Heal, forgive, and serve each other. Then everything will be clean for you, inside and outside.

Verses Recalled

I just discovered something shocking...well, I suppose shocking is a bit hyperbolic, but it's not a good thing. Apparently school children are no longer required to memorize poems as they study English literature in middle and high school. According to my reliable source — a current high school teacher of English — many schools ignore centuries of great English and American literature, preferring instead to focus on modern novels by writers like Stephen King. And poetry? Apparently, at best, it's back-burnered or completely ignored. I hope this is not true, or at least not universal.

If you're my age or even a few years younger, I'm pretty sure you were exposed to at least some of the English language's great poetry, and probably had to memorize many of those poems. I can still recite some of them, so burned into my memory were those lines. A poem like Gerard Manley Hopkins' "Pied Beauty" will always be with me:

Glory be to God for dappled things -- 

    For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

        For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches wings;

    Landscape plotted and pieced -- fold, fallow, and plough;

        And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

    Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

        With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

                                        Praise him.

(Although I can still recall all the words, I had to look up the punctuation.)

The first time I read this poem, in my eighth-grade classroom, I was intrigued by its sounds, by the flow of the verse, but I hadn't a clue what all those strange words meant. I then made the mistake of mentioning this to Sister Francis Jane, O.P. In doing so I had talked myself into another homework assignment: "Find out," she ordered, "and tomorrow you can tell the class what you discovered." 

The next day, I introduced the class to another new word -- new, at least, for me -- "paradox"  -- and went on to explain, very poorly and nervously, how God fills the world with wondrous things that show off the variety and surprise of His creation. It's a creation, too, of opposites that display His glory. And, perhaps not surprisingly, man, in his own use of nature's gifts, imitates God. 

My brief commentary resulted in lots of blank looks and no applause, but one cute girl with long, auburn tresses seemed mildly impressed, so it was worth it. Of course, I ended up angering the entire class because "Franny Jane" (as we affectionately called Sister behind her back) decided that everyone should memorize the poem...lots of groans and dirty looks directed at yours truly.

And how many of you had to memorize Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken"? Once again the words have remained with me. I found Frost's poetry refleshing because I could understand what he was saying without turning to the Oxford English Dictionary. It just took me a while to comprehend his deeper meanings related to the choices life places before us. And with that, Franny Jane introduced us to symbols and metaphors and similes. 

There's so much more verse tucked away in my aging memory banks -- poetry by Shakespeare, Tennyson, Pope, Dickinson, Francis Thompson, and many others -- and like the songs we loved in our youth, I can recall these poems and savor them when life's challenges demand a touch of calm or a reminder of reality. How sad that the memories of many of today's children will be empty of such wonderful poetry, for poetry introduces us to the fullness and intensity of language. Indeed, poetry, for me, is another proof of the very existence of God, in whose image and likeness you and I were created. The Creative Word presents us with a perfect divine song, a gift from a loving God who fills His creation with the objects of our poetry.

Homily: Ash Wednesday

Readings: Joel 2:12-18; Ps 51; 2 Cor 5:20-6:2; Mt 6:1-6,16-18
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Gerard Manley Hopkins, S.J.

Gerard Manley Hopkins, the 19th Century Jesuit poet, frequently corresponded with the poet laureate of England, his friend Robert Bridges. In one of these letters, Bridges, an agnostic, asked Hopkins how he could learn to believe, expecting, I suppose, some deep theological answer.

Hopkins replied in a letter with only two words: "Give alms."

What a wonderful answer! Even though it was probably lost on Mr. Bridges. You see, in his own search for truth, a search that ultimately led him to the Catholic Church, Hopkins had learned something most people never grasp. He hoped to show his friend that the love of God is experienced most fully in our love for others.

Only in loving others that we recognize and experience the source and being of all love.

Only in loving others can we see in every other person the divine image.

Only in loving others can we come face to face with Jesus. 

How did Jesus put it? 

"...whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me" [Mt 25:40].

But Jesus didn't stop there, did He? For in today's passage from Matthew, He tells us not only to give alms, but to take it a step farther, to do what doesn't come naturally: He tells us to give alms in secret.

Imagine that? Being charitable but telling no one. Taking no credit for the good we do? No bows, no bouquets, no recognition, no thanks. Why, it's almost inhuman. Well...actually...it is inhuman, because it's what the Father wants, and He will repay us.

As we begin this Lenten season of repentance, this season when we look forward to the joy of Easter, let's remember that in giving up we're also called to give. But real almsgiving is a giving of ourselves, a giving of time, a giving of talent, a giving of our presence to others in need...

...to those who are ill and suffering

...to those who hunger and thirst, not only for food and drink but for the Word of God

...to those who are dying and afraid, who need the touch and reassurance of another

The opportunities are all around us, brothers and sisters. The question is: will we respond? Will we be the ambassadors for Christ that Paul says we are?

But Jesus talks about more than almsgiving, doesn't He?

He also calls us to prayer. And here too he tells us to act in secret, to withdraw from others, to pray to the Father in the intimacy that comes from contemplative prayer.

Public prayer, the faithful coming together, as we assemble here today, is a necessary and holy act. But as Christians we're also called into an intimate, personal relationship with God. Now that certainly takes place through the Communion we experience through the Eucharist. Indeed, can anything be more personal, more intimate?

But this relationship must also be continually reinforced through prayer, through the private prayer commanded by Our Lord. This is the kind of prayer that leads to the interior transformation for which we strive during Lent.

And that's not all. Jesus continues by telling us to fast; and here, too, He urges discretion, to fast without ostentation, to avoid praise.

Once again we're in conflict, because the world admires only the spectacular, even when it comes to sacrifice. It places little value on hidden and silent sacrifice.

The Church, then, following Jesus' command, fasts during Lent.

As a worldwide community of faith, then, we give alms, we pray, and we fast.

We recognize and turn away from our sinfulness.

We reject self-absorption and greed, hate and despair, and once again heed the first call of our baptism.

Pope Benedict, on the day he announced his resignation, wrote few words on his Twitter account:

"We must trust in the mighty power of God's mercy," he said. "We are all sinners, but His grace transforms us and makes us new."

Yes, we are all sinners, and only God's grace can transform us. Only through God's grace can we do as the Prophet Joel proclaims: "Rend your hearts..." [Jl 2:13] allowing God to tear open the secret places of our hearts so He can enter and be present to us. 

"Rend your heart..."

To rend our hearts: to see ourselves as God sees us, to let Him shows us our innermost being. And that can be a scary thing, to come face to face with the real me, to come to an understanding of who I really am. For whom do I live?  Do I live just for me, or do I live for the God who brought me into being? 

To rend our hearts: to open ourselves up to others because God's infinite love demands it.

To rend our hearts: to perform the great works of Lent - almsgiving, prayer and fasting.

Yes, we are all sinners, but we are still called to mirror God's love and forgiveness in our own lives. 

Lent is an opportunity to share in and alleviate the sufferings of others. But Lent is also an opportunity to be forgiven for our refusal to forgive; to be cured of our secret pride and hatreds.

"Repent, and believe in the Gospel" [Mk 1:15].

Moments from now, as your forehead is marked with the sacramental sign of ashes, you will hear those words of Jesus. 

Yes, indeed, we are called to repent and to believe the Good News, the promise of redemption, the gift of eternal life. 

We need only open our hearts to God's healing presence.