Homily: Tuesday, 3rd Week of Lent (Cycle II)

Readings: Dan 3:25,34-43; Ps 25; Mt 18:21-35

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Years ago, when I was working at Providence College, an aged Dominican – he must have been at least 70 – gave me a copy of a prayer written by Venerable Charles de Foucauld. At the time, he had not yet been beatified, and I had never heard of him. Today, years later, Charles is a canonized Saint, having been beatified by Pope Benedict XVI in 2005 and canonized by Pope Francis in 2022.

St. Charles de Foucauld

This remarkable man lived an even more remarkable life. Charles had been a playboy, an Army officer, an explorer, and a Trappist monk. But for the last 10 years of his life, he lived as a hermit among the Tauregs, a Muslim tribe in North Africa. He made no converts, and in 1916, in the midst of World War One, he was shot dead, assassinated in his hermitage by a fierce group of marauders who were also fighting the British and French. His life didn't really bear fruit until after his death. As Jesus told Philip and Andrew, "...unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit." [Jn 12:24]

The prayer I was given by that kind Dominican is a prayer of abandonment. It’s rather brief, something I guess you’d expect of such a prayer. Here's the complete text:

Father, I abandon myself into Your hands. Do with me what You will. Whatever You may do, I thank You. I am ready for all, I accept all.

Let only Your will be done in me and in all Your creatures. I wish no more than this, O Lord.

Into Your hands I commend my soul; I offer it to You with all the love of my heart; for, I love you, Lord, and so need to give myself, to surrender myself into Your hands without reserve and with boundless confidence. 

For You are my Father. Amen.

For years now, I’ve tried to pray these words every morning, except when I'm in too great a hurry, or simply a bit lazy. When I first read it, I realized this kind of selfless faith was, and remains, very difficult for me.

Interestingly, that Dominican gave it to me on Tuesday of the 3^rd week of Lent. I know this because at Mass in the college chapel that day I heard the same reading from Daniel that Patrick just proclaimed here today.

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego -- don't you just love those wonderful names? You know, after we were married, I suggested to Diane, "You now, if we had triplets..." Well, that went nowhere.

Anyway, all three were willing to die very painful deaths rather than worship the false gods of King Nebuchadnezzar. But before they were tossed into that blazing furnace, Azariah, as Abednego was called in Hebrew, led them in prayer. This, too, was a prayer of sheer abandonment. He then repeated its essence in a statement to the king himself.

Although speaking to the king, Azariah and his companions reveal their decision to abandon themselves to God’s will. They accept life or death, whatever fulfills God’s plan.

If our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the furnace of blazing fire and out of your hand, O king, let him deliver us. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods and we will not worship the golden statue that you have set up.

King Nebuchadnezzar, like so many who wield worldly power, disliked being challenged, and had all three tossed into the furnace. But unlike St. Charles, God granted them life.

Perhaps such total abandonment, the offering of our lives in the face of imminent death, isn’t something you or I will ever be called to do. And yet, when we consider the direction our world is headed today, who knows? But real abandonment to God isn't reserved for martyrs. It's something we must all strive for, something that involves much of our everyday lives. 

We see an example in today’s Gospel passage, when Peter questions Our Lord about forgiveness. At this point in his own formation as a disciple, Peter is not concerned about abandonment to God’s will. No, he’s looking for a formula: “How much do I have to forgive? How long must I do things God’s way, before I can do it my way?"

Jesus’ parable provides the perfect answer, doesn’t it? He tells Peter and us that we must forgive as God forgives. Salvation is God’s business, but forgiveness, in imitation of God, is something we are called to do always.

Just consider how we commit ourselves to this In the Lord’s Prayer: 

Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.

What a courageous thing to ask of God! Do we really mean it? Every time we pray those words, do we actually think about all that unforgiveness in our lives, just waiting for us?

Forgiveness, of course, is more than words; it also strives to restore that which separates us from each other. Our concerns, our hopes, should not be focused solely on ourselves, but on the good of the other person. Forgiveness is really the most human, the most intimate form of evangelization, a way we can help God lead others to Himself.

Yes, it can be frustrating on that human level when the others remain unrepentant. But you and I don’t save people. We are simply God’s instruments who are sometimes called to open the door so He can step in.

Once again, salvation is God’s business. And the actual healing often takes place long after you and I have done our little bit, have opened the window just a crack, so God’s Holy Spirit can rush in and do His work in the hearts and minds of those He places in our lives.

 

Homily: Mass and Healing Service - Thursday, 27th Week in Ordinary Time

Note: On Thursday evening, Father Glen celebrated a special Mass, which was followed by a Healing Service for all who sought healing of any kind, whether physical, mental, spiritual, or the healing of broken or damaged relationships. Many came and were prayed over by our prayer teams who laid hands on each person and asked the Holy Spirit to provide the healing they sought.

I was humbled to have been asked to preach to this gathering of the faithful who came to hear God's Word and then joined together in Eucharistic Communion with our Lord Jesus Christ and with each other.

My homily follows...

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Readings: Mal 3:13-20b • Psalm 1 • Gospel: Lk 11:5-13

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Good evening, everyone. Praise God. Praise Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Because we’re here in Jesus’ name, the Holy Spirit is with us in all His power, in all His glory, so that in Him we can come to know our loving Father better, all through Our Lord Jesus Christ.

Let me begin by saying I’m in deep water today, way out of my depth…but that’s the way it usually is whenever we set out to do God’s work. So often we’re sure we know what God is calling us to do, but then suddenly He teaches us otherwise. After all, it’s not our work; it’s God’s work. And you and I can never approach God’s work from a position of strength. It’s always from weakness.

I worried a bit about what I’d say tonight, but then finally, did what I should have done from the beginning, I prayed…and I asked the Spirit to guide me, to tell me what to say.

As God revealed through the prophet Malachi, we will see “the distinction between the one who serves God, and the one who does not.” He calls us only to serve Him.

Healing is such a personal thing. No two of us come to healing from the same place; each journey is different, and so is the baggage we carry with us. Because we’re all so amazingly and wonderfully different, what can I say that will apply to us all? But then the Spirit turned my aging brain to the parable staring me right in the face.

“Ask and you shall receive; seek and you shall find; knock and it shall be opened to you...”

Comforting words, aren’t they? But I think too many of us take those words and extract only what we want to hear. We focus so much on the things of our lives, the uniquely human activities and distractions that occupy so much of our time. Distracted by these “things,” we often misinterpret what Jesus is telling us about prayer – for that’s what this parable’s all about. We focus on our problems, our hurts and illnesses, our burdens, our confused lives…and then, like the unrelenting friend in the parable, if we just pray really hard, and persist, then God will finally say, “Okay, okay,” and give us whatever we ask.

To believe this is to see this parable from a very literal, very human perspective, one that sees God as this sleepy neighbor who only responds if we nag Him relentlessly. We forget, it’s a parable, and God is no sleepy neighbor who needs persuading.

Jesus continues with another brief parable, this time referring to that special human relationship between parent and child.

“What father among you will give his son a snake if he asks for a fish, or hand him a scorpion if he asks for an egg?”

And we all say, “I’d never do that!” — because we love our children. And because God loves us even more, obviously He’ll give us whatever we ask. The trouble is, too often, instead of asking for a fish or an egg, we ask for the snake or the scorpion. Then, dissatisfied with God’s response, we do act like children. We get angry with God. We throw little tantrums and turn away from Him. After all, we asked, but didn’t receive.

Do we think we can manipulate God, that if we ask Him repeatedly, we somehow obligate Him? Or maybe we think, “If God is a loving and caring Father who gives only ‘good’ things, why must we persist in asking? Why do we have to ask at all?”

Let’s not forget that Jesus tells us to pray to the Father, “Thy will be done.” Persistence in prayer – as Paul reminds us, “pray without ceasing” – is for our benefit, not God’s, so we must pray boldly for conformity with God’s will. If the will of the child doesn’t conform to the will of the Father, the child, disregarding all personal desire, must repeat with Jesus in the Garden, “...not my will, but yours.” You see, Jesus wants us to pray for everything good. This is what the Father wants for us.

Then, at the end of the parable, we encounter a gift:

“If you, with all your sins, know how to give your children good things, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him?”

What Jesus promises is far better than anything we had in mind. He promises the Holy Spirit, the fullness of the love shared by Father, Son and Holy Spirit. What could be better than that?

And yet, how often in prayer do we ask for the Holy Spirit? Only God’s grace, given freely by the Holy Spirit through the saving power of the Son, can save us from our sinfulness and raise us to new life in Him. In the Creed we call the Holy Spirit, “the Lord and Giver of Life.” This is the healing we all need. Anything else is just God’s little surprise for us. Immersed in that holy flow of grace, what we receive is totally aligned with All Goodness, All Love, all perfect answers to our fervent prayer.

And if you receive exactly what you asked for, rejoice! Jump for joy because you are one with the will of our loving God…your prayer was answered! Sometimes the answer Is “No”, or “Maybe later”, or “I have a better solution.” We can be ok with those answers when we realize they’re given in love. Always in love, sisters and brothers, no matter how difficult and contrary they seem at the moment.

Reviewing my own life, all its stupid mistakes, its sinfulness, self-built obstacles, and crazy moments, I see the work, the signature, of my loving God. I can say only, “Thank You, Lord, for being there always, even when I didn’t realize it.”

In prayer, then, as in all things, Jesus is our model. Recall the raising of the dead Lazarus, and how Jesus prayed:

“Father, I thank you for having heard me. I know that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd, that they may believe that you sent me.”

You and I are in that crowd; it’s all meant for us. The all-powerful intercession we rely on when we pray in Jesus’ name, and conform our own prayer to His. You see, what Jesus is really telling us is that our prayer must be an act of simple trust, the kind of trust you see in the face of a child who knows his parent will never harm him. And like that child, we often don’t know what’s good or bad for us. But God, the good parent, tells us, “Trust me. You’ll thank me for it later.”

You and I can teach God nothing, but we can ask everything of Him, entrusting to Him the judgment of our real needs. It’s our duty to ask, to pray. We’re His children, and should want to receive everything from His hand. But we should ask, seek and knock so that we may discover God’s will for us, and then ask for the courage and strength to do it.

Certainly, we can always ask God for specific things, but more important is to enter into His presence in silence and solitude of heart. For the Holy Spirit dwells in the depths of your soul, at the very center of your being. We can best reach Him only when we grow silent. Interior silence and the ability to love God in a kind of nakedness of spirit are gifts of the Holy Spirit, sent by the Father, and promised to us by the revelation of His Son that “Your Father knows what you need before you ask Him.”

Because of this we’re certain of the Father’s love.

Because of this we can leave behind all anxiety and fear, all uncertainty, all distrust.

Because of this we need not worry about our future; or to calculate the state of our relationship with God.

Because of this we can come to want what God wants, to acknowledge that good, and nothing but good, comes only from God, only from Our Father.

Yes, Our Father: not just mine, not just yours, ours. By the very fact that we are put into relationship with God, as sons and daughters of the Father, we find ourselves in relationship with one another. So together, in Eucharistic communion with Jesus Christ and each other, let’s enter into prayerful conversation with our God, to get a real relationship going in our asking, seeking, and knocking, and prepare to be surprised. To be loved. To be healed.

Pray for the healing of those seated around you, and then let God do His healing work.

Praised be Jesus Christ…now and forever.

 

Homily: Saturday, 24th Week in Ordinary Time

Readings: 1 Tim 6:13-16 • Psalm 100 • Luke 8:4-15

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Coincidentally, in our parish Bible Study, we happen to be studying Mark’s version of the "Parable of the Sower," a parable included in all three synoptic Gospels. Of course, it’s among the more widely known of Jesus’ parables – and has been the object of so many commentaries and homilies that I always wonder what I can possibly say about it that everyone hasn't already heard. Maybe the best thing is simply to tell you what runs through my mind whenever I hear or read this “Parable of the Sower.”

The first thing I find myself thinking is that it should be called it the “Parable of the Soil.” That’s certainly what I focus on as I meditate on Jesus’ words and try to identify which type of soil I most closely resemble. And I suppose many of you respond to this parable in pretty much the same way.

When you listen to this parable do you say to yourself, “Yep, I’m pretty thorny…or rocky…or maybe even rich today...” And then, just leave it at that. That’s the trouble when something is so familiar, like this parable. So often we fail to take the next step, the one Jesus invites us to take.

God’s Word, that seed, demands we do more than merely listen. We must also understand, and from that understanding, that awareness, we must act. We hear the parable, but we really don’t dig very deeply into our own soil to see what kind of shape it’s in, to see if it’s well-prepared. And if it’s not in good shape, to find out why, and then to do something about it.

I’m always telling young people that they can be greatly influenced by the people they hang out with. Well, it’s no different with us, is it? We, too, are easily influenced.

If we focus only on our work, how we earn a living, or for us retired folks, if we spend most of our time playing golf, or going out for dinner and drinks, or going to neighborhood activities, or just being a couch potato…all the while not thinking much about our spiritual life and well-being…well, our spiritual soil is probably lacking, not well-prepared.

How much richer would it be if we were all well connected with our parish, were actively involved in one or more ministries, doing God’s will in our little slice of His creation?

How about improving our “listening to God” skills by making an occasional weekend retreat?

Or spending an hour or two a week in adoration before the Blessed Sacrament?

Or praying together daily with a spouse or friend? We are called to community, and so it’s a good thing to pray together, especially in the family.

All of this grounds us in our Faith, tills our soil so it can receive God’s Word, which is Jesus Christ. That’s what’s special about the good soil; it’s been prepared, so it will be receptive to the seed. But the soil needs constant care, doesn’t it? How will you and I receive the Word tomorrow, next week, or the rest of the year?

Will it fall on the path, or will it have to deal with rocks and thorns; or will it find our soil well prepared, rich, and fertile?

By building up our soil through prayer, good works, good attitudes, good habits, we make ourselves fertile receptors of the Word.   

As we go our separate ways today, let’s remember what Jesus told us, that when we hear the Word, we must embrace it with a "generous and good heart," so it will "bear fruit through perseverance." [Lk 8:15]

Jesus always gives us a choice, but He also guides us. To help us choose correctly, He gives us His Church and her sacraments, her engines of grace. As we make our way through these challenging times, why not begin with the sacrament of reconciliation to breaking up all that hard soil. Then we can all enrich it with God’s own presence in the Eucharist.

Our loving God wants your life to be abundantly fruitful, for as St. Paul reminded us, "God...gives life to all things..." [1 Tim 6:13] But how we live that life is our gift to God. 

Bible Study Reflection #30: Wheat and Weeds

Once again, it’s back to the Gospel. This time we’ll take a look at one of Jesus’ Kingdom of Heaven parables in the Gospel According to Matthew. Our reading actually includes several of these parables, but today we’ll focus only on the first, the parable of the wheat and the weeds. I realize Jesus doesn’t specify that the farmer in the parable is growing wheat, but I’ve always like the alliteration of the words, “wheat and weeds,” so I’ll continue to make that assumption.

Before we begin our reflection, then, please open your Bible, turn to Chapter 13 of Matthew and read Matthew 13:24-43. I’ve included the passage on Page 5.

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How many sinners do we have out there? Okay, you all know the answer to that one: we’re all sinners, even those who think they’re saints. In fact, this parable of the wheat and the weeds was aimed particularly at sinners who sometimes forget they’re sinners.

Notice that our Gospel passage ends with Jesus saying, “Whoever has ears ought to hear” [Mt 13:43]. I suppose He’s telling us: “Listen up! What I have to say about all this sinfulness and saintliness is pretty important stuff.” So, let’s take a closer look at this parable and at Jesus’ explanation of it. Perhaps, then, we can correct our own inflated opinions of ourselves.

First of all, let’s you and I take on the role of one of the slaves. Now it’s not easy being a slave, always having to do what you’re told, even when you don’t understand or don’t agree with the master and his orders. But, in this instance, even though we’re slaves, we’re fortunate to have a good and caring master, one who even allows us to question what we don’t understand.

Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? Where have the weeds come from? [Mt 13:27]

The master explains that his enemy has tried to sabotage His work by planting weeds, by seeding the field with that which will damage the wheat and lessen the harvest.

Jesus, opening up the parable for the disciples, tells them:

He who sows good seed is the Son of Man, the field is the world, the good seed the children of the kingdom. The weeds are the children of the evil one, and the enemy who sows them is the devil [Mt 13:37-38].

…a pretty straightforward explanation, isn’t it? And the slaves, presumably, are the disciples (that’s us), those who must do the work of the master. Being good disciples, they want to do what they believe is best. Unlike those evil sinners, the saintly sinners want to make things right. They want to go out into the field right away and just rip out all those weeds, along with anything else that might get in the way.

So, there we are, you and I, God’s saintly, sinful slaves, telling Him to turn us loose and we’ll solve all His problems. Let us do it now! We’re the good guys, the good and decent people; we’re the righteous ones; we’re the ones with ears to hear.

Just look at all those weeds! What did Jesus call them? “Children of the evil one” [Mt 13:38]. You see them in the newspapers, on the web, and on TV. Why, it’s downright embarrassing. Their conduct, their ethics, their morality could hardly be any lower. And they’re out there committing all these shameful sins right there in front of God and everyone, setting a horrible example to the rest of us. There’s certainly no room for people like that in His Church. And look at the world. The weeds are taking over. Evil’s on a rampage. This can’t be the kind of world God wants. We have to do something!

It's tempting, isn't it, sometimes dangerously and tragically so, to desire a perfect world, to think that, if humanity got its act together, we could eradicate evil and create a world without imperfections. At least that’s what the politicians and the ideologues tell us. How ironic that our very imperfections cause us to think this way. And so, we end up turning the imperfect into the evil, while we hide all the real evils behind curtains of political and ideological correctness.

Abort the unwanted, purge the inconvenient, eliminate the undesirables, execute the criminals, cleanse the world of everything and everyone that’s imperfect. These, along with so many others, are the world’s solutions; they’re certainly not God’s.

God’s will is so very different, His ways so far from ours. How did He put it to Isaiah:

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways – oracle of the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, my thoughts higher than your thoughts [Is 55:8-9].

In His divine wisdom He orders us to refrain from judging and purging, for He has a different plan for the salvation of humanity. He tells us to do something that from a human perspective seems downright foolish, but He insists.

“No weeding,” He orders, “not now. I’ll wait instead for the harvest, and then I’ll do the separating, not you. I will decide between wheat and weeds.”

“But there are so many weeds in the world today,” we complain, “so much evil, right here, right now — can’t we do something; can’t we do anything?”

And God says, “Yes, first of all, you can trust in Me. And you can do something else, but not the something you’d like to do, not the human something. I will judge,” He tells us, “because only I can see into the heart of each man and woman, only I can ensure a perfect yield from the harvest.”

We’ve been given a different job. “Go make disciples of all nations” [Mt 28:19], He commanded his disciples, which includes you and me. Until the harvest time we are to preach the gospel of repentance to the world…and to ourselves. And that, brothers and sisters, is hard for us to take. Why can’t we do some of that judging, that purging? Aren’t we the good ones, the holy ones?

Okay, maybe we’re not always that good or that holy. Maybe we don’t spend very much time immersed in God’s Word or deepening our prayer life – assuming we even have a prayer life. But we’re busy people and t’s hard work trying to get ahead in this world.

Maybe our faith isn’t always as alive and vibrant as it should be. Maybe our children and grandchildren, our neighbors and friends, haven’t always seen our faith witnessed in the way we live. Maybe we don’t spend much time and effort feeding the hungry, housing the homeless, welcoming the stranger, caring for and visiting the ill and the imprisoned. After all, I’ve got problems too. And I take responsibility for them; why can’t they?

Maybe we occasionally ignore those Church teachings we don’t agree with, those teachings on faith and morals and justice that are downright inconvenient. Oh, but we do attend Mass every week…well, most weeks anyway. That must count for something.

Yes, Jesus’ teaching can be a real stumbling block for us, can’t it? Much better and far more comforting to think there are just two kinds of people in the world: the real sinners – you know, the ones you see on the covers of the supermarket tabloids – and the rest of us, those of us who hardly sin at all, or whose sins are small. The bad and the pretty good. The outsiders – that’s them – and the insiders – that’s us. Those who have ears to hear and those who just refuse to listen. Those who will make it to heaven and those who won’t.

Yes, it’s easy to begin to think that way. And it’s a mistake that’s been around a long time. Back in the 4th Century there was a widespread heresy called Donatism that claimed the good seed in this parable referred to the members of the Church, and so by definition there could be no weeds, no sinners, in the Church. They believed the Church could be composed only of good people; the rest of the world was simply evil. They were a bit like the Pharisees of Jesus’ time.

It took a St. Augustine to correct them, explaining that neither humanity nor the Church can be divided into children of light and children of darkness. We still hear echoes of this ancient heresy among some Christian groups who preach a kind of exclusivity: “Are you saved? If you’re one of us, you’re OK...otherwise…well, sorry but you’re condemned.”

St. Augustine, of course, was right. We all have both light and darkness within us – the wheat and the weeds growing together. The Church, you see, is really a kind of hospital, where we can be spiritually healed and made ready for our eternal journey. It’s a place where sinners grow and change by God's grace. That growth in grace may be agonizingly slow, like grain hidden in the soil, waiting to be watered, waiting to be nourished. But in its slowness, it also imitates the patience of God. For Jesus teaches that there’s still time, there’s always time, up until the very last moment of our lives.

Of course, for those of us in the winter of our lives, it makes sense to heed the words of St. Paul:

I tell you, brothers, the time is running out…for the world in its present form is passing away” [1 Cor 7:29,31].

Just as our lives, too, are passing away.

I recall reading an article about a young gang member from a broken family — no role models, no education, no opportunities, no hope, no future. One fateful day, in a fit of uncontrolled rage, he fatally stabbed his social worker, the one person who was trying to help him. Convicted of murder, he was sent to prison for life. Now middle-aged, he’s repented, sought forgiveness from his victim’s family, finished college, and was baptized and confirmed. He’ll remain in prison because that’s where man’s justice will keep him. But today he’s nothing like the violent young man he once was and can no longer be counted among the weeds. Who would have predicted this outcome? Nobody but Jesus Himself.

As Paul reminds us, the Lord turns all things to good for those who love Him [Rom 8:28]. And so, brothers and sisters, there’s good news for us in this Gospel — really good news. We won’t be struck by lightning the moment we sin, for God responds patiently and lovingly.

How blessed we are that we can look back, recognize our past sinfulness, and be forgiven in the sacrament of Reconciliation.

How blessed we are that God is patient, that He gives us time to change, time to make amends.

If we’re truly honest with ourselves and with God, most of us will admit that we were once weeds, and some of us that we’re still weeds. We try to hide our secrets, our sinfulness, because we’re ashamed of what we’ve done. We struggle to trust others because we can hardly trust ourselves. We play games with the truth, and too easily separate our words from our actions. And there are days when we slip back into our weed-like behavior. The result, quite simply, is that it’s hard to tell the wheat from the weeds.

If you look carefully, you can find the weeds in yourself and in others. And so, we remain sinners living among sinners. But the time will come when the sorting of the weeds from the wheat will be absolute, decisive, and final. Make no mistake about it: We will all be judged. But that judgment belongs to the master alone, not to the servants. God is in charge, not us, and His judgment is nothing at all like ours -- something for which we should be especially grateful. God is both just and merciful. He’s eager to forgive and to provide us with the grace we need to overcome our sinfulness and do His will in the world. We need only ask. Yes, He’s willing to wait for our repentance, to wait until the very last moment, for His patience is almost inexhaustible. And we can thank God for that.

Praised be Jesus Christ, now and forever.

Homily: Monday, 17th Week in Ordinary Time

Readings: Jer 13:1-11 • DT 32:18-21 • Mt 13:31-35
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The Kingdom of Heaven is where God works.

It’s the tiny seed that grows to be a tree, a home for birds.

"The Kingdom of Heaven is like a mustard seed...

It’s the little bit of yeast, the leaven that makes the dough rise.

"The Kingdom of Heaven is like yeast..."

Jesus uses these natural processes in His parables to give us some insight into the nature of God’s Kingdom. And to teach us that God’s work in the Kingdom involves cooperation on our part.

Notice that you and I are neither seed nor yeast. Instead, we're called to help God in His work, to water the seed, to knead the dough. But the great work -- the miracle of growth, the seed becoming the tree -- is not our doing; that’s God’s work. Yes, the Kingdom of Heaven is where God works.

Our part is small. And the more we realize that, the more we step aside and surrender, the more receptive we are to God’s work in our lives, the more the work of the Kingdom is accomplished. 

The wonderful thing about this great work of God’s Kingdom is that it starts from the smallest beginnings in the hearts of men and women who are receptive to God's word. 

Just like the seed germinating out of sight beneath the ground, God’s greatest work is unseen and causes a transformation from within. Just as the yeast transforms a lump of dough and produces rich and wholesome bread when baked, the kingdom of God transforms those who receive the new life Jesus Christ offers. 

When we yield our lives to God and allow His word to take root in our hearts, we’re transformed and made holy by the power of the Holy Spirit who dwells in us. St. Paul said it best: 

"...we have this treasure in earthen vessels, to show that the transcendent power belongs to God and not to us” [2 Cor 4:7]

In today’s brief parables Jesus reveals that His way is not at all spectacular; it’s a quiet way, a way of humility and love. Instead of seeking earthly power, Jesus went about healing sick and tormented people. Miracles, yes, but not spectacles, not the sort of miracles the world wants to see.

So many today urge us to follow them. They promise the world but produce nothing but dust…because the world can deliver nothing else. Indeed, almost everything about the Kingdom of Heaven is the opposite of what the world desires.  

Jesus described Himself as “the way, the truth, and the life” [Jn 14:6]. And the world? Well, it's exactly the opposite. Through its lies and its culture of death, it fills us with fear and leads us astray, away from our loving God. This is nothing new, as God reminds His prophet in today’s reading from Jeremiah:

“This wicked people…refuse to obey my words…walk in the stubbornness of their hearts, and follow strange gods to serve and adore them…they do not listen” [Jer 13:10-11].

Jeremiah: "They do not listen."

The world’s been rejecting God for a long time, but what the world seeks never lasts, while God’s Word never perishes. 

Do you see the false logic of the world? But the logic of the Gospel turns the world on its head. It’s the logic of worldly paradox, a logic the world can't understand. 

Only in the Kingdom of heaven are the first really the last, are the weak the strong, and the greatest the least.

Only in God’s Kingdom are the poorest the richest, and the lost saved. 

Only in God's Kingdom are the lowest the highest, and the meek inherit the earth.

Only in God's Kingdom, are the hungry satisfied and the persecuted blessed.

And to live there eternally, we must die, die to self.

In a word, what the world seeks, God rejects. 

So, take heart, brothers and sisters, because this is the Good News. This is the paradox we’re called to proclaim from the rooftops to all who will hear. That’s our work. God will do the rest through the transforming power of the Holy Spirit.

Our other work within the Kingdom is prayer. Under the influence of prayer you and I grow imperceptibly, so God can work in us, so His work of transformation continues far beyond our own meager efforts. 

Let’s pray today that we’ll be filled with the Holy Spirit, that He’ll transform us into the Christ-like holiness God desires. 

Let’s pray, too, that the Spirit increases our zeal for the Kingdom and instills in us a desire to live only for God’s greater glory.

Instead of being overcome by fear, be instead filled with the gift of faith that God offers us.

And at the end of each day, how about taking a moment to ask, “What did I do today to bring about the Kingdom?”

Homily: 26th Sunday in Ordinary Time - Year C

I have embedded a video of this homily here. The text is posted below the video.

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Readings: Am 6:1,4-7; Ps 146; 1 Tim 6:11-16; Lk 16:19-31

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Lazarus – it’s a name that means, “God has helped.”

Interesting, isn't it? In all of Jesus' parables, Lazarus is the only person who's given a name. It's as if Jesus wants to be sure we see the poor, the forgotten, the dispossessed, the helpless as unique human beings, as children of God with names attached. And yet Lazarus was almost invisible, wasn't he? Invisible, but he had a name.

After we've heard the parable a few times, we wonder how he ended up as he did. What did he do? Did they have drug addicts or alcoholics in first-century Galilee? I don't know, maybe, but probably not.

So, what happened to him? Had he been injured? No workman’s comp back then. Maybe that’s what happened. 

Was he a thief, like the dishonest steward in that other parable? Did he get fired? The word gets around doesn’t it? And no one else would hire him.

Maybe he just got sick. Or could he simply be one of those people who've always been like that? Always lost, never able to climb out of the depths.

Jesus doesn’t tell us, though, does He? 

But we 21^st-century Christians can’t help but wonder. He probably did something, or just refused to do anything.

We really don't know much about him, do we? Jesus simply tells us what he is, not how he got there. 

He has a name, though. His name is Lazarus.

Then there’s the rich man, tucked away in the warmth and comfort of his home. Yes, he was well-dressed, well-fed, well-rested…and he was also nameless.

Have you ever wondered why?

If Jesus had given him a name, well that’s who he’d be. And it would be harder to see ourselves in him, wouldn’t it? Easier to do if he doesn’t have a name. Maybe that's why he was nameless.

The rich man really doesn’t care about Lazarus, because he doesn’t even know he’s there. Yes, Lazarus is invisible, isn’t he? Even lying there right outside the door.

Did the rich man’s servants throw him a scrap or two? Doesn’t sound like it. Maybe one of them did. But we’ve all watched Downton Abbey, haven’t we? And seen how the servants can become more aristocratic than the aristocrats.

At least the dogs liked him…and licked his sores. I’m not really sure if that’s good or bad.

But then Lazarus dies, and he’s carried by angels into paradise, to the bosom of Abraham.

The rich man also dies, but he’s not so fortunate. He calls out to Abraham, “Have pity on me…for I am suffering torment in these flames.”

And it’s only in death that he learned about Lazarus.

Had the rich man mistreated Lazarus? No, he really did nothing to the poor man.

Did he swear at him, or yell at him? No, as far as we know he never said a world to Lazarus.

And to our knowledge he wasn’t like those rich folks the prophet Amos railed against. They cheated people. They stole from the poor. And they lied about it. But the rich man in the parable? He didn't do any of those things. He was just rich, and he lived well because he was rich.

He didn’t really see the poor around him. They were invisible, even the one lying at his doorstep, the one named Lazarus.

You see, brothers and sisters, it’s not always what we do, is it? It’s often what we fail to do. It’s our sins of omission that create that “great chasm” that can separate you and me from the salvation God desires for us. 

I think about that chasm sometimes, and all the omissions of my life, omissions that have deepened it and widened it.

And that’s when I remember a man named Willie.

It didn’t seem important, not at the time...

Just another poor man, dressed like the bums who came knocking at the door when I was a kid in New York.

That's what we called them then...bums.

Remember? You do if you’re old enough, and didn’t live in a fancy house with a fence and a gate to keep the riffraff out.

My mom would give them a sandwich, maybe a paper cup of lemonade, and always a paper napkin.

She’d talk to them too, just a few words of encouragement, a promise to pray, and always a smile.

Back in 1951, for about a year we lived in a little beachfront cottage right here in Florida, in Panama City Beach. 

It was very different in those days. The chain gangs would pass the house every afternoon - a black gang and then a white gang - they were segregated back then, even the chain gangs.

Mom would take paper cups and a pitcher of cold water or lemonade out to the road - Highway 98, a very quiet highway in 1951.

I'd sometimes tag along, just to see the prisoners, and the guard's shotgun.

Mom would ask the guard, "...if the boys could have some?”

He’d always say yes. And then, as she filled the cups, she’d smile at them and promise to pray.

Anyway, I guess I’d forgotten that the hungry need more than food, that the thirsty need more than drink.

It didn’t seem important. After all it’s a soup kitchen and folks like Willie came there for food. We always gave him a meal, a good hot meal, with a nice dessert, and seconds until we ran out.

That seemed like enough. It really did.

I even brought him coffee when he came in early, as he always did – cream, lots of sugar – just the way he liked it.

I carried the coffee to his table, so he didn’t have to get up. I thought that was pretty good on my part.

It didn’t seem important, at least not to me.

After all, I was working at the soup kitchen, doing God’s work, feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, doing those corporal works of mercy, being the good Christian God wants me to be.

I’d hand him that cup of hot coffee and I’d smell the booze, the old stale smell of cheap booze on his breath.

He’d slur a “thankya” but missing all those teeth he was hard to understand. So, I’d just nod and hurry back to the kitchen. I was busy.

I think I actually talked with him once. I guess I had the time that morning.

After I handed him his coffee, he looked up at me and said, “Pastor…”

He’d always call me, Pastor,” even though I told him, time and again, that I was a deacon at St. Vincent de Paul Church. I was not a pastor.

Anyway, this day he looked up at me and asked, “Pastor, do ya think I’ll go to heaven?"

“Sure,” I laughed, “of course, you will.”

We talked for maybe a minute, but it just didn’t seem important…

Until they found him lying there, early on that cold morning, one of those frozen mornings we sometimes get here in Florida in early February.

Curled up on the hard ground behind the bushes, with his face looking up.

He had died outside the door of the soup kitchen.

It just didn’t seem important to ask him about his life, to pray with him, or hug him, or tell him of God’s love for him.

...and so, I never did.

But after he died, I learned his name was Willie.

Homily: Mass and Healing Service -- 10 Macrh 2018

I was once again honored to be asked to preach at this special Mass on Saturday, March 10. Several times during the year we celebrate a Mass which is followed by a healing service. Saturday's Mass drew several hundred people. Most remained afterwards to join one of the many prayer teams located throughout the church. It was a wonderful morning, a morning enlightened by the hope and deep faith of those who took part, seeking God's healing presence in their lives and the lives of others. It was a morning of physical, emotional, and spiritual healing.

My homily was supposed to be available as a video, but a technical glitch resulted in a video with no associated audio. No great loss, unless you actually wanted to hear it. But for those few who might want to read it, I have included the entire homily below:
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Saturday 3rd Week of Lent
Readings: Hos 6:1-6; PS 51; Lk 18:9-14

Good morning, everyone...and praise God - praise Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. As always, it's wonderful to see so many here this morning, all of you open to God's healing presence. And we praise God too for this.

After the parish mission conducted a few weeks ago by Father Kevin, several people suggested that I might emulate that good Redemptorist priest by adding a bit of levity to my homilies. So I thought the following story just might do the trick.

Of course, most of us here today are old enough to remember the gasoline shortage back in the early 70s and the problems that resulted.

At the very peak of that shortage two nuns were driving the convent station wagon along a state highway when they ran out of gas. One turned to the other and said, "Sister, you're so much younger, would you mind walking back to that gas station we just passed and seeing if you can get some gas?" The younger sister replied, "I'll be happy to do so," and left.

When she got to the station, she posed her problem to the harried attendant who just shook his head and said, "Sister, I'd love to help you, but the problem is we've run out of gas cans. But, you know, there's a pile of junk and debris behind the station. Why don't you go back there and see if you can find a suitable container? If you do, I'll give you some gas."

She agrees and pokes her way through the pile, but all she can find is an old bedpan. She wipes the dust out of it and takes it to the attendant. He fills it with regular and she carries it back to the car.

As she's pouring the gas into the tank, two Methodist ministers drive by, and one says to the other, "By God, there's faith for you."

Coming together here this morning perhaps this little story will remind us of the angel's words to Mary: "...for nothing will be impossible for God."

And especially today, smack dab in the middle of Lent, it's fitting that we should focus on God's will and His power and His love as we turn to our Lord in need of healing, every kind of healing: physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual.

Remember those words of Jesus you heard on Ash Wednesday? "Repent and believe in the Gospel." This, too, is a call to healing, for repentance is the first step on the path to spiritual healing.

Our readings today certainly turn us in that direction, don't they? How wonderful, how providential that God's Word proclaimed here today touches on faith, and healing, and repentance, and prayer, and humility, and hope. Could we ask for anything more fitting today as we - and, brothers and sisters, that's all of us, for we are all in need of healing - as we turn prayerfully to our loving, merciful God?

I've long been a big fan of Pope St. John Paul II, largely because of his message of hope, a message he never ceased preaching. It was a message that inevitably began with the words of the Gospel, words Jesus expressed to so many: "Be not afraid."

If the heart of the Christian is to be filled with the hope God desires for us, it must first expel all fear.

"Be not afraid!" [Mt 14:27, et al.]

We fear so much, don't we? We fear that over which we have no control. We fear the known and the unknown in our lives. We even fear ourselves. Indeed, fear creeps into our hearts like a thief, trying to steal all hope, all faith. And yet, as St. John Paul reminded us, we should have no fear because, quite simply, we have been redeemed by God. Listen to his words:

"The power of Christ's Cross and Resurrection is greater than any evil which man could fear."

That power, you see, gives us hope, for only hope, the great theological virtue, this divine gift -- only hope drives fear from our hearts.

But hope does something else, something greater still. My mother used to say: "Hope moves us; it moves us to faith."  She was quite the theologian when it came to such practical matters. I think that stemmed from her vocation as an RN, a nurse forced to confront the practical issues of life and death. And, in truth, theology should always be practical. It should always help us navigate the path to salvation. Otherwise it's just an academic exercise.

Anyway, getting back to hope - that's what repentance is. It's a sign, an image, of hope. The very fact that we can repent of our sinfulness means that we hope for forgiveness. Indeed, it is our hope that calls us to repentance.

We see this brought to life in our first reading from Hosea, the last prophet of the Northern Kingdom, a prophet called by God to experience in his own life the same unfaithfulness that God experiences when we turn away from Him. Yes, Hosea's marriage to Gomer became a sign, a crying out against all Israel. And yet, despite his broken heart, Hosea becomes the prophet of love.

As Hosea ransomed Gomer, God will ransom us

He reminds us that the God of creation is in love with His creature, in love with those who draw their very life from Him, in love with those who have nothing to give Him. God's forgiveness, God's mercy is not the result of pity or mere compassion; it's the result of love, a love beyond all human imagining. Hosea pleads to God's people:

"Come, let us return to the Lord. It is he who has rent, but he will heal us; he has struck us, but he will bind our wounds. He will revive us after two days; on the third day he will raise us up, to live in his presence" [Hos 6:1-2].

To heal, to bind, to raise up.

It's in this prophetic prayer of repentance that Hosea calls a rebellious people to conversion, that he calls all of us today to conversion.

It's a prayer of hope...the same hope we encounter in today's Gospel passage from Luke.

Jesus offers a parable. He presents us with two men, a Pharisee and a tax collector, two men who represented polar opposites in the mind of the average 1st century Jew. But Jesus, as He does so often, turns everything upside down.

Jesus contrasts a prideful Pharisee, focused on the meticulous, external fulfillment of the Law, with a tax collector, a public sinner despised by all, and yet driven to repentance by humility, by reality. For that's what humility is. It's the grasp of reality, a true understanding of our relationship with God, an awareness of His goodness and our sinfulness.

The Pharisee and the Tax Collector

Both men approach God in the Temple, and both begin to pray. The first thing we notice is how they pray, that the content of their hearts drives their approach to prayer, and even shows up in their posture.

The Pharisee stands erect, right up front where he can be seen and heard, and not just by God.

And the tax collector? He stands "far off" bent over in humility, beating his breast in repentance.

Not surprisingly, out of those two very different hearts come very different words.

The Pharisee, brimming over with self-congratulatory praise, seems to be praying not to God but to himself. And from his words we come to understand that a heart filled only with itself must despise others. Since the Pharisee believes himself righteous, his heart sees no need for humility, for repentance, for conversion.

He's simply perfect, just the way he is. Yes, such is always the way for those who refuse to accept the fact of their dependence on God.

And then, we hear the simple, humble prayer of the tax collector - "O God, be merciful to me a sinner" [Lk 18:13] - and immediately we recognize it for what it is. It's a prayer of poverty, of spiritual poverty, a prayer that shows us what Jesus meant when He said, "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven" [Mt 5:3].

We see in his words a foreshadowing of the ancient, Eastern Jesus Prayer - "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner." - another prayer of reality.

The tax collector, you see, has that firm grasp of reality. "Oh God, be merciful..." He knows who God is, mercy personified. "...to me a sinner." And he knows who he is, simply a sinner. In his prayer he remains himself, and he lets God be Himself. And then he leaves it at that, trusting in God's mercy, trusting in God's forgiveness.

Brothers and sisters, his prayer, too, is a prayer of hope, the kind of hope that brought you here today. If you had no hope of healing, would you be here?

A Healing Community

Are we here, filled with hope, coming together in a healing community, a community dedicated to extending God's love to all in need?

Is this why we're here -- driven by hope and moved to faith, yearning for God's Presence?

Do I throw myself at the feet of our Lord Jesus Christ, and beg for the mercy I know I don't deserve?

Or do I come here, as yet unmoved, and just pleading, "Why me, Lord?" It's a question that smacks a bit of the Pharisee's attitude, isn't it? -- as if in my goodness I don't deserve this misfortune.

I suppose these are the questions we're all faced with today.

Think about your answer as you come forward today to receive our Lord's precious Body and Blood, the gift of His Presence until the end of the age. For Christ's Eucharistic Presence, is also a gift of hope, one that moves us to the faith that heals.

God's Healing Presence in the Eucharist

Be not afraid, brothers and sisters, and just open your heart to God's healing Presence.