Homily: Funeral Mass for Deacon Byron Otradovec, T.O.C.

Note: Early Easter Sunday morning our parish community lost a holy man, Deacon Byron Otradovec, 92, a man I often called my BFF (Best Florida Friend). Byron had spent the past six years in a local extended care facility, part of that time with his wonderful wife, Mary Ann, who died in 2019. 

30 years ago, Byron was the first deacon assigned to St. Vincent de Paul, at the time a mission of St. Lawrence Parsh in Bushnell, Florida. I joined him eight years later as the second deacon, and found a dear friend, an older, wiser brother, and a teacher. A man devoted to serving all, especially those struggling through difficult circumstances, Byron recognized the presence of God in everyone he met. 

I was blessed to be asked to preach at Byron's funeral yesterday. My homily follows...

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Readings: Wis 3:1-6,9; Ps 23; 2 Cor 5:1,6-10; Mt 5:1-12a

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Bishop Noonan, on behalf of Marcia, John, and the Otradovec family, I thank you for being here today to celebrate this funeral mass for one of our own, for our beloved Deacon Byron.

And to you, Marcia and John, I know Bishop Noonan, Fathers Kenny and John, and all my brother deacons join me in extending our loving condolences to you and to Byron’s entire family. 

This has been a sorrowful time for you all, and I know, too, that words are never enough. Indeed, my words here today will soon be forgotten, but not God’s Word, for it never perishes. It remains to nourish us, to heal us, strengthen us, to give us hope. And so today, present here in our midst, Our Lord Jesus offers His peace and divine love.

I can only imagine how much you miss your dad and grandfather, but if you let Him, God will fill this emptiness in the very heart of your family. He'll fill it with His grace, bringing with it His peace and His enduring love. Today I, too, am in need of it, for I loved Byron. He was my friend, my slightly older big brother.

When I arrived here 21 years ago, Byron had already been ministering at St. Vincent de Paul for 8 or 9 years. Of course, back then we were a mission, part of St. Lawrence Parish in Bushnell.

Byron was really the first person I encountered here. Diane and I saw this deacon greeting people after Mass. Just seeing his kindliness, his smile, his warmth…well, we knew we were home. The next day, after meeting with Father Peter Sagorski, Byron and I met officially.

As you might expect, he began by giving me one of his entrapping hugs. I think he was just happy to welcome another deacon. Then he looked at me seriously and said:

“There’s a lot to do here…a lot of good. Will you work with me and do it?”

How could anyone turn down a request like that?

And so, with the blessing of our bishop, I joined Deacon Byron and Father Peter here at St. Vincent de Paul.

It didn’t take long before Byron and I learned a lot about each other. He’d served in the Army for 42 years – oh and coincidentally (or maybe not), he also served 42 years as a deacon. He enlisted during the Korean War, working his way up through the ranks, then to OCS, and ultimately retiring as a LTCOL. Yes, quite a span, serving during Korea, Vietnam, and Desert Storm.

I told him I’d spent 27 years in a Navy uniform and retired as a Captain. And then jokingly remarked, “Of course, that means I outrank you.” Without missing a beat, he said, “Not here you don’t.” And then added, “Here, we’re all rank-less; we’re all just servants.”

Yes, Byron was always teaching me.

I also learned he was a very active Third Order Carmelite, and involved too with Food for the Poor. He and Mary Ann often spend weeks in the Caribbean – Haiti, Jamaica… serving the poor and those too often forgotten by the rest of us.

One day I asked him about opportunities to minister in the local community, beyond the parish walls. He thought for a moment and suggested: “You might try the soup kitchen in Wildwood.”

I really didn’t think much of it until I got home that afternoon. Diane greeted me by saying: “Oh, I signed us up to volunteer at the Wildwood Soup Kitchen.” Assuming she and Byron had conspired, I asked her, “Where’d you hear about that?” Her response: “There was a notice in the parish bulletin asking for volunteers.”

Yes, indeed, the Holy Spirit works in remarkable ways, doesn’t He? And thanks to my friend, Byron, and my wife, Diane, I began to love and learn from those in need. We cooked and fed and ministered there for 16 years.

It didn’t take me long to discover that Byron had a way of teaching you what you thought you already knew. He’d bring it to life simply by doing it and showing you what it really meant. For he was a man always looking to others, one who recognized the seeds of holiness in them, encouraging and loving them.

MaryAnn was the perfect companion. For 64 years, they prayed together, ministered together, and served the Church and the People of God…together. Of course, as Byron aged, and especially after the death of MaryAnn in 2019, his earthly dwelling, that tent, as Paul called it, began to weaken. He lost a leg, but with his prosthesis did his daily physical therapy…and never complained. But few were as ready as Byron to return to the Father. I got the sense that, like Paul, he “would rather leave the body and go home to the Lord.”

I think he spent six years at Cypress Care, a year together with MaryAnn and five more after she died.

I tried to visit him frequently, because he always wanted to know what was happening in the parish. But if I were home, enjoying a good book and maybe a glass of cabernet, and thinking, I suppose I should visit Byron soon, inevitably the phone would ring.

His timing was truly amazing: “When are you coming by?” he’d ask, “Oh, and bring me the Eucharist. It’s been a few days since I’ve received Our Lord.”

Yes, Deacon Byron was always teaching me.

Every few weeks I’d raid my library and take him another book, something I knew he’d enjoy. The next time I’d visit, he’d want to talk about it, share his thoughts, and listen to mine. Then he’d ask, “What are you doing now in your BibIe Study.” I’d tell him, and he’d just serve up some of the most remarkable insights about whatever book we were studying.

But in a lot of ways, Byron was a true blue-collar deacon. He was like the Apostles – a tax collector and a collection of fisherman, not a philosopher among them. Like Byron, they were men of the people, men who sat at Jesus’ feet and listened as He preached the Beatitudes to the crowd, a crowd made up of folks just like them.

Years ago, while we were sharing some of our military experiences, I said something like, “Byron, I guess we we're both peacemakers.” He laughed and said, “I suppose so. But that’s just one slice of what it means to be a Christian. We have to let it all change us."

I then saw the look, and knew I was in for a mini-homily. Later, I jotted down some of what he said.

“To be poor in spirit is to turn from ourselves and comfort those in need, those who mourn, who’ve been overcome by the sorrows and tragedies of their lives.

“We deacons must be meek, yet strong enough to resist the world, strong enough to help others do the same.

“So many hunger and thirst today, so many seek mercy from those who care nothing about them. We must care, and do whatever needs to be done.

“Can we cleanse our hearts so we can worthily serve others, even when it hurts.

“Can we accept the persecutions, and help others through them, the persecutions that are here now and those that are coming?”

In those words, and perhaps a few more, Byron presented the Beatitudes as something very personal and diaconal, making them acts of service.

Yes, Byron was always teaching me.

He and Pope Francis shared more than their return to the Father this Easter. For both understood the call to service, service to the poor, the hungry, the world’s forgotten.

Byron and I prayed together during my visits, always calling on the Holy Spirit to shower us with His gifts. We would usually conclude with Byron recalling Paul’s famous words from Romans 8:

“We know that all things work for good for those who love God, who are called according to His purpose.”

Indeed, life in all its joys and sorrows is a gift, just as Byron’s life was a gift to all of us who knew him.

Don’t get me wrong, though. Like you and I, Deacon Byron wasn’t perfect. But those imperfections we carry around with us …most aren’t horrible things; they’re just human things. As we discover in the Gospel, Jesus, our judge, is remarkably tolerant of them. Yes, those imperfections we notice in others are really the things in our lives that call for forgiveness and acts of love.

And so, this funeral Mass is less a celebration of Byron’s life as it is an act of worship, an act of Eucharistic worship in the form of thanksgiving. 

Today we turn to our loving and merciful God and thank Him for the gift of this dear man’s unique, unrepeatable life, a life we were blessed to both witness and share. But even more important, as Christians, whenever we gather in prayer, we thank our God for the gift of His Son, Who gave His life for us.

For without that gift, we would have no hope…no hope of forgiveness, no hope of mercy, no hope of salvation, no hope of eternal life.

It’s because of this gift that we can gather here today and not be consumed by grief.

Because of this gift we don’t despair.

Because of this gift we can go on…We can continue with our own lives knowing that Byron, and you and I have been redeemed by our Lord, Jesus Christ.

Yes, sisters and brothers, Byron’s was a life well lived. He savored that life, that gift, and accepted its challenges and joys, and the pain and suffering that accompanied his final years. How did the Book of Wisdom put it? 

God tried Byron and found him worthy...

Today we ask our Lord Jesus to take Deacon Byron, his “good and faithful servant,” into His loving embrace. We ask Him to take away the pain, to wipe away the tears, and give him the first taste of that eternal joy we all hope to share.

Homily: Mass and Healing Service - Tuesday 32nd Week in Ordinary Time

Good evening, everyone…and praise God – praise Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

It’s wonderful to see so many here tonight; all open to God’s healing presence. Praise God too for this. We’re gathered here in Jesus’ name, so we know He’s with us. And where Jesus is, so too is the Father, for they are One, One with the Holy Spirit.

When we turn to Scripture, we find the Holy Spirit inspiring, revealing, anointing, and counseling. He does it all. He’s the “Lord and giver of life,” the fount of Truth and Wisdom, the sanctifier, the source of sacramental grace, the manifestation of God’s power in the world. When Jesus rejoiced, He rejoiced in the Spirit. When He prayed, He prayed filled with the Spirit. And when he healed, the Spirit acted through Him.

And so, tonight, confident that the Holy Spirit is here among us, present in His power and glory, we turn to Him, the Divine Healer, for healing is among the Spirit’s greatest works. God knows how much we all need healing – healing of body, mind, and spirit; so He sends His Spirit into the world to heal all who come to Him.

The Gospels and Acts are filled with healings, but those healings all so very different. All kinds of people come to Jesus – men and women; young and old; Jews and Gentiles – all seeking His healing touch. Some come on their own, some are brought to Him by others, by family or friends, and some are healed at a distance.

But for all of them it was through the power of the Holy Spirit that Jesus healed. St. Peter confirmed this when preaching to the centurion Cornelius and his household, he said:

“God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and power. He went about doing good and healing all…” (Acts 10:38)

Where Jesus is, so too is the Holy Spirit. And together they heal us all.

This came to mind when reading Paul’s Letter to Titus. Titus, a Gentile Christian who had journeyed with Paul, had been placed in charge of building the Christian community on the island of Crete. It’s a brief letter, but it’s packed with advice and suggestions designed to help Titus as he struggles to instill Christian virtue in a people who’d long been ensnared by the “godless ways” and “lawlessness” of a pagan society.

Paul begins by stating that their faith must be grounded in sound doctrine. In other words, they must listen to the apostolic Church and accept its teaching authority. Then Paul looks at the community in Crete, dividing it into age-related groups: older men, older women, younger women, and younger men. In effect Paul tells Titus, the Christian community must be self-supporting, with each person using inherent gifts and strengths to support the others.

Older men, a group I’m all too familiar with, must exercise temperance and self-control, so their love for God, family, spouse, are a living product of their faith. Yes, faith and love are inseparable.

Paul tells younger men to emulate the control and integrity of the older men they admire. Elsewhere, to the Ephesians, Paul instructs all husbands, old and young:

“...love your wives, even as Christ loved the church and handed himself over for her…” (Eph 5:25)

Did you hear that, husbands? Your love must be sacrificial. Just think about that...

For Paul, older women are called to be reverent teachers, models of goodness – no slander, ladies, and as for drink, easy on the pinot grigio. Their behavior should be an example to others, especially younger women, who look to them for guidance.

As for the younger women, they should love their husbands and children, for they are called to be chaste, self-controlled, and good homemakers. We don’t realize how different it was for a woman at that time. She was her children’s teacher, preparing them in every way for adult life, teaching them the faith. She tended her gardens, and much of what she needed and used in the home, she made herself. Being a homemaker with no electricity, no plumbing, no grocery store, was more than a full-time job.

Then Paul writes the phrase that bothers so many: “to be…under the control of their husbands.” Yes, for us today, when equality reigns, and many women work outside the home in every profession, it seems more than a little dated.

But we should understand exactly what Paul was really telling the people of his time, and our time. In a good Christian marriage husband and wife must be of one mind on all the important things that affect the life of their family. How they raise their children, the family’s spiritual life, their shared sense of morality, how they interact with others, both within and outside the Christian community. If a husband and wife disagree on these, the marriage and the family’s faith will suffer.

Paul’s really telling Titus that, regardless of age, our love for God and each other is manifested by our willingness to serve each other and all those He places in our lives.

Now, you might be asking yourself, “How does all this relate to healing? After all, I’m here tonight because I need God’s healing grace.” Well, let’s turn to our Gospel passage from Luke. How did Jesus put it?

“We are unworthy servants; we have only done what was our duty” (Lk 17:10).

And that highlights the problem, for the servant is focused not on himself, but on another.

Sisters and brothers, when we’re hurting, when we’re in desperate need of healing, we tend to turn inward. It doesn’t matter if we’re suffering from physical illness and pain, or emotional and mental stress. Or perhaps we find ourselves wandering aimlessly in a spiritual desert, that our soul, darkened by sin, needs the merciful touch of God’s forgiveness. In the grip of suffering, and in our humanity, we turn inward, toward our suffering, hoping, somehow, for healing and relief.

But Jesus, in that paradoxical, counter-intuitive way of His calls us to do otherwise. He calls us to turn outward, to turn to Him in faith and to others in love.

We often receive healing when

we pray for the healing of others

God knows exactly what we need, but do we know? What kind of healing do you need? What do I need? We’re so sure we know, aren’t we? Often enough, especially in this community, it’s our bodies. They just don’t hold up do they? Illness, injury, and age all take their toll. We turn to God in our suffering and our fears, in our aches and pains, our illnesses, in the trials of our children, in the sometimes-shattered lives of those we love…and we pray for healing.

We don’t understand the why of this suffering, or why God doesn’t just take it away. And so we pray, but not very well. As St. Paul reminded us:

“We do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit itself intercedes with inexpressible groanings” (Rom 8:26).

Now that’s amazing, isn’t it? Because we don’t know how to pray, the Holy Spirit prays for us, intercedes for us, within the Trinity itself. Can there be anything greater?

The son of some close friends was a young man named John. He died at 41 after a lifetime of suffering from a genetic disease. Believe me when I say that John, the father of four, is a saint, because it’s true. He was one of the saintliest people I’ve ever known.

Despite a lifetime of pain and suffering he refused to let his illness define him. Once, asked if he were angry with God because of his illness, John replied, "Of course not. Why would I be angry at God for the greatest gift He's ever given me?" Unlike most of us, John realized early in life that everything is a gift, especially life itself.

Almost 50 years ago, I flew home to Cape Cod from the Philippines because my mom was dying. As I entered her hospital room, she looked up and said, “Now I can die.” We talked for a while, and she told me, “Son, everything is a gift, even this horrible disease, because it’s taught me so much.” She died that night.

My mom and young John personified those famous words of St. Paul:

"We know that all things work for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose (Rom 8:28).

Both spent their lives fulfilling that purpose by serving and praying for others, suffering for others. And here I am, 80 years old, still praying that someday I may have such faith. As my wife, Diane, will be happy to tell you, I’m not a very good sufferer.

So, look to those seated around you, and realize you’re not alone. For they, too, are suffering. How can you serve each other? Will you pray for them, demonstrate your love for them?

There will be healings here today. Some of you have come for physical and emotional healing. And there will be some of those. But every one of us here today needs spiritual healing, healing of the soul, the healing that comes from total surrender to God. With that surrender, that abandonment, "God will fully supply whatever you need…”

Are you willing to make an act of surrender, an act of abandonment, and take all that you have, all that you are, and lay it at Jesus’ feet? He wants it all, you know, out of a love so great it’s beyond our understanding. He wants us to mirror His redemptive act of love by sharing in the crosses that we each must bear.

Do we recognize the power of the collective faith and prayers of our community? Do we trust that God can do the same for us as faithful, prayerful people who lift others up in their need?

After Mass we’ll have a laying on of hands. Come forward. Turn your heart and mind to Jesus Christ. Give Him permission to come into your life, to work His will within you.

“Heal me, Lord, and heal these others who come to you.” 

Let that be your prayer. 

“Heal us all, Lord, of all that’s keeping us from being one with you.”

Trust God, brothers and sisters, for He knows your heart.

Praised be Jesus Christ…now and forever.

Homily: 29th Sunday in Ordinary Time - Year B

Readings: Is 53:10-11; Ps 33; Heb 4:14-16; Mk 10:35-45

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One hot summer day in 1941, in the infamous death camp of Auschwitz in southern Poland, the Nazis sentenced 10 prisoners to die by starvation in retaliation for an escape. One of the ten had a wife and children, so a 47-year-old Polish, Franciscan priest offered himself in his place. The man's number was crossed off the list and the priest's inserted: number 16670.

That very day ten men entered the starvation bunker, just an underground pit -- no light, no air, no food, no clothing, nothing…nothing but the love of God radiating from one simple priest. Two weeks later they injected him with a fatal dose of carbolic acid, then incinerated his wasted body on the feast of the Assumption. Forty-two years ago, on October 10, 1982, Pope John Paul II celebrated the canonization of this man, St. Maximilian Kolbe.

Maximilian lived the Gospel to the fullest, conformed his will to God’s, regardless of consequences, and answered God’s call personally, without question. Only a few are called to give witness to God's love as martyrs, although their numbers have increased greatly in recent years. But the word “martyr” simply means witness, and we’re all called to witness, and sometimes to lead radically Christian lives in the circumstances in which God places us.

Sometimes the Gospel message almost knocks us flat with its firm but unmistakably clear demands.

Sometimes it shakes the very foundation of our world, turning our lives upside down.

Just consider the Zebedee boys, James and John, in today’s Gospel passage. Jesus had just told His Apostles, for the third time, about His passion, death, and resurrection. Their response? Silence. This just isn’t something they want to think about. So, instead of focusing on Jesus and what He has just told them, they change the subject, to their favorite subject: themselves. Don’t you just love how the two brothers approach Jesus?

“…we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.”

But they don’t really ask, do they? No, then they give Our Lord an order, as if they’re in charge:

"Grant that in your glory we may sit one at your right and the other at your left." 

They simply tell Jesus exactly what they want. Sadly, it reminds me of the way I sometimes pray. Do you ever do that, just give God orders? I not only tell Him what to do, but how to do it.

"Dear Lord, I’ve got this problem, and here’s how I want you to solve it…"

Like many of us, James and John don’t seem to be overflowing with humility, do they? Convinced they had earned it, they demanded prime seats, essentially telling Jesus:  Lord, seat us in glory right beside you. We’re your special ones, Jesus. These other guys…well, they’re okay, but they really don’t measure up, do they?

Like these two brothers, we too are often driven by pride, aren’t we? Even those seeking holiness can fall prey to a kind of spiritual greed. So, Jesus gives them the first of two lessons. Because they don’t know what they are asking, Jesus first tells them what their demand means.

They must first drink from the Lord’s chalice, and undergo His baptism of suffering, something that they had not yet understood or accepted. 

Ironically it was James, the elder son of Zebedee, who was the first of the apostolic martyrs. Perhaps he and his brother would have understood had they actually listened to Jesus and also pondered the words of Isaiah from our first reading. 

Yes, hundreds of years before the Incarnation, God reveals, through His prophet, what the Son of God made man must suffer to redeem the world of its sins. Just a moments ago we heard these prophetic words…

“…through his suffering, my servant shall justify many, and their guilt he shall bear.”

But I suspect Isaiah’s Suffering Servant was far from the minds of James and John. They couldn’t imagine Jesus, in an act of divine humility, emptying Himself, suffering, and dying on a Cross, like a slave, before entering His Kingdom.

The other Apostles were no different. Upset with the brothers, they were really driven by the same motivations: Lord, we’re just as good as those two.

And with that, Jesus teaches calls them all together and teaches His second, more important, and more challenging lesson:

“…whoever wishes to be first among you will be the slave of all.”

Is there a more politically incorrect word today than slave? And yet, here’s Jesus, telling His Apostles, and telling us, to be like slaves. We are slaves, you know. That's why Christ can ransom us through His suffering. Someone truly free doesn’t need to be ransomed, but slaves do.

You see, like James, John, and the others, we too can become self-absorbed, something that will ultimately enslave us, enslave us to sin. Jesus is telling us to turn away from ourselves and turn to others. From a worldly perspective St. Maximilian was enslaved by the Nazis; and yet, in truth, his faith made him free, free to offer himself, Christ-like, and give his life to ransom the life of another.

The call Jesus extended to the Apostles, and its example manifested by St. Maximilian while surrounded by the evil of Auschwitz, is a call to love, a call of loving humility. It’s a message that the Apostles ultimately learned and lived, and one that we must learn as well.

My dad once told me, humility is the foundational virtue that supports all other virtues. Lacking humility, the value of any virtue is lessened. If, for example, a wealthy person gives generously to charity or the Church but is motivated solely by the public recognition he receives, the poor may certainly reap some benefit. But what about the giver's soul? 

And then Dad followed this thought with another: “Humility’s a very strange commodity, because once you know you have it, you just lost it.”

Yes, it's funny, but he was right. You don’t hear saints talking about their humility, because they know that true humility merely reflects reality, divine reality. God created each of us in a divine act of love; but created each no better than the other. Yes, we are all so very valuable, everyone from conception until natural death must be loved and protected. To grasp this perhaps every morning we should all read the final verses of chapter 25 of Matthew’s Gospel, the only place in Scripture where the last judgment is described in any detail.

“For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, ill and you cared for me, in prison and you visited me.”

Jesus is telling us how valuable we all are, that He became one of us, took on our human nature, so we should see Him, the divine, creative and incarnate Word of God, in everyone we encounter. God calls us to love Him and each other, and in return for our response, for our submission to His Will, He promises a treasure far greater than you and I can ever imagine.

Here I am, after 80 years of a life with very little suffering, it’s easy to consider opting for a finishing leisure and just sit back and enjoy the rest of my days. But then the Spirit calls to mind St. Maximilian, the Apostles, so many others, and especially the world-redeeming suffering of our Lord, Jesus Christ. And so we ask: What does God have in store for each of us? As He revealed in our reading from Hebrews, we can only…

“…confidently approach the throne of grace to receive mercy and to find grace for timely help.”

Yes, we all plead for God’s timely help during these times of our lives, as we struggle to be seen worthy of the gift. 

But only arms that are empty of self can stretch out to receive that gift…just as St. Maximilian did when he held out his arm for that fatal injection. And just as Jesus did when He emptied Himself giving everything on the Cross.

"I am the way, the truth, and the life," Jesus tells us; therefore, nothing should take precedence over Christ in our lives, over His right to rule over our hearts. For that which we place first in our lives – when it is not God – becomes a prison. And that's the paradox: only as servants, as servants of God and each other, can we experience true freedom.

Homily: Saturday, 20th Week in Ordinary Time

Readings: Ez 43:1- • Ps 85 • Mt 23:1-12

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Today we celebrate St. Bernard of Clairvaux, a 12^th-century monk who had a powerful influence on the Cistercian reform of the Benedictines. He never turned away from conflict and criticized the Benedictines for their wealth and what he considered their lax spiritual life. He also received a lot of after-the-fact, and probably unfair, criticism for his strong support of the Second Crusade, an effort that ended in disaster.

But despite all this, he had a very positive impact on the Church during those challenging times. He was also a true mystic, and his writings, especially his work on the Love of God, are still widely read today. Indeed, we told that Pope John XXIII read from St. Bernard’s work every evening.

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When we hear Jesus castigating the Pharisees and Scribes, we must be wary of the tendency to believe His words were aimed solely at those men whom Jesus encountered so often.

But what Jesus has to say in this passage shouldn’t be thought of only as a diatribe against people in the past, those nasty Scribes and Pharisees. Doing so, we forget that it’s for our benefit and reflection that these words of Jesus have been included in the Gospel. Indeed, the same attitudes were found among the early Christians just as they are all too common today. Yes, the Gospels were written to us and for us.

We must also realize Jesus wasn't attacking every Scribe and every Pharisee. Afer all, they included many good men, just and honest men like Gamaliel (Acts 5) and Nicodemus (Jn 3). Jesus is really attacking wrong attitudes that are behind the hypocrisy and sinfulness so common then and now.

He turns first to those in authority, and challenges them to practice what they preach. He sees through their open hypocrisy, that "all their works are performed to be seen" [Mt 23:5], that they relish the attention and honors they receive.

Hearing these words of Our Lord, I'm forced to look at myself and examine my own attitudes. Of course, we deacons don't pack a lot of authority, and that's as it should be. The very meaning of our title is "servant." But maybe that's the problem. After all, how often do I remind myself that I am called only to serve?

I hear Jesus' words about relishing "greetings in the marketplaces, and the salutation 'Rabbi'" [Mt 23:7]. Now I'm no rabbi, but I can hardly go to Publix without someone greeting me as "Deacon" and too often saying nice things about me. Do I relish these greetings? It's hard not to, so I usually ask the other to pray for me and the ministry to which God has called me, reminding myself that His call and all that comes with it is undeserved. It's still hard, until God, in His own unique way, humbles me. He does that a lot.

How about you? do you really accept, as Jesus reminds us, that we are all brothers and sisters in Christ, adopted children of the Father? Do we accept that any differences among us, any human achievements (all that human "greatness") and any talents -- that these are all gifts, that none of us is greater than another. For as Jesus commands:

"The greatest among you must be your servant. Whoever exalts himself will be humbled; but whoever humbles himself will be exalted” [Mt 23:11-12].

If we pay attention to our reading from the prophet Ezekiel, perhaps we can better understand this command. After all, when placed in God’s presence, as Ezekiel was, it’s hard not to be humbled. Ezekiel was reminded that God, despite the sinfulness of His people, remain with them always. Once again, the covenant is renewed. And it’s renewed again and again, but it’s never God who breaks it, for God is merciful and forgiving. The final covenant, the New Covenant, will be made through Jesus Christ, the Incarnate Son of God, Who pours out His blood for the love of us all.

As we learn from Ezekiel, the glory of the Lord is always ready to enter our lives, if only we humble ourselves before Him. We are called, then, to follow the example of Our Lord. We are called to humble ourselves just as He did – our God Who emptied Himself to become one of us.

Today He humbles Himself further as He comes to us, Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity, but in the simple form of bread and wine so we may take Him to us, that our God may reside within us: the Son, in the Father, through the Spirit.

We are on our way, brothers and sisters. But we must become the Church of the meek, a Church of the humble that approaches God in repentance. It’s what we’re called to do. God allows us, the faithful, to “start afresh…from the beginning,” to forgive sinners and embrace and console the innocents, to share the Good News, and do so in faith, in humility, and in love.

Homily: Saturday, 11th Week in Ordinary Time

Readings: 2 Chr 24:17-25; Ps 89; Mt 6:24-34

Over the years, as I’ve re-read and meditated on these words of Jesus, I’ve come to the conclusion that everyone, every single human being, is a servant. Now, this was no great theological insight on my part, since the Church has been telling us this from its very beginning. It just took me a while to figure it out.

We all serve, whether or not we actually choose to do so. We serve because we are creatures, created beings, and instinctively look to something greater than ourselves. And yet, despite our status as servants, God has given us the freedom to choose.

The question, though, is not: Will I serve? No, the important question is: Whom will I serve? Will I serve Him who promises life and joy? Or will I make an idol, a false god unworthy of my service? In my freedom, what choice will I make? Will I choose the Way, the Truth, and the Life? Or will I choose the father of lies? That’s what it really boils down to.

You see, we’re all created as children of God, to belong to Him completely. Of course, this bothers many people today, whose mistaken concept of freedom leads them to believe they are dependent on no one. Rejecting God, Who brought them into being, they turn themselves into little gods, who will not serve. The irony of it all escapes them: for they remain servants, but servants of some lesser god.

But in today’s Gospel passage Jesus doesn’t seem to be speaking to those who reject God completely, those who choose to serve only another. He’s speaking to His disciples. He’s speaking to us, to the ones who too often believe we can divide our allegiances. How did Jesus put it?

“No one can serve two masters…You cannot serve God and mammon” [Mt 6:24]

At the deepest level I think we all realize this, even though we spend very little time there. To do so can be painful as we encounter the truth about ourselves. And so, we stick to the surface, for it’s there that the world talks to us, telling us we can feed our addictions to all that the world offers, and still be “spiritual.”

We deceive ourselves into believing that we actually serve God, while loving not God but the world. We convince ourselves we can serve Him because we’re strong enough to resist evil, good enough to do good in the world, and spiritual enough to turn to God in occasional prayer and worship…all while we embrace the world, that other master.

But Jesus tells us: No! You can’t serve both. You must choose, choose the One or the other. By trying to serve two masters, we end up serving neither, therefore achieving nothing, certainly nothing lasting. Jesus calls us to make a choice: serve God or serve yourself. And if you serve yourself, your life will be defined by fruitless worry and anxiety.

In the ten verses of today’s Gospel passage, Jesus tells us again and again not to worry, just as He tells us throughout the Gospel not to fear. Worry is simply another form of fear, another symptom of our lack of faith. That’s what fear and worry are, the very opposite of faith. We spend so much of our lives worrying about and planning our future, our material, earthly future while neglecting our spiritual present.

As Christians, as disciples of Jesus Christ, we are called to trust, to turn to God in all things and live His great commandment. We are not called to love money, or fame, or power, or technology, or security, or possessions, or work, or beauty, or even golf.

No, we are to love God and love our neighbor. In his rule, St. Benedict instructed his monks: “Let nothing be preferred to the love of Christ.” Of course, none of this means we should turn away from God’s creation; after all, God proclaimed all creation as good. We can enjoy that which God has given us, so long as we enjoy it responsibly and don’t place it above our love for God and our neighbor. As Jesus revealed to St. Paul:

My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness" [2 Cor 12:9].

Perhaps recognizing our weakness is the best test. If you lost everything today, would your love for God, and the joy this love brings, be as great tomorrow?

Homily: 27th Sunday in Ordinary Time - Year C

Readings: Hb 1:2-3; 2:2-4; Ps 95; 2 Tm 1:6-8,13-14; Lk 17:5-10
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The deacons in my previous parish on Cape Cod conducted a weekly Liturgy of the Word with Holy Communion at a local nursing home. After the liturgy, if we had time, we usually helped our volunteers return the residents to their rooms.

Well, one day I was pushing Teresa in her wheelchair. Now, I’d known Teresa for several years. She was in her early 90s and had recently started to have some mild mental problems. But one thing hadn’t changed: she talked incessantly. It didn’t always make complete sense, but it never stopped.

On this particular day as we approached the elevator, Teresa was chattering away when we encountered Connie, another woman, standing in the center of the corridor. She was screaming at the top of her lungs. Teresa immediately asked me to stop the wheelchair. She then reached out and touched Connie’s forearm, rubbing it gently, not saying a word. The three of us remained there for what seemed like an eternity – Connie screaming, Teresa rubbing, and I just wondering how long all this would go on.

After a few minutes Connie’s screaming dropped in both volume and frequency; and a few minutes later stopped completely. Teresa then gave her arm a final squeeze and said quietly, “We can go now.”

I wheeled her into the elevator and as soon as the door closed, Teresa said, “Connie’s OK, she’s just afraid because she doesn’t have much faith.” She then went on talking about how good the lasagne had been the night before.

Whenever I read today’s Gospel passage from Luke, I inevitably think of that day, about Connie's fears and her lack of faith...and about Teresa's faith and her lack of fear.

Connie reminds me of the Apostles, who were also so very afraid. On their way to Jerusalem, they sensed the mounting threats and danger. And yet Jesus continued to lead them into the heart of it all. Their faith, what little they had, was drowning in a sea of fears. And so they turned to Jesus and said, "Increase our faith!" [Lk 17:5]

Jesus responds by telling them it's the quality, not the quantity, of their faith that's important – that with even the smallest amount of real faith, they could command the forces of nature – a faith, as Matthew tells us, that can move mountains. Jesus continues by telling them a parable that ties their faith to their role as His disciples, that true faith only comes when we accept the nature of our relationship with God and with His people.

Faith is a strange commodity, isn’t it? When we attempt to look at it objectively, it defies all logic. Ultimately, faith comes down to trust in that which is unseen and, in most instances, unknowable. And not just supernatural faith.

You and I exhibit remarkable faith every time we turn on the television, dial a phone number, send an email, pick up a prescription at the pharmacy, or take a seat on an airplane. Each of these is a true act of faith – an act of natural faith, certainly, but faith nonetheless. If we were to examine just one of these everyday tasks and the chain of events that must fall into place to ensure its success, we might take a second look at our faith.

Back in my Navy flying days, I developed a friendship with Father Mark, who at the time was a new Navy chaplain. We were about the same age, both in our late twenties. He was a remarkable man, a man of tremendous faith – supernatural faith – who made a big difference in the lives of many of the young sailors who made up his flock.

But despite this strong faith in God, he suffered from an almost paralytic fear of flying in helicopters. Unfortunately, flying in them was part of his job. Every Sunday we would fly him from one ship to another so he could celebrate Mass for their crews – a mission we called the "Holy Helo."

To make matters worse, he usually had to be lowered from the hovering helicopter to the deck of each ship using the rescue hoist – not a pleasant experience, especially in high seas. It often took him several days to recover emotionally, just in time to start worrying about the next Sunday's flight. I'll confess that my fellow pilots and I took a perverse pleasure in doing little things to heighten his discomfort. I won't go into that here. Let's just say that his mistake was in letting his fear show.

  
Well, over time Fr. Mark and I became friends and shared many long conversations, usually after dinner. I recall one evening in particular. After kidding him about his fear of helicopters, I asked how he could have such faith and yet be so afraid of flying.

He looked at me as if I were from another galaxy, and said, “Faith in God is easy, especially since He’s a loving God – so loving He allowed His Son to become one of us and sacrifice His life for us. But helicopters…well, God didn’t make them. They're fallible devices made and flown by equally fallible men – thousands of parts moving at high speed. It's enough to frighten any sane person."

I also remember asking him, "Well, then, why don't you trust that God will look after you and keep you safe, even when you're in a helicopter?"

"Because He never promised to do so. Look," he said, "I enjoy the life that God has given me, and I'd like to enjoy it as long as possible. That's only human. But how long I live, and when and how I die, well, that's God's decision.” Sane words from very sane man.

You see, brothers and sisters, God calls us to do one thing in this life: to serve Him and His people. And as His servants, we should expect nothing in return. God doesn't promise his servants safety. He doesn't promise us long and happy lives. He doesn't promise success, or fame, or wealth, or beautiful children, or a nice home. God promises us one enduring thing: eternal life. Oh, it's a great thing – the greatest gift He could ever give us.

But He also told us that to achieve eternal life, to collect on this promise, we must love Him in return and do His will. And this often means carrying our cross, whatever it might be. 

How did Jesus put it? “When you have done all you have been commanded, say, we are unprofitable servants, we have done what we were obliged to do” [Lk 17:10]. This is how Jesus wants us to live our lives. Most of us probably fail as often as we succeed, but maybe with time and wisdom we'll become better servants.

That’s assuming you’ve ever even thought of yourself as a servant. Have you? Or do you think that’s a role more suited for priests and nuns and even deacons. (Actually, the word "deacon" means servant, so I guess I'm committed to the role.) But does God really expect that of everyone? Well, I am afraid He does. Each of us is called to serve God and His People, each in his own way.

Too many of us Christians seem to think that because we go to church every week, we can live as we wish. Or we believe that because we stand and recite the Creed together, because we drop our envelopes in the basket each Sunday, God owes us salvation. Yes, these folks live lives of servitude all right, but not as servants of God. They serve the world. This is a foolish and dangerous belief. Jesus told us clearly that salvation is not earned. It’s a gift. We can never put God in our debt. We can never have any claim on Him. For God owes us nothing. We owe Him everything.

When we’ve done our best to live by His commandments, when we’ve fulfilled all our duties, we’re still no better than slaves before the Master. But there the comparison ends. For God isn’t a slave owner. He’s our loving Father, and we’re His children. Indeed, this is the essence of the Good News: that we have a generous, loving God, who wants His people to serve Him out of love, not out of duty.

There’s a beautiful line from Psalm 95: "If today you hear His voice, harden not your hearts" [Ps 95: 7-8]. Well, His voice is calling us, calling you and me. And He's calling each one of us individually. We might hear His voice, but if our hearts are hardened it’s not likely we’ll listen to it.
 

Teresa heard His voice in the nursing home and planted her little mustard seed of faith simply by being there for someone in distress. And so, like Father Mark, who went on to ask me a bunch of tough questions that night in an aircraft carrier’s wardroom, let me leave you with something to think about.

One question Fr. Mark asked me 45 years ago is the same question Our Lord put to His disciples 2,000 earlier: “What kind of servant will you be?”

Pope Francis' Challenge to Deacons

Diane and I have visited Rome several times in recent years, including a pilgrimage during the Holy Year in 2000 when St. John Paul II was pope. On that occasion we joined hundreds of deacons from around the world who had come together to focus on our diaconal ministry. What a blessing that was!

This year the Church is celebrating the Extraordinary Jubilee Year of Mercy and last week in a special way it celebrated the Jubilee of Deacons. This celebration drew permanent deacons from all over the world. Unfortunately Diane and I were unable to make the trip, but thanks to the worldwide web I could follow the events each day.

Deacons in Procession at St. Peter's - Jubilee for Deacons

One of the more interesting of these events was a Mass celebrated for the Jubilee of Deacons by Pope Francis this past Sunday, May 29, in St. Peter's Square. I was especially moved by the pope's homily in which he encouraged deacons to strive to live up to their calling as servants. He made a point that to be a good servant, one must be available:

"A servant daily learns detachment from doing everything his own way and living his life as he would. Each morning he trains himself to be generous with his life and to realize that the rest of the day will not be his own, but given over to others...One who serves is open to surprises, to God’s constant surprises. A servant knows how to open the doors of his time and inner space for those around him, including those who knock on those doors at odd hours, even if that entails setting aside something he likes to do or giving up some well-deserved rest."

Pope Francis meeting several deacons

The Holy Father then went on to challenge our parishes to focus on availability and not be slaves to a timetable. The needs of the people we serve do not mirror the parish schedule:

"One who serves is not worried about the timetable. It deeply troubles me when I see a timetable in a parish: 'From such a time to such a time.' And then? There is no open door, no priest, no deacon, no layperson to receive people…This is not good. Don’t worry about the timetable: have the courage to look past the timetable. In this way, dear deacons, if you show that you are available to others, your ministry will not be self-serving, but evangelically fruitful."

The Holy Father is right. So many parishes operate as if they are store-front providers of retail services, available only when the store is open for business. Perhaps deacons can be the catalysts for change and develop creative ways to make our parishes more available to those we serve.

Finally, Pope Francis addressed the need for spiritual healing so we can more readily give ourselves to others.

"To be ready to serve, we need a healthy heart: a heart healed by God, one which knows forgiveness and is neither closed nor hardened. We would do well each day to pray trustingly for this, asking to be healed by Jesus, to grow more like him who 'no longer calls us servants but friends.'”

You can read the Holy Father's entire homily here: Homily - Jubilee of Deacons.

Homily: 27th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Hb 1:2-3; 2:2-4; Ps 95; 2 Tm 1:6-8,13-14; Lk 17:5-10

As a deacon in my previous parish on Cape Cod I conducted a weekly Liturgy of the Word with Holy Communion at a local nursing home. After the liturgy I usually helped our volunteers return the residents to their rooms.

On one occasion I was pushing Teresa in her wheelchair. I’d known Teresa for several years. She was in her 90s and had recently started to have some mental problems. But one thing hadn’t changed: she talked incessantly. It didn’t always make complete sense, but it never stopped.

On this particular day as we approached the elevator, Teresa was chattering away when we encountered Connie, another woman, standing in the center of the corridor. She was screaming at the top of her lungs. Teresa asked me to stop the wheelchair. She then reached out and touched Connie’s forearm, rubbing it gently, not saying a word. The three of us remained there for what seemed like an eternity -- Connie screaming, Teresa rubbing, and me just wondering how long all this would go on. But after a few minutes Connie’s screaming dropped in both volume and frequency; and a few minutes later stopped completely. Teresa then gave her arm a final squeeze and said quietly, “We can go now.”

I wheeled her into the elevator and as soon as the door closed, Teresa said, “Connie’s OK, she’s just afraid because she doesn’t have much faith.” She then went on talking about how good the spaghetti was the night before.

Reading today’s Gospel passage I couldn’t help thinking about Connie and her fears and her lack of faith. She reminded me of the Apostles, because the Apostles were afraid. On their way to Jerusalem, they sensed the mounting threats and danger. And yet Jesus continued to lead them into the heart of it all. Their faith, what little they had, was drowning in a sea of fears. And so they turned to Jesus and said, "Increase our faith!"

Jesus responds by telling them that it's the quality, not the quantity, of their faith that's important -- that with even the smallest amount of real faith, they could command the forces of nature -- a faith to move mountains, Matthew tells us in his Gospel. Jesus goes on to tell them a parable that ties their faith to their role as His disciples, that true faith only comes when we accept the nature of our relationship with God and with His people.

You see, Faith is a strange commodity. When we attempt to look at it objectively, it defies all logic. For, ultimately, faith comes down to trust in that which is unseen and, in most instances, unknowable.

And I'm not speaking only of supernatural faith. You and I exhibit remarkable faith every time we turn on the television, dial a phone number, send an email, pick up a prescription at the pharmacy, or take a seat on an airplane. Each of these is a true act of faith -- an act of natural faith, certainly, but faith nonetheless. If we were to examine just one of these everyday tasks and the chain of events that must fall into place to ensure its success, we might take a second look at our faith.

Back in my Navy flying days, I developed a friendship with Father Mark, who at the time was a new Navy chaplain. We were about the same age, both in our late twenties. He was a remarkable man, a man of tremendous faith -- supernatural faith -- who made a big difference in the lives of many of the young sailors who made up his flock. But despite this strong faith in God, he suffered from an almost paralytic fear of flying in helicopters. Unfortunately, flying in them was part of his job. Every Sunday we would fly him from one ship to another so he could celebrate Mass for their crews -- a mission we called the "Holy Helo."

To make matters worse, he usually had to be lowered from the hovering helicopter to the deck of each ship using the rescue hoist -- not a pleasant experience, especially in high seas. It often took him several days to recover emotionally, just in time to start worrying about the next Sunday's flight. I'll confess that my fellow pilots and I took a perverse pleasure in doing little things to heighten his discomfort. I won't go into that here. Let's just say that his mistake was in letting his fear show.

Well, over time Fr. Mark and I became friends and shared many long conversations, usually after dinner. I recall one evening in particular. After kidding him about his fear of helicopters, I asked how he could have such faith and yet be so afraid of flying.

He looked at me as if I were from another galaxy, and said, “Faith in God is easy, especially since He’s a loving God -- so loving He allowed His Son to become one of us and sacrifice His life for us. But helicopters…well, God didn’t make them. They're fallible devices made and flown by equally fallible men -- thousands of parts moving at high speed. It's enough to frighten any sane person."

I also remember asking him, "Well, then, why don't you trust that God will look after you and keep you safe, even when you're in a helicopter?"

"Because He never promised to do so. Look," he said, "I enjoy the life that God has given me, and I'd like to enjoy it as long as possible. That's only human. But how long I live, and when and how I die, well, that's God's decision.”

Sane words from very sane man.

You see, brothers and sisters, God calls us to do one thing in this life: to serve Him and His people. And as His servants, we should expect nothing in return. God doesn't promise his servants safety. He doesn't promise us long and happy lives. He doesn't promise success, or fame, or wealth, or beautiful children, or a nice home.

God promises us one enduring thing: eternal life. Oh, it's a great thing -- the greatest gift He could ever give us. But He also told us that to achieve eternal life, to collect on this promise, we must love Him in return and do His will. And this often means carrying our cross, whatever it might be.

How did Jesus put it? “When you have done all you have been commanded, say, we are unprofitable servants, we have done what we were obliged to do.” This is how Jesus wants us to live our lives. Most of us probably fail as often as we succeed, but maybe with time and wisdom we'll become better servants.

That’s assuming you’ve ever even thought of yourself as a servant. Have you? Or do you think that’s a role more suited for priests and nuns and deacons. God doesn't really expect that of everyone, does He? Well, I am afraid He does. We’re all called to serve God and His People, each in his own way.

Too many of us Christians seem to think that because we go to church every week, we can live as we wish. Or we believe that because we stand and recite the Creed together, because we drop our envelopes in the basket each Sunday, God owes us salvation.

Yes, these folks live lives of servitude all right, but not as servants of God. They serve the world. This is a foolish and dangerous belief. Jesus told us clearly that salvation is not earned. It’s a gift. We can never put God in our debt. We can never have any claim on Him. For God owes us nothing. We owe Him everything. When we’ve done our best to live by His commandments, when we’ve fulfilled all our duties, we’re still no better than slaves before the Master.

But there the comparison ends. For God isn’t a slave owner. He’s our loving Father, and we’re His children. Indeed, this is the essence of the Good News: that we have a generous, loving God, who wants His people to serve Him out of love, not out of duty.

There’s a beautiful line from Psalm 95: "If today you hear His voice, harden not your hearts." Well, His voice is calling us, calling you and me. And He's calling each one of us individually. We might hear His voice, but if our hearts are hardened it’s not likely we’ll listen to it.

Teresa heard His voice in the nursing home and planted her little mustard seed of faith simply by being there for someone in distress. And so, like Father Mark, who went on to ask me a bunch of tough questions that night in an aircraft carrier’s wardroom, let me leave you with something to think about.

One question Fr. Mark asked me 40 years ago is the same question Our Lord put to His disciples almost 2,000 years earlier.

What kind of servant will you be?