The Presence of God

So much of life is made up of things we must do, and so little of things we truly enjoy. The saints, of course, seem to be able to turn all those "must-dos" into gifts, into moments of thanksgiving and praise. I have not yet arrived at that point as I struggle to advance on my spiritual journey. I still have trouble turning mundane tasks into joyous occasions. If, as I take out the garbage, I offer thanks to God for the opportunity to do so...well, it just seems a bit hypocritical, as if my thanksgiving is less than honest. Although I can understand St. Therese's "Little Way," I have not yet been able to put it into practice. This inability to experience joy from the mundane is just more evidence of my spiritual immaturity, but perhaps God will give me a few more years to grow. 

Fortunately God is so wonderfully merciful that, despite my many faults, He has still blessed my life with much to enjoy. Dear Diane, my wife of 48 years, is at the very top of the list. Without her my life would be far less joyful. She has taught me how to give and to take joy in the giving, even in the midst of deep sadness. I have trouble remembering what my life was like before she entered it, or even comprehending how empty it would be without her presence. Other blessings, especially family -- children and grandchildren -- and friends who love us in spite of our oddness, have brought Diane and me much joy. 

To all of this I must add my ordination to the permanent diaconate 20 years ago. That life-changing event has enabled me to do much that I find so very enjoyable. Among these is my facilitation of our parish's two Bible Study sessions. I've now been doing this for over ten years and between these two weekly sessions -- one morning and one evening -- approximately 60 parishioners participate. I'm often thanked for what I bring to these sessions, but what the participants don't realize is how much they have taught me over the years. Perhaps I should tell them this more often.

Because here in central Florida so many of our parishioners fall into the "snowbird" category, we take a break from organized Bible Study during the summer months. It just didn't seem fair that those who went north should miss a summer's worth of studies, and I also needed a break from the weekly sessions. And yet many of our year-round parishioners wanted to continue their studies in some fashion. And so last year I offered a relatively brief Scripture-based course to those who remained here during our summer hiatus. It was open to anyone, not just the regular participants in our Bible Study. 

Last year's course was fairly basic, a three-session overview of the Old Testament. This year I'm a bit more ambitious and have been spending a lot of my so-called "free" time preparing a five-session course that I've decided to call "Temple and the Presence of God." The idea for the course came to me years ago after reading a little book, The Presence of God (1966) by Jean Danielou. Cardinal Danielou was a French Jesuit, one of the Ressourcement theologians who had such a major impact on the Second Vatican Council. The course will focus on Temple in all its manifestations, from the Temple of Creation or Cosmic Temple, to Sinai, Jerusalem, Jesus and His Church, all the way to the Heavenly Temple St. John describes in Revelation -- "I saw no temple in the city, for its temple is the Lord God almighty and the Lamb" [Rev 21:22]. It trust the participants will find it interesting since it examines the theme of Temple and God's Presence as it runs through all of Scripture, from Genesis to Revelation.

Anyway, all this preoccupation with the Presence of God has had its effect on me. I find myself thinking about it constantly, and especially of God's Presence in the Cosmic Temple of His Creation. Every day Maddie and I -- Maddie's our little Bichon Frise -- take both a morning and evening walk, each a mile or two depending on our collective mood. I especially enjoy our frequent pre-dawn walks when I can delight in the glory of God's creation as manifested in the starlit skies of central Florida. Venus hovers brightly over the Eastern horizon and on many mornings I catch sight of a meteorite or two burning their way through the upper atmosphere. But I must admit, I take far more joy in the sights and sounds of the microcosm close at hand.

I especially enjoy the birds. Before I moved here about the only bird calls I could recognize were blue jays and crows. But thanks to my twice-daily walks through The Villages, I have developed a more discriminating ear and can identify the squawk of the common grackle, the rapid-fire chirps of our many neighborhood cardinals, the brief but strange call of the red-winged blackbird, among many others. And no one can dislike the multiple calls of the mockingbird that seem designed simply to show off this bird's remarkable singing talent. We also have large flocks of black-bellied whistling ducks that amaze by whistling instead of quacking. Another of my favorites are the wonderful sandhill cranes that hangout here in The Villages. These large birds can be heard from afar as they fly over the neighborhood and emit their very loud staccato squawks. They seem to enjoy letting the world know they're up and about.

From these daily encounters with such little pieces of God's Creation I can do nothing else but thank Him for His gift of life. I simply cannot understand how anyone who hears a mockingbird spend several minutes running through its entire repertoire of songs can claim to be an atheist. To me the mockingbird and the sandhill crane and the trail of the meteorite and the brightness of Venus all prove God's Presence and His continued love for us. Indeed, God's care for His creation sends us a message. How did Jesus put it?

"Look at the birds in the sky; they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are not you more important than they?" [Mt 6:26]

He would care for us as well if only we would let Him, if only we would come to realize His love for us.

Yes, God's Presence fills every corner of His Creation, but most miraculously His Presence is within us when we open ourselves to Him. We are, after all, "Temples of the Holy Spirit."

Oops...have to go. It's time for Maddie and me to take a walk.

20 Years of Diaconal Ministry

Three weeks from today (May 24) I will celebrate the 20th anniversary of my ordination to the permanent diaconate. It seems like yesterday, so I'm having a little trouble coming to grips with the fact that it's been 20 years since that special day.

Ordination - Fall River Diocese - Bishop Sean O'Malley

As this anniversary approaches I have been drawn to reflect on both my life and my ministry during those two decades. Although much has certainly happened in my life and the life of my family, I find myself wondering whether my ministry has borne very much fruit. This is probably a natural reaction, and I should just turn it all over the God and trust that, through His grace, I have done more good than harm.

I suppose the years my brother deacons and I spent in formation were reasonably effective in preparing us for our ministry. But even so, the subsequent 20 years were filled with so much that was unanticipated and unexpected.

Hospital chaplaincy, for example, was one of those ministries I intentionally resisted. Except when absolutely necessary, I had avoided hospitals. I didn't like being around sickness and, to borrow a phrase from a younger generation, "Hospitals creep me out!" And then, about five years ago, Dear Diane volunteered the two of us as hospital chaplains at The Villages Regional Hospital. Now I find myself looking forward to our assigned days, largely because I learn so much from those whom I visit. I trust I have been able to offer them some comfort, but I know they've been a constant source of joy to me.

As Diane and I visit these wonderful patients, going from one hospital room to another, I can't help but recall St. Paul's words on how God, to demonstrate His power, calls us to our weakness:

[The Lord said to me,] "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness." I will rather boast most gladly of my weaknesses in order that the power of Christ may dwell with me. Therefore, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and constraints, for the sake of Christ; for when I am weak, then I am strong [2 Cor 12:9-10].

My experience in other ministries has been similar. Before arriving at my present parish, my knowledge of things liturgical was pretty much limited to those rites in which I was directly involved as a deacon. I'm certainly no liturgist. But then, to my surprise, my pastor made me the nominal head of our liturgy committee. Today most parishioners believe (wrongly) that I am personally responsible for everything liturgical that occurs in the parish. And their varying views of what constitutes proper liturgy can result in some interesting feedback. I strive, however, to do all for God's greater glory and trust that our liturgies will please Him and strengthen the faith of His people. I try to learn from my mistakes and, once again, in weakness we are called, and I hope I will continue to be a willing servant.

My previous parish on Cape Cod was blessed with many young families and so Baptisms were frequent. What a joy it is to bring a beautiful new life into God's Church through this sacrament. Yes, infant baptisms are always joyous occasions, so different from funerals. In those days I was occasionally called on to conduct an evening vigil service for a parishioner who had died, but because I was still working full-time, I rarely assisted at funerals. But now, ministering in a parish that serves thousands of retirees, baptisms are rare and the various funeral rites have become a major diaconal ministry. This, too, was unexpected.

As a veteran and retired naval officer, I am often called on to conduct committal services at the National Cemetery just down the road in Bushnell, Florida. It is a distinct honor to complete the funeral rites for our veterans who have given so much of their lives for others.

Since Diane and I "retired" to Florida 13 years ago, the one ministry that has been a constant in our lives is the Wildwood Soup Kitchen; and, again, it was Diane who brought it about and "volunteered" me. Along with a few hundred other volunteers representing over 30 local churches, we serve God's people when they come to us hungry and in need of His love. Diane is the Thursday cook and I'm the Thursday captain (an ambiguous title that means I do whatever the cook tells me). This past Thursday we prepared and served or delivered 393 meals so the need is great. This is another of those ministries that took me by surprise and has resulted in much joy.

We deacons, of course, are at the lowest level (the order of the diaconate) of the three Holy Orders. Above us are our priests (the order of the presbyterate) and our bishops (the order of the episcopate). And this is very good indeed. Because of my many years as a naval officer, I am quite used to following orders and am happy to do whatever is asked of me. I suppose I was pre-formed to be a deacon.

Most pastors -- sadly, not all -- like having us around because we willingly relieve them of much time-consuming parish work, freeing them to carry out the important pastoral work expected of them. Being a lowly deacon -- a servant -- then is a reward in itself. But we must be careful not to revel in our lowliness, for pride can infect even the most lowly among us.

And this leads me to perhaps the most surprising aspect of my ministry as deacon. Before I was ordained I can't recall any parishioner ever asking me for advice on things spiritual. It just never happened. After all, I was simply another parishioner. What could I know? (The honest answer, of course, was, "Not much.")

But once I was ordained things changed. I had been a deacon for less than 24 hours when a parishioner approached me and wanted some advice on how best to encourage his wife of 30 years to convert to Catholicism. As I recall, she was an Episcopalian who attended Mass with him every Sunday. My first thought was, what do I know about Episcopalian to Catholic conversion? The answer, of course, was little or nothing. And so I asked him, "Why are you asking me for advice?" He looked surprised and replied, "Because you're a deacon." I then asked, "I've known you for years. Why didn't you ask me before?" His reply? "You weren't a deacon then."

I suppose this man might well have had a better grasp of the effects of ordination than I. After all, as the Catechism affirms when discussing the ordination of deacons:

"The sacrament of Holy Orders marks them with an imprint ("character") which cannot be removed and which configures them to Christ, who made himself the 'deacon' or servant of all" [CCC 1570].

The parishioner seemed to understand that with ordination comes a configuring to Christ (however imperfect) and that the Holy Spirit would be there to assist me as I struggled to respond to his need.

During my years as a naval officer and later as a consultant and teacher, I was often called on to advise people on a variety of issues, some personal and some professional. As a deacon, however, I must be especially careful since the advice given often relates to a person's journey to salvation. It is not something to be taken lightly.

Let me conclude this post with a few thoughts on giving advice -- things I've learned, often the hard way, over the years.

First of all, giving advice can sometimes be dangerous. If the advice turns out to be wrong, or if it is misinterpreted, the advisee will often turn on the advisor, blaming him for any undesirable outcome. Of course, this is inherently unfair since advice is just that: merely advice. It is offered, not commanded. And the advisee must still decide whether to accept or reject it. He cannot abdicate his responsibility for actions taken, regardless of the advice he has received. Of course, the advisor has a responsibility to give his best advice.

The best advice for advisors?

Know your subject, and know it well. Don't give advice on subjects about which you lack expertise.

Know the other person and their level of knowledge. The only way to do this is to ask questions, and continue to do so until you are comfortable with the answers. (It's hard to be quiet when you're an expert.)

The perceived quality of advice is usually based on a combination of the recognized knowledge and experience -- the expertise -- of the advisor. An effective advisor not only knows his own limitations, but also understands the capabilities and temperament of the one he advises. Advice that cannot or will not be followed is no advice at all.

When the advice relates to human activity, other factors, many of them unknown or unanticipated, can influence the outcome. All other things being equal, the more specific the activity, the more predictable the outcome, and the more likely the advice will be sound.

For example, Dear Diane once advised me on the best way to make a hard-boiled egg, a snack I particularly enjoy. The task is specific, with relatively simple steps, and if I follow her advice closely, the desired outcome is always achieved, and I, the advisee, am content.

But if, for some inexplicable reason, I were called on to plan and prepare a complete, multi-course dinner for eight guests, and do so personally without Dear Diane's active supervision, no amount of specific advice would prevent a disastrous outcome. The main task is well beyond my current capabilities and the specificity needed would overwhelm me. In this instance, the best advice would be to call a caterer.

Advisors also get into trouble when dealing with generalities. We can think and speak in generalities but you and I don't do general things. All of our actions are specific. And to make the transition from the general to the specific is never easy.

Some years ago a young man came to me for some spiritual advice. I was not a spiritual director, merely a deacon, but something in my homily that morning got his attention, and so after Mass he approached me in the sacristy. I was in a bit of a hurry, so when he told me he felt "spiritually empty," I asked him about his prayer life. He responded that he had none. My advice? I tossed him a few spiritual platitudes and ended with, "You have to deepen your prayer life and develop a personal relationship with the Lord."

Was this good advice? Well, I suppose so, in a general sort of way. But then, fortunately, I noticed the look of complete confusion on his face and realized he didn't know what I was talking about. A few minutes of dialogue convinced me he didn't know how to pray. I also learned that he hadn't been in a church since his Confirmation almost 15 years earlier.

The Holy Spirit had drawn that young man to Mass that morning and in my haste I had almost sent him away empty. Indeed, he would have left in worse shape spiritually since my initial advice was, to him, incomprehensible. Eventually we met several times to discuss prayer and spirituality, and I'm happy to say that he is now an active parishioner.

I'm also happy to say that I leave most spiritual direction to those better trained than I to perform this challenging work. But answering others' questions on their faith, advising them on specific issues, helping them understand God's enduring love for them -- all this and more have been a wonderfully surprising part of my diaconal ministry for the past 20 years. I don't know how long our loving God will allow Diane and me to minister to His people, but any time is a blessing for which we thank Him daily.

Homily: Saturday, 2nd week of Easter (April 29)

Readings: Acts 6:1-7; Ps 33; Jn 6:16-21
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Today (April 29) is the feast day of St. Catherine of Siena, Doctor of the Church, mystic, and a woman of unsurpassed influence in her 14th-century world. A Third Order Dominican, Catherine lived a life of exceptional austerity and holiness, a life filled with miracles. She brokered peace among the princes of the world; she was an advisor and the conscience of bishops and popes; and was largely responsible for ending the Avignon papacy and returning the pope to Rome. She was truly a remarkable woman.

Years ago, on one of our trips to Rome, Diane and I stopped by the Dominican Basilica of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva. Located just a block or so from the Pantheon, this beautiful church is also the resting place of St. Catherine. Her body lies in an elaborate sarcophagus beneath the high altar. I say her body, because her head is elsewhere.

Born in Siena, St. Catherine died in Rome, and so both cities claimed her. The conflict was resolved in typical late-medieval fashion, with her body remaining in Rome while her head was interred in Siena's Basilica of St. Dominic. It's all sounds a bit odd to our 21st-century ears, but it does manifest a firm belief in the resurrection of the body.

The universal Church, in Catherine's time, was no stranger to conflict, but Catherine was also a reformer who worked tirelessly to resolve many of these problems. As we heard in our first reading from Acts, the Church has always had to deal with problems, and the early Church in Jerusalem was no exception.

As the Church grew, its membership became increasingly diverse. The first disciples were Hebraic Jews, who spoke Aramaic and Hebrew. But as we saw at Pentecost other Jews, Hellenized Jews of the diaspora, had also been baptized and entered the Church. And many of these were likely fluent only in Greek, the common language of the Empire. Indeed, these were the Jews that St. Paul would later visit in their synagogues in the course of his missionary journeys.

It seems some of the Hebraic Jews of Jerusalem looked down upon these Greek-speaking Jews, and treated them rather poorly. This shouldn't surprise us. Our Lord may have founded the Church, but it is populated by sinners, by flawed human beings like you and me, and always will be.

Among those treated most poorly in the early Church were the widows. Widows were of every age, young and old, and most would never remarry. A widow's only means of support was her family, if she had one, or the charity of the community. The life of a widow was often poverty stricken and perilous. The Apostles knew this, but realized they couldn't care for everyone personally and still carry out their primary mission of evangelization.

Their solution? They delegated, applying the Principle of Subsidiarity, which stresses that matters should be handled by the smallest, lowest, least centralized competent authority. And that, brothers and sisters, is how we lowly deacons came into being. Indeed, the word "deacon" has its root in the Greek word "diakonia" which means service, a word used twice in today's brief passage.

Yes, we deacons were called to be servants, to wait on tables. Maybe that's why I enjoy working at the Wildwood Soup Kitchen...so long as I don't revel in my service. As one deacon friend once told me, "I have to be careful that I don't take pride in my lowliness."

Yes, even humility can be sinful if becomes a source of pride. Of course, in that case, I suppose it ceases to be humility. As my father used to say, "Humility's a strange commodity; because one you know you have it, you just lost it."

Interestingly, Luke makes a point of mentioning that among those first seven deacons, one of them, Nicholas of Antioch, was a convert, not born a Jew. This highlights a major change from Judaism in which the Levites inherited their ministry by blood. But the Apostles ordained these first deacons by prayer and the laying on of hands. That one was a Gentile from Antioch, is particularly appropriate since that Syrian city would soon play a leading role in the evangelization of Gentiles.

The early Church would need to overcome much as it carried out that primary mission of evangelization. And in our Gospel passage from John we find Jesus teaching the Apostles just that: that they will soon encounter far more than rough seas.

"It had already grown dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them" [Jn 6:17].  Yes, when Jesus is not present in our lives darkness and fear can overwhelm us.

But then, He comes to them, doesn't He? "It is I," He tells them, "Do not be afraid" [Jn 6:20].

And He comes to us as well and His Presence speaks to us.

Today, you will receive your Savior, Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity. If you truly believe and accept His Presence within you, He will remove all fear from your hearts. How did John put it in his First Letter? "Perfect love casts out fear" [1 Jn 4:18].

Don't struggle against the Lord and His gifts. Just accept His gift of love and share it with the others in your life. Let Jesus do the work and He will carry you safely to the shore.

Homily: Easter Monday

Readings: Acts 2:14, 22-33; Ps 16; Mt 28:8-15

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Isn't it interesting that throughout most of the liturgical year, our first reading at Mass comes from the Old Testament, except during the Easter Season? At this very special time of the year, our first reading is taken from the Acts of the Apostles.

The Church does this for a very good reason. Acts really begins with Pentecost, that special day when the Church, promised and formed by Jesus, is born. The story of Acts is the story of the Church, the story of the Apostles who begin the task of going out throughout the world to fulfill the great commission given them by the Risen Jesus:

"Go therefore, and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age" [Mt 28:10-20].

Make disciples, baptize, teach - all begun through the preaching of the first disciples. Before the Gospel, the Good News, was written down, it was preached. And it's in the Acts of the Apostles, during this season of Easter, that we encounter that early Gospel preached by Peter and Paul. Listen again as Peter begins to spread the Good News among the Jewish pilgrims on that first Pentecost:

"God raised this Jesus; of this we are all witnesses. Exalted at the right hand of God, he poured forth the promise of the Holy Spirit that he received from the Father, as you both see and hear" [Acts 2:32-33].

Notice that at the very core of that preaching is the Trinity -- Father, Son and Holy Spirit -- the foundation of our Christian faith.

Yes, "God raised this Jesus..."

In today's Gospel passage the two Marys went to the tomb, not to see a Risen Jesus, but to anoint His body. They knew He had died. They had heard Him take His last breath. They had seen the soldier's lance pierce His side. They had grieved with His Mother as she cradled her Son's lifeless body in her arms. And they had seen that body placed hurriedly in the tomb.

Oh, yes, they knew He had died. In their overwhelming grief, a grief of emptiness, tinged with an underlying fear, they made their way to the tomb of a dead man.

They, like all the disciples, hadn't understood Jesus when He spoke of His Resurrection. Faced with the finality of death, their faith and their hope had all but disappeared. All that was left was their love. And it's this love for Jesus that carried them along the path to the tomb that first Easter morning.

But the sight of the empty tomb filled their hearts with a jumble of emotions: confusion, astonishment, fear.

And then they encountered their Risen Lord. The One they sought, the One Who was crucified, the One Who had died before their very eyes, is risen. And in the shock of this sudden revelation, they understood that death had not had the last word, but that the Word had overcome death. Faith and hope exploded in their hearts, for they realized that they too would be united with Him in the Resurrection.

And just as suddenly, all of His teachings, every word He uttered, took on new meaning. Now they knew what He meant by the Kingdom of God, for it was in their very midst, catapulted into the here and now by the Resurrection.

Matthew tells us the women left the tomb "fearful yet overjoyed" [Mt 28:8]. Fear and joy -- a rare combination of emotions that I suspect exist only in the presence of God.

Oh, yes, they were fearful, for they had just witnessed God's awesome power, and for the first time truly understood Who Jesus is. He is the Messiah. He is the Redeemer. He is the Chosen One. He is the Son of God. It's this same understanding, and all it brings with it, that made them so joyful. He is risen! And so too have all of His promises, that suddenly made such perfect sense.

Yes, they were overjoyed. Overjoyed that their trust in Jesus had not been misplaced. Overjoyed that they, like all of us, are the object of God's overwhelming love. Overjoyed because pessimism had turned to optimism, despair had turned to hope, and that tiny kernel of faith, almost lost during the dark hours after the crucifixion, had blossomed into a sure knowledge of redemption.

Perhaps Mary Magdalene understood this best. Mary -- she who had been dead in the slavery of her sin; she who had been sealed in a tomb of her own making -- had been given new life through the healing power of God's love and forgiveness. And Jesus knew that she, who had experienced this power in her own resurrection from the deadness of sin, would believe.

Who better to break the news -- the Good News -- to a sinful world; for Mary Magdalene was what every woman and every man is called to be. She was the sinner who became the saint. She was living proof of the power of God's redeeming love. She was the "witness" that Peter described as he preached in the streets of Jerusalem. She was the fruit of Christ's Resurrection.

Today, as we receive the gift of Our Lord's Body and Blood in the Eucharist, it is the Risen Jesus we encounter, the very source of our faith and hope.  Lift our hearts and minds in thanksgiving and celebrate Christ's victory over death and sin, a victory that resounded throughout the universe, and continues to do so today.

Homily: Monday of Holy Week

Readings: Is 42:1-7; Ps 27; Jn 12:1-11
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Mark Helprin is perhaps my favorite modern novelist, a writer whose stories not only plumb the depths of the human condition, but also soar to the heights of the divine image within humanity.

Page from the Daianu

This week I happened to read one of his essays in which Helprin, a Jew, mentions a song that is a part of the Passover service. The song, called "Daianu," means "sufficient" or "it was enough for us." In the song God is thanked for His gifts, but as the song progresses, each verse eliminates these gifts until only the gift of life itself is left. At the end we're confronted only by the existence of God; and this is enough. Yes, God's existence is sufficient for us.

Helprin states that, "If one thinks that way, one can pass any test." Amen.

As I read those words the other evening my thoughts turned to today's Gospel passage, an incident in which we encounter two very different people, two very different attitudes about God, about Jesus Christ, about life itself. These two - Mary of Bethany and Judas - offer us a remarkable contrast.

The timing, of course, is crucial, for it takes place six days before the Passover, six days before Jesus sacrifices His life for us on the Cross at Calvary, six days before His lifeless body is placed in the tomb.

And so Mary, in the house of her brother, Lazarus, kneels before her Savior and pours expensive perfumed unguent all over the feet of Jesus, filling the house with its fragrance. She then dries His feet with her hair - all done, as Jesus reminds us, in anticipation of His burial.

Mary says nothing, but in her actions we can hear the words of today's Psalm:

"The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom should I fear?" [Ps 27:1]

For Mary, just the presence of her Savior is sufficient, and it calls her to worship Him fearlessly and lavishly. Yes, His presence is more than enough for Mary.

Indeed, this is the only anointing Jesus' body will receive; for a week later, on that Resurrection morning, the women who carry their oils to His tomb will find it empty.

But the Gospel passage doesn't stop there, does it? Another is present: Judas Iscariot. He confronts and criticizes Mary for her extravagance. Like all materialists, Judas is spiritually blind, and in a fit of sheer hypocrisy, asks aloud:

"Why was this oil not sold for three hundred days' wages and given to the poor?" [Jn 12:5]

This, John tells us, comes from a man who would have stolen the funds for his own use. Is it any surprise that Judas will trade the life of Jesus for a handful of silver coins?

Jesus responds to Judas by defending Mary. For Jesus, Mary's action is nothing less than a sign of her great love for Him. But then He adds:

"You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me" [Jn 12:8].

This is no derisive comment by Jesus. He's not telling us to ignore the poor. On the contrary, He simply reminds us that only those who with a deep love for God can extend that love to the poor and to all those in need. 

Sadly, Judas does not understand this. Indeed, he is already forming his plan, and through his treachery will bring about Jesus' death. Mary anoints Jesus for His burial, a burial that will be brought about by the betrayal of the apostle. The betrayal is deliberate. We don't really know his motives, but it was still a cold and calculated act.

Later John tells us that Satan entered into Judas when he rejected Jesus. That's what Satan does, brothers and sisters, but only if we let him. He twists love and turns it into hate. He turns holiness into pride, discipline into cruelty, affection into complacency, trust into despair.

And, believe me, Satan is active in our world today, a world filled with threats that lead so many to fear, and from fear to despair. But fear is nothing but the absence of faith.

If you and I, like the Jew at Passover, or like Mary at the feet of Jesus, if we can express our thankfulness for God's gift of life, for the simple fact of His loving, forgiving existence, then "we can pass any test."

Oh, yes, brothers and sisters, we are all sinners. We all betray the Lord. But what kind of betrayers, what kind of sinners are we? Are we like Mary who turns to her merciful Lord in abundant love or are we like Judas who can only despair, only hate himself and the One who loves him?
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Mark Helprin, "Falling into Eternity", First Things, March 2017; p.23

Homily: Mass and Healing Service - Saturday, 1st Week of Lent

Note: Every six months our parish celebrates Mass and follows it with a healing service, during which prayer teams are available to pray over those who have come for healing. I was honored to be asked to preach at this morning's Mass. Afterwards Diane and I formed one of the many prayer teams and prayed with and over many wonderful, faith-filled people. It was a beautiful morning.

My homily follows. It focused on today's readings for Saturday of the First Week of Lent.

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Readings: Dt 26:16-19; Ps 119; Mt 5:43-48

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"Love your enemies..." [Mt 5:44] That's a hard teaching, isn't it?

Years ago, during the conflict in Vietnam, I was a young Navy pilot. I recall one evening, out at sea on an aircraft carrier, opening my Bible to Matthew's Gospel and re-reading the Sermon on the Mount.

POW in North Vietnam

At the time, our enemy, of course, were the Communists of North Vietnam and the Viet Cong. As my POW friends will gladly attest, many of them were not nice people. And as my Marine friends discovered when they liberated the city of Hue. the communists tortured and murdered upwards of 6,000 men, women, and children during their month-long occupation of that ancient city. Yes, they were an easy enemy to hate.

But having read Matthew's Gospel that very fact troubled me. And so one day I paid a visit to the ship's chaplain. He wasn't a Catholic priest, but was a young Evangelical minister, strong in his faith, and always interested in comparing notes with me about Church teaching.

That particular day I asked him how we could reconcile the command to love our enemies with this conflict in which we were engaged.

I'll always remember that conversation. I won't repeat our rather lengthy discussion on the just war doctrine. That's a subject for another time. But I will tell you what he had to say about enemies and hatred and love and forgiveness.

He began by saying that if our enemies are those we hate, we have ceased being Christians. As disciples of Jesus Christ we are to hate no one. But if our enemies are those who hate us, then we will always have enemies. Jesus, after all, had many enemies, simply because He loved everyone, especially those despised by the world, and He spoke the truth and did the Father's will even when doing so might well lead others to hate Him.

Our enemies decide how they will treat us. We decide only to love them or to hate them.

This young minister then told me that despite what we see in the movies, or encounter in poetry, or hear in all those country-western songs, love and hate are not emotions. They're decisions.

Jesus calls us to love regardless of the evil others do, and regardless of how we feel about it. And He calls us to exclude no one from our love, and that means loving all those enemies.

And, yes, these are hard words for us, aren't they? Hard indeed...until we come face to face with the Cross, and we hear His words, "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do" [Lk 23:34]. It's there, on the Cross, that we encounter Divine Mercy: God's perfect love, a love that demands forgiveness.

Indeed, Jesus makes the act of forgiveness the centerpiece of His call to love.

In that same Sermon on the Mount, He tells us to forgive others without delay [Mt 5:25]. Don't focus on the hurt you've suffered, don't mull it over, just forgive. Jesus, of course, does this Himself. Even as He suffers on the Cross, He asks the Father to forgive those who have crucified Him.

Could we do the same? Can we exhibit this kind of divine forgiveness?

No, we can't - at lest not on our own. To forgive as God forgives, we need God's grace; but it's right there for us. We need only accept it. You see, Jesus wouldn't command us to do something we're unable to do, unless He offers us the grace needed to do it.

And how often are we to forgive those who harm us? Not once, not twice...no as Jesus tells Peter, "not seven times but seventy times seven" [Mt 18:22]. In other words, we must never stop forgiving.

But that's not all. Our forgiveness must also imitate that of the Father, whose forgiveness is lavish and sacrificial. It's the kind of forgiveness Jesus describes in the parable of the prodigal. The Father forgives with a shower of grace [Lk 15:20-24].

And in today's Gospel passage we are presented with the most challenging kind of forgiveness: to forgive our enemies, those who consciously and intentionally seek to harm us.

You see, brothers and sisters, without forgiveness we cannot love. Forgiveness is the only thing we can do to those we are called to love. If we refuse to forgive, we are refusing to love.

Some of you might have seen the movie "Dead Man Walking," about the execution of a rather vicious murderer.

Well, one person you won't see in the movie is a woman named Debbie Morris. She was the one victim who miraculously survived her horrific ordeal at the hands of the convicted killer, Robert Willie.

After his execution, she said something remarkable, "Justice didn't do a thing to heal me. Forgiveness did." The execution of the man who did so much to harm her brought no closure to her life. The only closure came from forgiveness.

It's easy to hate, isn't it? It's easy to scream for justice, to scream for man's justice, but doing so never brings healing. It never brings the closure the world promises. Only forgiveness can do that. Only forgiveness can release us from the bonds of sin. Only forgiveness can heal.

Did you hear that? Only forgiveness can heal!

If you've come here today for healing, take some time to offer forgiveness to those in your life who have caused you pain - whatever the pain, physical, spiritual, emotional, it doesn't matter. Let God release you from the bonds of hatred and unforgiveness.

How can you expect God to bring you healing, healing of any kind, if you won't break apart, tear apart, that which binds you to unforgiveness?

And let us not neglect those whom we have hurt, those who suffer because of what we have done. Asking for forgiveness of another can be even more difficult than giving it.

And so, as we come forward today for healing, let us consider those words of Jesus, words most of you probably pray daily:

"Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us" [Mt 6:12].

These are powerful words, brothers and sisters, but they're also scary words, words through which we can seemingly condemn ourselves.

We are called to live what we pray.

The world will never cease encouraging us to hate, just as it will never run out of objects for our hatred, especially today when enemies abound. And so there will always be opportunities to forgive.

If we hope to become the people Moses spoke of in our first reading, "a people sacred to the Lord" [Dt 26:19], we must live up to God's expectations for us, we who were created in His image and likeness.

He calls each of us to view this life as a pilgrimage of love, a life in which we seek out others, sinners like you and me.

And what do we do when we find them?  That's the miracle of divine love. You see, in finding them, we find and see Jesus Christ within them. And then the miracle continues because through our love they will recognize Jesus within us.

Let God be the one who will judge His creations. That's not our job.

We need only love...and be healed.

Homily: Saturday after Ash Wednesday

Readings Is 58:9b-14; Ps 86; Lk 5:27-32
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Are you tired of politics yet? Of course, getting all wrapped up in things political can cause us to do or say some rather foolish things. For example, a few weeks ago a news show aired several comments made by a certain foreign leader. He's not very likable, and neither were his comments. In a weak moment - and I've had more than a few of these lately - I muttered something like, "Why does God let people like that live on and on?" Of course, as Diane would be happy to reveal, I've said far worse things than that.

Indeed, my question was really quite foolish; because in asking it I cast aside the very core of Jesus' teaching on God's love for us. It's a teaching that was foreshadowed when God spoke through His prophet Ezekiel and uttered those words of today's Gospel Acclamation verse. Do you remember the verse?

"I take no pleasure in the death of the wicked man, says the Lord, but rather in his conversion, that he may live" [Ez 33:11].

Yes, indeed, "...that he may live" - that he may have eternal life...That's right, God wishes all to be saved, every last one of us...as Clint Eastwood would say, "the good, the bad, and the ugly." And so, just by wishing or hoping for the death of another, even the most evil among us, we speak in opposition to God's will. It's another reason the Church pleads for an end to capital punishment: praying and hoping for conversion, rather than death.

Of course Ezekiel merely pointed to the Gospel, to Jesus, to the word of the Word Incarnate. And in today's Gospel passage from Luke we heard Jesus' response to the self-righteous, unforgiving Pharisees and scribes. It's the same response He would give to my foolish question:

"I have not come to call the righteous to repentance but sinners" [Lk 5:32].

Jesus at the Table of Levi

Yes, Jesus, the Son of God, the sinless One, reclined at the table of Levi, the tax collector, and broke bread.

Who was there, sharing in that meal? Oh, no doubt some of the disciples were there; but who else? You can be sure it wasn't the elite of local society, for they despised the tax collectors and their extortionist ways. No, the Pharisees got it right: only other sinners would be drawn to the table of one like Levi.

And aren't we glad of that? You do realize how perfectly wonderful that is?

This meal, you see, is just one more Gospel foreshadowing of the Eucharistic feast. The host is Levi - Matthew, the Apostle who bears the name of the priestly tribe - the public sinner whom Jesus will not only lead to conversion, but will raise up to be a bishop of His Church. Jesus comes to the table of Levi, the future bishop, and invites sinners to join Him as he breaks bread and sips the wine.

Jesus' presence always makes things happen: Levi's home becomes a church, his table an altar, he and his friends a congregation of repentant sinners gathered in thanksgiving for God's forgiveness. How perfectly wonderful!

And this is exactly what we have right here today in this church, at this altar, where Jesus calls sinners, that's you and me, to repentance and offers Himself in this Eucharistic feast, the feast of thanksgiving, a perfect sacrifice of love. But today the bread we break is His Body. The wine we sip is His Blood.

But do we then take the next step? Do we follow the command of the dismissal to "Glorify the Lord with your life?" In our first reading Isaiah gives us a few hints on how exactly to do this.

Do we "bestow our bread on the hungry and satisfy the afflicted?" [Is 58:10]

Do we "remove from our midst oppression, false accusation and malicious speech?" [Is 58:9]

Do we "delight in the Lord's Day and make it honorable?" [Is 58:13]

Are there others in our lives who need our forgiveness? Do we need to forgive so our hearts can be open to God's love?

And the reward? God "will renew your strength, and you shall be...like a spring whose water never fails... Then you shall delight in the LORD, and I will make you ride on the heights of the earth." [Is 58:11-12]

The first step is to recognize our sinfulness, the need for repentance, something the Pharisees just couldn't do. But Jesus continues to call, doesn't He? He doesn't seek the death of the sinner, but conversion and eternal life - just as He later called a Pharisee named Saul.
 

God calls. We need only respond in repentance and obedience and then let Him convert our hearts. That's His work, the work of the Holy Spirit. Let Him do it.
Don't spend your time worrying about the "small stuff" -- the politics and concerns of this world. Focus instead on that which is truly important, the conversion of hearts, your heart and the hearts of those around you.


This Lent, open your heart to repentance, to God's call, to His power, to the movement of His Holy Spirit, and let Him do His work within you.

Homily: Monday, 7th Week of Ordinary Time

Readings: Sir 36:1, 4-5a, 10-17 • Psalm 79 • Mk 10:32-45
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"This kind can only come out through prayer" [Mk 9:29].

Jesus is telling the disciples something very important here. First, God's power remains God's power; it doesn't become ours. When His power moves through us to accomplish His will, we don't possess it. 

Perhaps the disciples had forgotten this, and assumed God's healing power, the power He exercised through them, had become theirs. Jesus is reminding His disciples that they must remain in constant communion with God, something which can be done only through prayer.

When St. Paul instructs us to "Pray without ceasing" [1 Thes 5:17], he's speaking of holiness, the result of that constant connection between the soul and God, a connection that keeps us always mindful of God's will for us.

But when you consider prayer from a strictly human perspective, it's really quite strange, isn't it? In prayer we communicate with Someone we can neither see nor hear. Physical sight and hearing are really not involved. And so prayer, even the prayer of weakness, the prayer of the unbeliever who turns to God in desperation - even that prayer demands at least a glimmer of faith. Indeed, it's in that turning to God that this faith is manifested.

In the Letter to the Hebrews we're told that, "Faith is the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen" [Heb 11:1]. Yes, hope and faith, even in their weakest form, are necessary ingredients of prayer.

Listen again to that brief dialog between Jesus and the desperate father in today's Gospel passage [Mk 9:22-24]. The father pleads with Jesus:

"But if you can do anything, have compassion on us and help us."

Jesus said to him, "'If you can!' Everything is possible to one who has faith."

Then the boy's father cried out, "I do believe, help my unbelief!"

Once again, the faith of the people, the faith of those who come to Jesus in pain and suffering and dire need, puts the disciples to shame.

I don't know about you, but I feel a deep connection with this unnamed father. He pleads with Jesus to "help us" - not help my son, not help him, but help us. His love for his son is so great that his son's pain, his son's suffering, have become his pain, his suffering. With this he's already taken a necessary first step on the path to true discipleship: he accepts that to be truly human, to be in God's image and likeness, he must love.

This prayer of ours, then, this personal encounter with Jesus Christ, must lead us to serve others in Christ's name. Our service to those in need must always be the outgrowth of our prayer. Otherwise our prayers are only selfish ramblings, really no prayer at all.

The father then takes a second step to discipleship when he has an honest encounter with his own faith. Unlike the disciples - "that faithless generation" [Mk 9:19] - who can't understand why they are unable to exercise God's healing power, the father also knows that his faith, although real, is still very weak. And driven by this self-awareness, he utters his now-famous words: that statement of fact followed immediately by his contradictory plea:

"I do believe, help my unbelief!" [Mk 9:24]

On hearing such words, the faithless will just cast them aside as an unresolved paradox. But to those of us struggling through the times of darkness that enter every life, his words make perfect sense. Faith and doubt, belief and unbelief often exist side-by-side in the same heart, especially when that heart is broken or filled with fear.

Do you see what else Jesus is telling this distraught father, what He is telling us? 

There are no limits to the power of prayer. "Everything is possible..." [Mk 9:23] Jesus tell us. All that is necessary is faith. In other words, the possibilities are endless. And it all comes through the Gospel, the Good News, the story of faith made real for us.

Jesus is telling us that our relationship with God can deepen only through a strengthening of our faith; and faith can deepen only through prayer. Otherwise, like the disciples that day, we can become self-absorbed, something that will ultimately enslave us.

We are slaves, you know -- slaves to our sinfulness. That's why Christ ransoms us. Can we accept this? Can we let the Spirit pray in us so we thirst for the chalice from which Jesus drinks?

Can we accept that, as Jesus' disciples, we are baptized in the baptism of Christ's Cross?

Is my prayer the gift of myself with Christ on the Cross?

I think those are enough questions for us to ponder today.

God's peace.

Happy SAINT Valentine Day

Poor St. Valentine. His feast day has been overrun by a constant stream of commercialism and syrupy sentimentalism that seems to flow more quickly and more deeply with each passing year. For decades candy or flowers were the expected gifts a man gave to his sweetheart, but now expectations have apparently become inflated. Today jewelers warn of catastrophic rejection if the object of one's affection isn't showered with diamonds. One cruise line sent me a slick brochure demanding that I book a week-long Caribbean cruise. Failure to do so would shatter my relationship with my "significant other." And a local car dealership, while reminding its customers that "love is priceless," encouraged them to buy their lover a $40,000 vehicle. It's all quite strange. And I find it somewhat incongruous that in these times of supposed sexual equality, almost all the ads are aimed at men. Are there no feminists on Madison Avenue? 

Thankfully Dear Diane and I have never celebrated this pseudo-holiday except to honor the saint whose name it bears. This morning we greeted each other with a kiss and words of love, the same kiss and words with which we begin every morning. I did, however, add a little something extra today. When I awakened her this morning I handed her a cup of freshly brewed hot coffee in my favorite mug. Now this might seem less than trivial, but Diane truly admires this mug. It's really quite a handsome mug, and she bought it for me on a recent visit to Nantucket. 

Those who know me well also know that I have a rather large collection of coffee mugs, acquired on my travels over the years. To elevate a particular mug to "favorite" status is not something I do capriciously. The mug must earn this label. Size, shape, color, graphics, origin, even the "feel" of the mug -- these and other attributes enter into the mix that ultimately enshrine a mug as most favored. Until it is supplanted by another, the Nantucket mug reigns supreme.

Because of this Dear Diane has refused to drink from this particular mug, fearing she might drop and break it. As I handed it to her this morning I told her not to worry, that I would rather have a broken mug than a broken heart. It's her presence in my life that keeps my heart whole and happy. This so pleased her that she allowed me to vacuum the living and dining rooms and set up the card table in anticipation of the arrival of her friends who are now here playing mahjong.

St. Valentine

Yes, poor St. Valentine -- well, not really "poor" since he is, after all, a saint enjoying the riches of his heavenly home. But I suspect that fewer than one in a ten of those who bought gifts for their lovers today know anything at all about this 3rd-century Roman saint. Martyred under Emperor Claudius II in the year 269, this priest and bishop was accused of encouraging young Christian couples to marry, contrary to an edict by the government. His martyrdom was brutal, a three-part torture that included beating, stoning and decapitation. 

The patron saint of lovers, St. Valentine knew full well that a loving life-long commitment to another involved both joy and suffering, a pairing many today cannot accept. Married life isn't always candy and flowers; sometimes it's broken coffee mugs and vacuuming and card tables. And sometimes it's worrying about paying the mortgage, or struggling to help a troubled child, or confronting unexpected unemployment, or coping with the reality that the one you've loved for a lifetime no longer recognizes you, or dealing with a serious illness that threatens the other's life. Love and marriage are a wonderful gift from our God, but they demand the radical humility of self-sacrifice -- and this, too, is a gift. 

Take a few minutes today to pray together with the one you love and give thanks to God for each other.

Happy St. Valentine Day!