God makes good on his promises to us – Heb 11:8-19, Lk 2:22-40

Holy Family (Yr B); Holy Cross - St. Stanislaus.

I’ve heard it said that we only ever receive something as a gift once we’ve been offered it twice.  When we received what we’re owed, our wages say, we simply pocket the envelope and then go ahead and make use of it, hopefully responsibly.  I doubt if many of us write thank you notes to our employers after each payday.  In fact, it would be odd if we did.  But gifts are different.  For something truly to be received as a gift there must at least a tacit unspoken resignation upon the first offering: “no, thank you, but this is too much.  I don’t deserve this.”  I use the word ‘resignation’ deliberately: it’s a re-sign-ation, changing the sign on the object, clarifying, this isn’t anything I’m due or have earned, this is gift.  Then, under the new sign, the gift can be given and received as gift: “no, please, I want you to have it.” 

God makes us His candles in the world – Luke 2:1-14, Isa 9:1-6

Christmas Mass "during the Night"; Holy Cross Parish.

The glory of the Lord shone.  Take a moment to take that in.  We normally think of light or a source of light as shining, as flashing, as illuminating.  But, here, we read that the glory of God shone.  To understand what it means for glory to shine, let’s back up and think about quite why we want light.

God makes his home with us little people – 2 Sam 7:1-16, Luke 1:26-38

4th Sunday of Advent (Year B); Holy Cross parish.

God gave David rest.  God had provided a palatial home for David the shepherd, had given him rule, but maybe most poignantly for us, our first reading tells us: God gave David rest.  Maybe in these days of December busy-ness, that’s what grabs us as the most extravagant gift: God gave David rest.  And David responds well.  He doesn’t respond wrongly, even if his response doesn’t display the full insight it might.  David is so grateful for this gracious gift that he wants to return the favor: he wants to build a magnificent house for God.  And God will eventually consent, even though it’s David’s son Solomon who will actually build the 20 story tall temple, because God delights in our attempts to do him honor.  But first God has a greater gift for David: a loving rebuke; an “O you of little faith”; a re-orientation.

God clothes us with joy – Isa 61:1-2a, 10-11, 1 Th 5:16-24

3rd Sunday of Advent (Yr B); Holy Cross Parish.

“Rejoice always.  Pray without ceasing.  In all circumstances give thanks.”  Surely there are some typos, or at least some scribal expansions, in this series of terse imperatives.  Surely Paul must have meant “rejoice sometimes; pray when you get a chance; when something good comes, give thanks.”  That would be good, humane, reasonable advice.  But, Paul dares to dream something more extravagant for the church he loves in Thessalonica.  And we proclaim that in our church as the Word of the Lord, as an extravagant dream for us.  It’s not reasonable, it’s radical: “rejoice always, pray without ceasing, in all circumstances give thanks.”

God makes his way to us – Isa 40:1-5,9-11, Mark 1:1-8

Second Sunday of Advent (B); Holy Cross Parish.

To exiles, comfort is spoken, comfort is tenderly spoken.  The Israelites had been exiled for well over a generation now.  So many had grown up with talk of their Land, their own king, their own Temple being foreign to them, being something almost unimaginable, something they had never known, something that they know engenders a sparkle in the grandparents’ eyes, but not something they had ever touched or seen for themselves.  They were Israelites who had not known Israel, but only Babylonian captivity.  They had only known lush gardens they were shut out of.  They had only known themselves as foreign, as alien, as unwanted except as cheap labor.  They tried to sing their people’s songs in a strange land, but the melodies had never been wrapped around their tongues in their homeland.

God shows us his face in our neighbors – Isa 63:16-17, 19b; 64:2-7; Adv 1 Collect

First Sunday of Advent (B); Holy Cross Parish.

Frederick has been very important in my life, but I never met him.  You see, he was born in France in 1813, in the aftermath of the French Revolution.  He had a happy enough childhood it seems, in a very devout Catholic household.  But, as he entered adolescence, he came to encounter the world as much more complex and shady place than his childhood had prepared him for.  He struggled to find his place in a world of disagreement, conflict, question and doubt.  He was an exile from the child’s garden.  Everything that had seemed so secure seemed ruinously fragile.  What could he trust in to show him God?  He would later write of the “horror of doubts that eat into the heart and leave the pillow drenched with tears.”  One night he got up from that tear-drenched pillow and ran.  He ran into St. Bonaventure’s church, vaulted the altar rail and crashed to his knees in front of the tabernacle.  The pitiful child cried: “Why do you hide your face, God?”

Christ hungers and thirsts for us – Matt 25:31-46, Ezek 34:11-17

Christ the King; Holy Cross Parish.

What is it to be glorious?  I ask, because I don’t think we use that word a lot.  Words we use to say that something’s very good tend to suffer deflation over their history and new words need to be coined.  Something can be awesome without actually causing anyone much awe anymore, or brilliant without really make much of anything shine, or amazing without anyone being all that amazed.  But, glorious, that word seems to have kept a mystique, a value all of its own.  Our gospel tells us that at the end of time, the Son of Man will come in his glory, that he will be glorious, but we kind of have to hunt through the text to find what glory really means.

God gives us what we need to prepare for joy – Matt 25:14-30, 1 Th 5:1-6

Week 33 of Ordinary Time; Holy Cross - St. Stan's.

How would you like to be given $226,200?  Or, more precisely, to be trusted with $226,200 of someone else’s money?  That’s fifteen years worth of full-time minimum wage employment.  And that’s what a talent was.  When the master we hear about in the gospel is doling out these sums of money, it’s not always clear to us what meaning they actually carry.  And that going back and doing a little economic history wasn’t just me indulging my geeky side this week, but a step in appreciating the power of the gospel.  A ‘talent’ was a unit of currency worth 15 years worth of day laborer pay.  That’s what the least trusted servant is entrusted with: $226,200, one talent.

God zealously purifies us and sends us forth – Ezek 47:1-12, Jn 2:13-22 (Lat. Bas.)

Feast of the Lateran Basilica; Holy Cross Parish.

Today we, the Church, celebrate a church, and not just any church: we celebrate the cathedral church of Rome, the church on whose façade is inscribed omnium ecclesiarum Urbis et Orbis mater et caput – the mother and head of all churches of the City (that is, Rome) and the world.  By celebrating this one church, we’re really celebrating every church, from our marble marvel here, to the grandeur of the Basilica, to the tin roof structure with only three walls I worshipped in when I worked in Mexico.  And we celebrate these works of human hands, because God made us with hands, and with feet, and with behinds, and hearts and lungs… with bodies.  We don’t worship God neatly in our minds, but bodily, and bodies need buildings.

Jesus prepares a place for us – John 14:1-6, Rom 6:3-9, Ps 23 (All Souls)

All Souls, with alternative gospel; Holy Cross parish.

Daniel Pobolski, Patricia Kowalski, Antonia Ransberg, Hilda Gzregorek, Geraldine Tajkowski, James Plencner, Patricia Carter, Larraine Cress, Joseph Hartz, Ed Lind, Loretta Zygulski, Eugene Lizzi, Josephine Sopzcynski, Esther Gromski.  Since my ordination, these are the fourteen men and women that I’ve buried (one, but a boy); confining that list to just those whose funeral I’ve presided and preached at, just those for whom I’ve been the one the Church has charged with standing by a casket or an urn and proclaiming hope.

God loves us into loveliness – Matt 22:34-40, 1 Thes 1:5c-10, Exod 22:20-26

30th Sunday of Ordinary Time; Holy Cross - St. Stanislaus.

My father was a wandering Aramean.  Well, he wasn’t; my father was from Cumbria and the only wandering I remember him doing was purposeful moderate hiking.  But, if we were celebrating Passover, it wouldn’t matter if your father was from LaPorte or La Paz; we would each make that claim, that “my father was a wandering Aramean,” and we’d make it because Deuteronomy tells us to.  As the Jewish people recall each year the saving wonders God worked for His people in freeing them from slavery in Egypt, they don’t let that event stay soberly and tamely in the past, they claim for themselves, “my father was a wandering Aramean.”  In much the same way, today in this Church we’re invited to hear the Word of God say to us, personally “you were aliens in Egypt.  Remember.”  That’s not a word that we can let sit in the past, not a word we can hear directed solely to that one generation millennia ago, wandering in the desert, freed from slavery, approaching the promised land, receiving the Law as they went; that’s a word for us.  That’s the Word of the Lord for us.  That’s a word that takes on life in this assembly.  That’s a word in which we encounter Christ.  We were aliens in Egypt.  We were slaves.  Remember.

God makes us gift – Matt 22:15-21, 1 Thes 1:3-5

29th Sunday of Ordinary Time; Holy Cross parish.

When I was a child, I collected coins.  Growing up in England in the pre-Euro zone days, it was pretty easy to travel around Europe collecting different coins from different countries and, when my dad would travel for business, he’d bring back coins from more far-flung places.  I was fascinated at first by the different sizes, shapes and colors, by the different ways value was shown, and finally by the different values projected by the coins in a deeper sense: how did each nation make a statement about who they were by how they decorated their coins?  Now, I soon came to realize that coin-designers did not tend to be especially imbued with the virtue of national humility, but none that I can remember made as bold a claim as that coin the Pharisees produced from their own purse at Jesus’ request.

Preaching Pause

After having not had a Sunday off preaching for quite a while, I now have two in a row.  Last weekend, we used the video for the Annual Bishop's Appeal in place of the homily and next weekend we have a visitor from Holy Cross's Vocations Office doing a "Vocations Appeal."  Just wanted to let people know I haven't disappeared, and regular service will resume in two weeks' time!

God extends mercy to guide us to the kingdom – Matt 21:28-32

Twenty-sixth Sunday of Ordinary Time; South Bend TV Mass, and Holy Cross parish.

“Tax collectors and prostitutes are entering the kingdom of God before you.”  What would be your reaction to that?  Imagine you’re a chief priest, you’re standing in the Temple, your home base, the place you feel most grounded in the presence of the God who called you into his service, into leadership in his service, and this odd, homeless, wandering preaching who had just shown up in Jerusalem to great acclaim from the people has the nerve to say to you: “Tax collectors and prostitutes are entering the kingdom of God before you.”  I’m sure we can imagine various responses, and, knowing how the story ends, we know that their reaction culminated in plotting to have this wandering preacher killed.  But, I’d submit there’s one proper response: gratitude.  Gratitude followed by conversion of heart.

God invites all to join the work and receive the reward – Matt 20:1-16

Twenty-fifth Sunday of Ordinary Time; Holy Cross parish.

We don’t know why those men were standing around the market place at the eleventh hour, about five o’clock in the afternoon.  The vineyard owner doesn’t know either, so he asks them, and they give almost a non-response, “because no-one has hired us.”  I call it almost a non-response, because it’s patently obvious: if anyone had hired them, they’d be at work in someone’s field or someone’s barn and not standing around a market place!  Maybe a more probing question might have been, “and why has no-one hired you?”  But the master doesn’t ask this, and so we can’t get to know.  We don’t know if they were seen as too old to be able to labor, or too young to know what they were doing, or too odd to be able to get on with the other workers, or if they looked sickly, or threatening, or if they slept in and showed up to the market place late, or if they were just unlucky.  All we know is that the master called, and they followed.

God gives all to let the light in – Jn 3:13-17, Phi 3:6-11

Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross; Holy Cross - St. Stan's.

Imagine a boy born in captivity, born in a cellar, trapped.  Imagine this boy has never seen sunlight.  He has only seen his murky world clinically and coldly illumined by artificial, ill-colored electric bulbs.  His mother has told him of sunlight, has told him of how wonderful it feels upon the skin, of how the clouds flow past it leaving their shapes behind, of how it fills a space with warmth and beauty, of how it’s like the lights he’s seen, but so much more, so much better, that with it, he’d be able to see colors as they really are, that he’d be able to distinguish blue from black (which yellow electric light can never allow) and see the beauty.  Slowly, she comes to realize that the blacked out window in the basement is low enough that she could break it.  It’s too small for either of them to be able to get out, but she could break it.  Who knows what her captors would do to her in response to this outrage against their control?  But she has to risk it.  Whatever it would cost, she’d dare to risk it, to let her boy see the sun, to show him that there is an outside, there is a force invisible to him more ancient and more powerful than the walls that confine them, a force able to truly illumine them, that need not be overcome and shut out by walls, a force that could pierce through that window that she would give all if needed to open, and let in the light that would delight, that would warm, that might just excite her son enough to turn to it, and seek the freedom it promised.

God appoints us as watchmen to bring us forgiveness – Ezek 33:7-9, Matt 18:15-20, Rom 13:8-10

Twenty-third Sunday of Ordinary Time; Holy Cross church.

Ezekiel was an exile, a displaced person.  He was an Israelite living in Babylon, because the Babylonians had come to Jerusalem, destroyed it, destroyed God’s house, the Temple, in its midst and forced them on the long march East to Babylon.  The people were bereft of the only ways they’d known God: the Temple, the kingship, the Land.  But, God did not desert them.  The people would discover that in their exile, God was in their midst too.  Just as, centuries later, the Church, bereft of Christ’s humane presence, would discover that wherever two or three gathered in his name, he was there.  But, I’m getting ahead of myself.  God did not desert his people.  God continued to send prophets, to call them back to covenant living, even when living in a strange land.

Christ leads us through suffering to eternal life – Matt 16:21-27, Jer 20:7-9, Rom 12:1-2

22nd Sunday of Ordinary Time; Holy Cross - St. Stan's.

One year at Notre Dame’s baccalaureate Mass, I ended up being the person tasked with purifying the vessels. As I was purifying the main, celebrant's chalice, I noticed whose it was.  It was Fr. Sorin’s chalice, the chalice of the priest who my community’s founder had sent on the arduous trip across the ocean from France to the mission territory of Indiana to found a school.  It wasn’t the chalice he’d received at his ordination, but one he’d been given on one of his ordination anniversaries by a benefactor.  The precious metal alone must have been worth a pretty penny, the craftsmanship and artistry more, and the history behind it probably made it the most expensive thing I’d ever held, and certainly the most expensive thing I’d ever swilled water around in and drunk out of.  The most expensive thing I’d ever held, but not the most valuable: for a little while before I’d embraced fellow Christians, fellow humans in the sign of peace, and a shortly after that I’d held the body of my Lord briefly in my hand, before consuming it.  “What could we give in exchange for our life, or the life of anyone?”  Jesus asks.  Nothing, we could give nothing so valuable as a life.  What would he give for our life?  Everything.  He would give his clothing, his blood, his body, his very life, to lead us into eternal life.

Christ gives himself that death may be conquered – Isa 22:19-23, Matt 16:13-20

Twenty-first Sunday of Ordinary Time; Holy Cross parish.

Have any of you spent the last fifteen minutes wondering what Shebna did?  Shebna, who Isaiah talked about in the first reading, in not so glowing terms.  Shebna, who loses his role as master of the royal palace, a kind of chief steward or major domo for the king, and instead of severance pay gets thrust from his office, pulled down from his station, and stripped of his garb of honor, which gets handed over to Eliakim, his successor.  What did he do to deserve that?  Well, our reading began at chapter 22, verse 19.  If we’d have started at verse 15, we’d have heard all about it (and we’d also have heard rather more gruesome curses against Shebna than the ones we did!). 

God’s table of plenty heals with but a crumb – Matt 15:21-28, Isa 56:1, 6-7, Rom 11

Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time; Holy Cross - St. Stan's.

In Dante’s comedy, after traveling through hell and purgatory, our hero eventually finds himself being taken on a tour through heaven.  Heaven, for him, is ordered, there’s lower-heaven and various grades of upper-heaven, each granting its residents an even more intense closeness to God from the last.  But, in a sense, the order is irrelevant, for all the inhabitants of heaven are incomparably blessed.  Dante starts his tour at the Moon, the lowest level of heaven.  Upon its pock-marked surface the first person he meets is Piccarda.  It takes him a while to recognize her, as her happiness has rendered her more beautiful than she ever appeared during her life on earth.  She is completely aware that there are higher levels of heaven above her, but she suffers not a jot for it.  She is happy.  Not just content, she lives a life of bliss.  She has been purified of all jealousy and wants nothing but what she has, for she only desires that God’s will be done.

Christ’s resurrection ripples raise us up

Solemnity of the Assumption (Mass during the Day); Holy Cross - St. Stanislaus.

Some things can’t help but spread.  Laughter would be one, hiccups definitely another.  True goodness is the same way, and that’s true in any field: the greatest musician isn’t the diva or divo who tuts about their accompanist’s tempo, but someone who makes everyone around them play better when they pick up their instruments; just as a great athlete doesn’t hog the ball, but raises the play of the whole team.  Virtue’s the same way too: the virtuous person is contagious with goodness and walks around lighting fires of zeal and coating everything with a soothing balm of hope and patience.  And if that’s what virtue does, then that’s what resurrection does too.  Resurrection is the fruit of the greatness of Christ’s love, it’s what happens when a human life was lived so perfectly, so holily, so virtuously that someone dared to love us enough not just to die for us, but loved us so much that not even death, death at our hands, could keep him from being with us.  The fiery furnace of Christ’s love erupts in resurrection.  And it spreads.

God’s power saves us when we realize we are overcome – Matt 14:22-33

19th Sunday of Ordinary Time; Holy Cross parish.

It was the first time he’d left them.  Our gospel says that Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go ahead without them.  He had crowds to send forth, crowds that he’d just miraculously fed (this gospel picks up right where we left off last week). And, then, he needed some prayer time.  So, he goes up the mountain.  He mourns his friend and forerunner John the Baptist, whose death at Herod’s hands he’d just heard of.  Maybe he begins to fear for his own death which may come the same way.  He needs to experience anew and afresh the closeness of his father, to re-member whose Son he is, to re-find the strength to be God-with-us to this hungry world.  A world that suddenly looks more dangerous with John’s death.  A world that’s about to get a lot stormier.

God transforms all that we have into gift – Matt 14:13-21 (bilingüe)

Eighteenth Sunday of Ordinary Time; Holy Cross parish and St. Adalbert's parish (in Spanish, see below English homily)

I was very pleased to find recently a website of “51 insanely easy ideas to transformyour everyday objects,” which includes turning funnels into candle holders, hangers into magazine racks and bread tags into loose key labels.  Even I can manage these, despite the fact that I’ve never been much good at DIY or craft activities, although I have great admiration for those who are; for people who can take lifeless supplies and create something useful or beautiful out of them.  I’m even more impressed by our art teacher Kim McClean at Holy Cross grade school, who doesn’t just create art but does it through creating artists out of children.  And it was in teaching that I discovered the kind of transformations that I can help effect: turning a mass of information and technique into something learnable, helping a student move from “I can’t” through “I currently struggle with” through “I kind of sometimes almost can” to “I’m good at.”  We all have some awareness both of what it’s like to transform things, and of the kind of transformations we struggle to effect.  We know how badly the world, and our neighborhood, needs people who can transform conflict into peace with justice; peace-makers.

God has planted goodness in the world for us – Matt 13:44-46

17th Sunday of Ordinary Time; Holy Cross Parish.

There are good things in the world.  And that’s worth celebrating.  Sometimes we work to seek those out.  I think of the joy musicians feel when, after hours upon hours of laborious practice, they participate in presenting something truly beautiful and receive the heartfelt gratitude and appreciation of a crowd.  The joy of being a cultivator of beauty is something worth seeking out.  Sometimes we just stumble on a good thing.  Maybe we’re in an accident or in trouble and a friend or even a stranger reaches out a hand and we encounter true goodness, unsought, unexpected, maybe even initially unwelcome, but eventually deeply appreciated.

God will grow his kingdom to include us – Matt 13:24-43

Sixteenth Sunday of Ordinary Time; Holy Cross Parish.

If you had to guess whether she was wheat or weed, you’d probably have guessed weed.  A college dropout, who’d become a journalist and gotten mixed up with the Communists, who had fallen for a sorry excuse of a man who told her he’d leave her if she didn’t get an abortion and then left her anyway when she did.  If our eager servants had gone out, ready to pluck weeds, they’d probably have taken one look at this ne’er-do-well, and plucked her.  But the master bids the servants wait, because God knows better. 

God is with us while we await the lavish harvest – Matt 13:1-9, Rom 8:18-23

Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time; Holy Cross Parish.

I wonder what we focus on when we hear this parable.  A lot of treatments of this parable focus on the dangers and the failures: birds who devour (a la Hitchcock?), paucity of soil, scorching sun, choking thorns.  And they’re real.  There are dangers and in the world.  But they can’t dominate our focus.  Because as we heard two weeks ago on the Feast of Ss. Peter and Paul, if even the gates of Hell assail the Church, they will not prevail.  As the Sermon of the Mount ends, even if we’re on rocky ground, buffeted by storms, our house will not fail.  As St. John XXIII put it, the prophets of doom have had their say, and the Church has found them wanting.

God plants us on a rock – 2 Tim 4:6-8, 17-18; Mat 16:13-19

Feast of Ss. Peter and Paul; St. Casimir and Holy Cross parishes.

God plants us on a rock.  I find that a very realistic image for what it feels like to live out our lives in the Church.  We don’t live in a rose garden, yet, and we don’t experience perpetual banquet, yet.  Now we get glimmers of those realities here and now, furtively we perceive the grace God is pouring out for us, the wonders prepared for us, and we’re given in foretaste, but for now the experience of living in the Church can be pretty well summed up by that image: we live on a rock.  It’s big and it’s craggy and it’s home.

God feeds us with his love – Jn 6:51-58, Deut 8:2-3, 14b-16a, 1 Cor 10:16-17

Corpus Christ; Holy Spirit Parish (Newman Hall), Berkeley, CA.  [Posted late due to travel.]

One day when I was in Haiti we had ice cream and it was amazing.  I was only in Haiti for less than two weeks, we were busy during the days, walking in blazing heat, having trouble sleeping in the sticky nights’ warmth, getting enough to eat (unlike most of the population there), but nowhere near as much as our Western stomachs were used.  But on Sunday afternoon, things quietened down.  Someone had a radio, we went outside, found a spot in the shade and out came the ice cream.  My limited Haitian was just about capable of crying out to our host repeatedly mesi boku mesi boku mesi boku, but really I had no words in any language to truly express my gratitude at that moment for something as simple as ice cream.  I’ve never, before or since, been so grateful for ice cream… and that saddens me.  I’m saddened that it took temporary presence in a third world country to draw out simultaneously a lament that my practice of hospitality doesn’t come close to matching most suburban Haitians’ and to intense gratitude at ice cream.  Unfortunately, it was too short a time to truly inculcate in me growth in the virtue of gratitude, but I have that memory which inspires me to keep on praying for it.

This week's Office of Readings: Judges

I've had an idea for a new blog series for a while, and figured I'd try it out today: look at the week's coming readings in Office of Readings, and provide an interpretive crux for them.  How can reading these readings be prayer?  Here are some thoughts about Judges, a book easily written off as fun but not particularly spiritual.

Love loves love, and us, as infuriating as we are – Exod 34:4b-6, 8-9, Jn 3:16-18 (Tri Sunday)

Trinity Sunday, Year A -- Holy Cross - St. Stan's.

“Early in the morning, Moses began to climb Mount Sinai, carrying two stone tablets.”  What isn’t clear from the beginning of our reading, is that this is the second time Moses had carried those stone tablets up that mountain.  The first time hadn’t gone very well.  He had spent forty days and nights up the mountain in intense intimacy with the God who had delivered His people from slavery in Egypt and was in the process of entering into renewed covenant with them.  The people below had not been able to trust that God would keep on leading them into fuller and richer freedom.  They feared; they felt abandoned.  So, at Aaron’s invitation, they took off their gold earrings and melted them down, forming a golden calf and worshiping it.  They then encountered the full display of God’s wrath which up until that point they had only seen directed at the Egyptians.  Moses, angry too, descended and smashed the tablets, burnt down the calf and made the people drink its ashes.  He now ascends with new tablets, upset, angry, scared.

God pulls us up by the flame of the Spirit – Acts 2:1-11

Pentecost Sunday; Holy Cross - St. Stan's.

Fire.  It fascinates us.  It captures our gaze and delights us.  I’ve just gotten back from what’s officially known as “early years of priesthood retreat” (but more commonly known as baby priest camp!) and we spent more than one night sitting out under the stars, gathered around our outdoor fire pit, enjoying the fraternity, but gazing at the fire.  It warms us, it lights up our world, it cooks our food, it fascinates us and attracts our gaze.

Jesus roots us that we might reach out – Acts 1:1-11, Matt 28:16-20

Ascension Sunday; Holy Cross parish.

We recently hired a new director of maintenance, Steve Velleman (which is very good news, by the way… he starts on Monday).  It’s of vital importance that he never hears the story I’m about to tell you.  This isn’t like a Messianic secret thing, where you go and tell the whole village anyway, seriously… he can’t know this.  We have various banners that are hung in this church for various seasons and Steve’s predecessor, Kevin, would put these up on his own.  What Kevin never knew, and Steve can never know, is that at the last parish where I was a regular parishioner before I entered seminary, I was on the banner hanging team.  I am happily retired from that, I desire no comebacks.  I had two partners in crime.  One was the designer and maker of the banners, who would stand back and tell me if they were hanging straight.  The other was an ex-Marine who held the base of the ladder for me, while I would climb up holding the banner.  Now, of course, the ladder couldn’t go right in front of the hook, it has to go off to the side a little.  So, once I’d gotten to the top, I would have to stretch out, sometimes almost straining, always leaning some, and reach, to hook the banner on, and then return a few times because it apparently was never quite straight.  You can see why I retired.  Now, I don’t think of myself as particularly weak, but I was pretty clearly less strong than Ron at the bottom holding my ladder, and that’s why we divided the tasks the way we did.  I could only dare to reach so far out, because I knew that Ron only needed to use a tiny fraction of his strength for me to be completely securely held.  I was rooted enough to reach out.

God died for us *and* is ever-present to us – Jn 14:15-21

Sixth Sunday of Easter; variations on this homily were preached at Holy Cross-St. Stan's and St. Joe parish (South Bend).  Baptisms all over the place today!

“And is better.”  Familiar words, I’m guessing: if you ever watch tv, you’ve probably caught ads for Ford which proudly proclaim just that to us.  To stir you up with excitement at how amazing it would be to buy a Ford (which, so the messaging would have it, has great mileage and impressive functionality), they present a bunch of situations in which ‘or’ would be thoroughly trumped by ‘and.’  Who would order sweet or sour chicken, practice black or white photography or stay at a bed or breakfast?  Yes, “and is better.”

God leads us along the Way – Jn 14:1-12

Fifth Sunday of Easter; Holy Cross - St. Stan's.

The disciples had much reason for their hearts to be troubled.  They were at table with their Teacher.  He had just taken off his garments, knelt down and washed their feet.  He had taken a morsel of bread, dipped it, and handed it to Judas Iscariot, declared that Judas would betray him, and told him to go quickly and do what he needed to do.  And then follows this speech.  “Do not let your hearts be troubled!”  How exactly?  They didn’t know exactly what was coming but they must have at least sensed that all was not well.  Their teacher would declare himself the Way, and then walk the Way of the Cross.  He’d declare himself the Truth, and then be questioned by Pilate as to what Truth is, and answer not with words but with the act of letting himself pierced.  He’d declare himself the Life, and then lay his down.

God calls us by name – Jn 10:1-10, Ps 23

Good Shepherd Sunday; Holy Cross Parish.

Many of you know that before I entered seminary I worked as a teacher in a prison.  When I first started working there, a lot of the other helping professionals in the prison recognized that there was something about the culture of that place, the marbled unity of grotesque beauty and darkness in search of light, that I needed to understand to be fruitful there, and the only way they could explain it was through stories.  This one was from a prison chaplain.  I never knew the inmate the story’s about, but it’s a pithy way of getting across in one short graced conversation what I saw so many times, on a much slower scale.  He was young, but a hulk of a man, apparently, intimidating.  By which, I learnt, the chaplain meant both that he looked intimidating, and that he often went out of his way to intimidate people.  He’d stand at the back of the chapel throughout Mass, defiant.  After several weeks of this, the chaplain approached him and asked: “What’s your name?”  “Striker,” came back the answer.  “That’s not a name, that’s a front, a claim, a committal offense.  What’s your name?”  “González.”  “That’s what the COs call you, I know.  But what’s your name?  What does your momma call you?”  The next answer, I won’t repeat in church.  That’s what his mother called him, something I won’t repeat in church.  “She’s mad with you a lot, huh?”  “Yeah.  I’m bad.”  It wasn’t a confession, it wasn’t a boast; it was just a flat statement of fact.  “But, I bet that wasn’t what she called you when you were a baby, huh?  What does your momma call you when she’s not mad with you?”  “The first name on my birth certificate is Napoleón.”  “Nice name.  But that’s not what I asked.  What does your momma call you when she’s not mad with you?”  Out of a face, I came to know so well, that could erupt either in tears or violence, but you knew was about to erupt, came: “Well, sometimes… she’d call me Napito.”  “Napito.  Can I call you that?”  “Sure, padre.  That would be firme.” 

Jesus unites us by breaking – Luke 24:13-35

Third Sunday of Easter; Our Lady of the Road Catholic Worker Community.  (A similar homily also preached at Holy Cross parish)

When I realized what Gospel reading we’d be breaking open together today, my first thought was: “God makes it so easy on me sometimes.  I get to go into a Catholic Worker Community and preach about how Christ is encountered in the stranger, and in the sharing of food.”  Then, I thought and prayed a little more, and had a second, more anxious, realization: “God makes it pretty tough for me sometimes.  I have to go into a Catholic Worker Community and try to tell them something about how Christ is encountered in the stranger, and in the sharing of food!” 

Jesus breaks for us – John 20:19-31, Acts 2:42-47

Sunday within the octave of Easter; Holy Cross Parish.  Homily preached at my first Mass presiding as a priest.

One of the most exciting things to happen in our parish while I’ve been here is our dream sessions.  I was encouraged and moved by the number of parishioners that gathered together to help us articulate what our dream is for this parish.  I wonder what might have happened if St. Luke had wandered in to one of those meetings?  Would he have read out the selection from Acts that Tim proclaimed?  Because here we have a description of an idyllic church, right after Pentecost has sprung itself on the small band of nascent Christ-followers.  This is an image of Church that draws on all kinds of dreams Luke’s contemporaries in different philosophical circles had expressed for the ideal society, and he paints a picture of this community restored by Christ through the Spirit and says: here it is, it’s possible and Christ did it.  Strife, dissension, marginalization and persecution would all come, and he won’t whitewash those away, but for a brilliant brief while Christ made us truly live as Church.

Guest post: Getting ready for ordination

I have a guest post over at the Holy Cross Vocations blog.

Basic guide to an ordination ceremony

I wrote this up for my family, and thought it might be worth sharing here.

Purpose:  For Pat and I to be made into priests by the bishop. 

Main Players:  Bishop Kevin Rhoades will preside and preach.  He is the bishop of Fort Wayne – South Bend (the diocese in which Notre Dame and South Bend are located).    Seminarians will serve.

One Key Moment:  The bishop laying his hands on mine and Pat’s heads.  This, together with a prayer he says after the priests repeat his gesture, is the moment we become priests.  We read about this rite in the part of the Bible about the first generation of the Church after Jesus’ time on earth (book of Acts).

Formality: Think wedding.

God shakes our world – Matt 28:1-10, Col 3:1-4

Easter Sunday, St. Stanislaus.  (Using the Gospel from the Vigil).

I used to live in California, and there was a Bible study I’d go to in the rectory of a nearby church.  One day, we were discussing some passage and I was explaining how some aspect of it struck me, when suddenly everything jolted.  My first, unthinking instinctive reaction was: “someone’s done an emergency stop.”  Then, I remembered we weren’t in a car… we were in a rectory, and rectories don’t do emergency stops.  It was an earthquake.  Not one that caused any real damage, but enough to jolt us, to spill people’s drinks, to make me joke that maybe God didn’t like that interpretation I’d just offered.  Enough to remind me that the earth we instinctively think of as solid and ultimately dependable is neither of those things.

Bulletin Column: Triduum

Holy Week Bulletin Column at Holy Cross - St. Stan's.

Dear friends,

Lent is almost over!  The next time we gather as Church for Sunday worship, it will be for the great feast of Easter.  But, between now and then, there’s a lot to happen.  On Monday evening, many of us will gather at St. Matthew’s Cathedral (at 7:30pm) for the Chrism Mass, where Bishop Rhoades will bless new oils for us to use throughout the year.  Through those oils, God’s healing action will be made present through sacramental anointing with the oil of the sick; God’s welcome of children and adults wanting to receive His baptismal embrace will be extended through use of the oil of catechumens; and the sacred chrism will commission the newly baptized to serve God as priest, prophet and king, will strengthen the gift of the Spirit in those being confirmed, and will anoint the hands of new priests for service.  This is a moving service to which all are welcomed, but is especially intended for priests to renew their closeness with their bishop before celebrating the Sacred Triduum.

Jesus commands life – Jn 11:1-45

5th Sunday of Lent, Holy Cross - St. Stanislaus.

What’s behind your stone?  What’s in your cave, shut up behind a stone?  What are you afraid to smell?  What can you think of… something you wouldn’t want to tell the whole congregation?  What is there that you don’t want to carry, because you know how terribly it would weigh you down?  Dead weight… weigh that leads the death.  Roll the stone over it, try to forget.  Because most of us have something that threatens to weigh us down.  A memory, a fear, an injustice suffered or inflicted, an incompetence or a deception.  Something which threatens to reek of the absence of God.  But to try to live our lives with part of us siloed off and shut up behind a rock is not to live, it’s to tacitly consent to a slow-fade to death.  And Jesus commands Life.

Christ brings the heavenly down the mountain for us – Matt 17:1-9; Gen 12:1-4a

Second Sunday of Lent; Holy Cross parish.

“Luke, I am your father;” the de-masking at the close of the Marriage of Figaro; the transformation of the Beast into Belle’s prince; the quite frankly bizarre moment in more than one Shakespeare play when a woman lets down her hair and only then do the rest of the dramatis personae realize she’s not a boy: literature is fascinated by these scenes, in which a character’s true identity, hidden from other characters or even from the reader, gets made visible, when the dramatic x-ray machine cuts through flesh and marrow and discloses bone.  This is the vision God granted these three disciples, a preview of the future resurrection body, a disclosure of the glorious light Christ was in-their-midst, in contrast to the hiddenness, homelessness and hostility with which he was more normally clothed.  They weren’t there the first time around, so they’re granted a repeat of the heavenly voice from Christ’s baptism, the unwavering assertion of his beloved sonship, the identity that he had and would again unwaveringly assert in the face of temptation.  They see him in his super-natural habitat, surrounded by representatives of the heavenly world.  Christ who had left his throne on high to come to be God-with-us, re-enthroned, even if just for a moment.

Christ raises us to be who were created to be – Gen 2:7-9, Matt 4:1-11

Preaching on the First Sunday of Lent at Sacred Heart parish, CO Springs.  This is the parish where I assisted when I was a novice, and it was wonderful of them to welcome me back to preach as I began my week of retreat at the novitiate to prepare for priesthood.

Whenever I get anxious or stressed, my instinctive reaction is to say to myself: “I need a cigarette.”  Now, I don’t.  I quit smoking thirteen years ago.  Any physical nicotine addiction left in my body is long gone.  But, there’s some kind of memory lurking there that tempts me.  It tempts me to forget who I am, to forget my identity of ex-smoker.  It remembers all those times when I felt stressed and anxious because of nicotine withdrawal and whispers: “that’s all this is!  You can evade all your stress just by lighting up.”  Now, luckily, my conscious mind has gotten pretty good at telling that instinct that it’s wrong, that it’s confusing my identity, that a cigarette would not help me one whit.  But, it’s still there.

First Sunday in Lent: an exercise in mystery

I'll be on retreat this current week and won't be able to put my Sunday homily online.  Looking over some resources to prepare, I re-read a paper I wrote a while ago on the collect for this Sunday.  It wouldn't work as a homily (too academic), but there are some nuggets here worth sharing (I hope!).

Collect
Grant, almighty God, through the yearly observance of holy Lent
that we may grow in understanding of the riches hidden in Christ
and by worthy conduct pursue their efforts.
Through our Lord Jesus Christ...

Catechumens hearing this prayer for the first time don’t know what they're letting themselves in for.  They know that, with the blessing and support of their godparents, they will later in that Mass walk into the sanctuary and sign their names in a book.[1]  They know that they are then “elect to be initiated into the sacred mysteries at the next Easter Vigil.”[2]  They do not yet know that Lent itself is a great mystery, a mystery that can only be experienced by being walked through and that they will not just walk through that period of purification once.  They do not know that that Lenten walking will be the way they will peel layer and layer off the mystery that is Christ, a mystery they can only encounter in the walking.  They don’t know how hard it will be.  I don’t know how rich it will be.  Luckily this was known in the eighth century, and the insights of this understanding found their way into the collect for the first Sunday of Lent in the Gelasian Sacramentary[3] and from there into our current Mass texts.

God re-ablazes us – Joel 2:12-18 (Ash Wed)

Ash Wednesday; St. Stan's.

Plants absorb light from the sun, little by little, day by day, and (in a seemingly mundane marvel) manage to use that sunlight to grow.  They store the energy that is gradually poured in the branches and leaves they grow.  It’s possible to release that energy all at once with the right stimulus.  That’s what fire is.  Fires burns so bright because all of the sun energy that the plants have bit by bit absorbed gets let out in a brilliant blaze that can light up the darkest night.  As a fire burns, ashes are created.  Ashes are a side-effect of fire.  But, while a fire is ablaze, we rarely notice the ashes.

God dispels our worry – Matt 6:24-34

OT C 8; Holy Cross - St. Stan's parish.

This week, the lesson plan for Kindergarten and First Grade Religious Ed invited them to talk about the signs of spring they could see.  I was a little worried about this.  You see, we get out religious ed materials from a company called Pflaum, who write their lesson plans up around six months in advance, send them to us about three months in advance, and then our catechists put them into action.  It’s in general a pretty good system, but sometimes having your lesson plans written for you months in advance causes problems.  And this week, when I was covering K and 1^st religious ed, and saw that I was meant to ask them to point out signs of Spring they could see… that was one of those times.

WwtW OT C 8: God suffices

Bible study notes for the coming Sunday's Gospel.  This will be the last "Wednesdays with the Word" post for now, as the parish has decided that for Lent to turn out attention to Pope Francis' new encyclical, the joy of the Gospel.

Gospel:           Matt 5:17-37

Context.           We continue reading of the Sermon on the Mount, the first of the five main discourses of Matthew’s gospel. The Sermon is preceded by an account of Jesus’ healing and preaching ministry and his call of the first disciples.  It began with the beatitudes, proclaiming blessing for the persecuted Church.  Blessing comes before demand.  Next, we moved us from indicative to imperative (be what you are!; salt and light) in very general terms.  Then, after a reminder on the continued relevance of Torah, the instructions started getting a lot more specific (the so-called antitheses).  Next, comes a section of proper cult (fasting, prayer and almsgiving).  We do not read this in the Ordinary Time lectionary, is it will be read in Lent.  The Lord’s Prayer becomes the center of the Sermon.  Today’s reading is part of what follows that: how to deal with possessions.  After this will come a section on how to deal with your neighbor.  The Sermon concludes with promise and warning: whether you heed these words will determine how you weather the storm that is coming.  After the Lent and Easter seasons are over, we will pick up our continuous reading of Matthew’s gospel a few chapters later (some weeks are skipped each year).  It would be good to read over the whole Sermon (chapters 5-7) as Lenten reading.

God loves us disproportionately – Matt 5:38-48

Sunday of OT A, week 7; Holy Cross parish.

The sun produces energy at a rate of 400 Yotta-Watts, that’s 400 Yotta Joules each second, that’s 4 with 26 zeroes after it.  That’s the equivalent of this: if every man, woman and child on God’s green earth had their own nuclear power plant, and ran it for fifteen years, the total amount of energy produced would be the same as what the sun produces each second. That’s powerful.  That’s energetic.  That’s a tiny fraction of God’s action in the world, of God’s love, of God’s grace.  God makes the sun rise on the evil and on the good.

WwtW: OT A 6, getting to the heart of the matter

Confession time: I struggle with anti-nomial tendencies, especially when laws afflict me.  This is one of the most inconvenient sections of the Sermon on the Mount, intensifying the beating heart of the law.  Remember being delighted last week to be called salt and light?  Well... this is what that means.  I'm also going to add: below are Bible Study notes.  In pastoral conversation or preaching, I wouldn't present this so matter of factly, but would try to walk with people as we all struggle together to live out this vision, straining to rest in the loving mercy of God, but always falling short.

Gospel:           Matt 5:17-37

Context.           We continue reading of the Sermon on the Mount, the first of the five main discourses of Matthew’s gospel. The Sermon is preceded by an account of Jesus’ healing and preaching ministry and his call of the first disciples.  It began with the beatitudes, proclaiming blessing for the persecuted Church.  Blessing comes before demand.  Next, we moved us from indicative to imperative (be what you are!; salt and light) in very general terms.  Now, after a reminder on the continued relevance of Torah, the instructions start getting a lot more specific.  This is how to be salt and light.

God’s work in us lights up the world – Matt 5:13-16

Fifth Sunday of Ordinary Time; Holy Cross-St. Stan's.

You all know very well the First Law of Thermodynamics.  Now, I’m not saying that you can necessarily recite it, but you know it.  The first law of thermodynamics states that work is heat and heat is work.  Knowing the first law of thermodynamics really just amounts to knowing that when you run your car engine, it gets hot.  Now, that’s not really its function (its function is to spin the gears and thus wheels and move your car forward), but a side-effect (a pleasant one in this weather) is that doing that work creates heat.  You know the first law of thermodynamics if you know that when you exercise, you’ll start to warm up.  Doing the work of contracting and extending your muscles to move around creates heat.  A room full of children running around won’t just be noisy, it’ll warm up.  And when things get hot enough, they start to give off light.  Think of sparks on a bandsaw.  Or, think of those light bulbs, which are designed to give off light and, incidentally give off heat.  The work there is the electrons in the metal of the filament moving backwards and forwards, changing direction over fifty times a second.  These tiny particles buzzing around do enough work to heat those coils and produce enough light to light up this Church.

WwtW: Be what you are -- a window! (OT A 5)

Wednesdays with the Word Bible Study continues with some thoughts on this week's coming gospel.

Liturgical Context.  Our continuous reading of Matthew’s account of Jesus’ earthly ministry began two weeks ago, with the calling of the disciples (Week 3 of OT).  Last week, we would have read the beginning of the Sermon on the Mount, the famous beatitudes passage.  However, the Feast of the Presentation ‘bumped’ the 4^th Sunday of OT, so we read that gospel reading (from Luke) instead.  This week, we ‘continue’ with the Sermon on the Mount.  As we skipped its beginning, we’ll look at that in these notes briefly, as it grounds the whole Sermon.

God discloses His power over sin – 1 Sam 12:1-17; Mk 4:35-41

Saturday of Week 3 of OT; St. Stan's.

“You cannot know yourself so well as by reflection.”  It’s a line from Julius Caesar, but it sums up well David’s experience.  David, if you remember, spied on Bathsheba bathing, got her pregnant and coolly dispatched her husband, one of his loyal soldiers, by sending him on an impossible military endeavor, and fails to see anything wrong with what he’s doing.  Until… David gets sucked into Nathan’s story, lets himself imagine himself in it, is moved to empathy and is moved to right judgment.  Nathan need only point out the obvious and David finds himself convicted by his own sin.

Going to daily Mass this week?

Sometimes I read something that's so good I wish I'd written it.  Sr. Marianne Race has a post at Pray Tell that puts the first readings from this coming week in literary and theological context.  It's very helpful to anyone that wants to appreciate how these first readings are part of a story that has been handed on to us in order to deepen our faith.

The Light bids us come, to shine Him into the darkness – Matt 4:12-23

Sunday, OT Wk 3; Holy Cross Parish.

The people living in snow have seen fresh grass, or even just blacktop!  That would be good news for us right now!  The cabin fever of being stuck inside, the worry about the pipes that might break or the huge heating bill that’s surely on its way, the discomfort and fatigue of snow-shoveling, the very real concern for those lack shelter… we know it will end, even if not soon enough.  Isaiah uses the image of people walking in darkness, fumbling, uncertain, scared.  This oracle may well have been written to one-time residents of the Northern Kingdom, conquered by Assyria, whose walking may have included death marches.  Defiled and denied their human dignity, those walking in darkness could be Israelites, naked but for shackles, forced to walk to their death, paraded not as God’s precious children, but as the spoils of war.

WwtW: The Light calls us to venture into darkness (OT A 3)

Wednesdays with the Word bible study is back!  Here are my notes on the coming Sunday's readings (just gospel this time).

Gospel:           Matt 4:13-23

Context.           This is really the beginning of our reading through Matthew’s account of Jesus’ earthly ministry.  Matthew’s gospel is divided into five sections, corresponding to the five books of the Torah, each consisting on Narrative and Discourse, surrounded by an Introduction (Nativity) and Climax (Passion, Death and Resurrection).  We pick up the story midway through the narrative section of Part I.  The preceding parts introduced John the Baptist (Advent), narrated Jesus’ baptism by John (Feast of Baptism) and his forty days in the wilderness (Lent).  We will soon reach the Sermon on the Mount.

God reaches out to us, and touches – 1 Sam 9 (selections); Mk 2:13-17

Saturday of the 1st week of Ordinary Time; St. Stan's.

Saul has lost the donkeys, but it’s not just the donkeys who are lost.  It’s the mark of someone who truly cares that when they’ve lost something, they themselves feel lost.  Saul is himself at a loss because he’s lost the donkeys.  The one who has lost out is out seeking.  But Saul’s also sought out.  And he’s found.  He’s found by Samuel, the prophet, the gift of God to his once barren mother and father, the faithful servant of the priest Eli, the seer of God, and now God’s tool, the one who lets himself be transparent to God’s purpose.

God comes close to us in serving and resting – 1 Sam 3:1-10

Monday of the 1st week of Ordinary Time; Holy Cross Parish.

The Lord called Samuel.  We’re not told exactly what that means.  We’re not told exactly what that experience was like for hm.  We do read that it wasn’t obvious: it wasn’t a burning bush or an angel.  In fact, it presented itself as something very mundane, very worldly; the young temple servant thought he was hearing the priest he worked for, calling him!  But, eventually, with Eli’s help, he realizes that something quite marvelous is happening.  God is calling him.

God brings our restless hearts to a place of giving – Matt 2:1-12, Isa 60:1-6, Eph 3:2-3a, 5-6

Epiphany homily, Year A; Holy Cross - St. Stan's.

Seeking.  It’s one of our fascinations, the foundation of so many of our most treasured stories: the hero who seeks.  Whether it’s a movie in which Susan is desperately sought, a novel about a boy seeking his treasure with the aid of an Alchemist, or songs by a band who still hasn’t found what it’s looking for, we admire protagonists who let themselves be known as seekers, who admit to their audience that they have a deep need which makes them restless and who spend their restless energy searching.  We value their attentiveness to every possible clue, the ways in which their eyes open to the world around them and thank them that we start to see it more keenly through their inquisitive gaze.  We root for their success, because we want to see these characters find their missing piece so as we can finally see them whole, and so find a little of what we’re looking for.  We’re fascinated by these characters because they put into action what we can’t help but wonder about: how can I seek the place my restless heart can rest?

God fills our hearts with a word worth contemplating – Luke 2:16-21

Feast of Mary, Mother of God; Holy Cross Parish

An odd 10-year anniversary is coming up for me: ten years on facebook.  Over those past ten years, my feed has undergone an interesting change.  Fewer and fewer are the photos of wild nights out (my friends’ photos of course, not mine!).  Gradually, the percentage of parties viewed that were someone’s wedding increased.  Now, more and more, I log on to see pictures of my friends’ kids.  And I’ve learnt some very interesting things now that so many of my friends are either consecrated religious or parents.  One very interesting set of conversations I’ve had with a number of friends who are new mothers have been about missing being pregnant.  Now, as one friend with whom I was discussing this homily while it was gestating reminded me, that is most definitely not the experience of all mothers of newborns!  But it is the experience of some.