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!”