Dios nos recibe en una famila del amor perfecto – Lc 2:41-52, 1 Jn 3:1-2

Fiesta de la Sagrada Familia, Año C; St. Casimir's.

Supimos en las lecturas de una familia perfecta. Pero esta familia perfecta no es la que la fiesta de hoy celebra; no es la familia de Jesús, María y José, sino la familia de Dios, la familia que es Dios. Cuando digo que dios es familia, no quiero decir que a dios le gustan familias, o que dios está circa de nosotros como pariente. No, quiero decir lo que digo, que dios, padre, hijo y espíritu santo es una familia. El parentesco, la relación entre dios padre y Jesús el hijo es el amor perfecto el amor original del que todo el amor previene. Es un amor entre padre e hijo que es la razón por la que Jesús hizo todo lo que hizo. Es por eso que él tenía que ocuparse en las cosas de su padre. Es por eso que Jesús rezaba tanto. Es el amor que fortaleció a Jesús tanto que podía ofrecer todo para nosotros. Es el amor que dirigió a Jesús hacia dios después de la resurrección, para seguir mostrándonos que es el amor, y que lo causó para enviarnos el espíritu para que vivamos en este amor.

Dios llega a nosotros y nos llama a alabar – Lc 1:39-45, Heb 10:5-10

IV Domingo de Adviento, Año C; San Adalberto.

María viene a Isabel para ayudarla. Su pariente Isabel está embarazada y María viene para ayudar. Tal vez María, que acaba de quedar embarazada, también quiere aprender algo sobre el embarazo y el nacimiento. Ambas pueden ayudarse mutuamente. Y si este fuera todo que ocurrió en esta historia, aun sería maravilloso, hermoso, valdría la pena escucharla hoy en la misa. Pero, hay más.

God rejoices over us – Zeph 3:14-18a, Phil 4:4-7

Advent Week 3, Year C; St. Casimir's parish.

The letter we heard from Paul, the letter to the Philippians, was written from prison. Roman prisons varied from place to place, but we can reconstruct with some probability what it might have looked like, smelt like, to be in that prison: it meant no sun light; it meant no heat if this was a winter’s night, no form of cooling if it was a summer’s day; it meant no way of getting rid of sewage; it meant regular beatings; it meant witnessing suicide and spontaneous executions and knowing you could be next.  But, there’s a reason this letter was chosen form us to read from on this Sunday, Gaudete Sunday, Rejoice Sunday, when the church lifts up ‘joy’ as and Advent theme. From prison, Paul writes the most joyful letter we have from him.

God strengthens our hearts – Luke 21:25-28, 34-36, 1 Th 3:12-4:2.

1st Sunday of Advent, Year C; Holy Infant parish. [Note: the parish was doing its "share your Christmas" collection this week. The parish works with various charities who create lists of families who can't buy toys for their children this year. The families make requests and parish families agree to buy the toys. This week people brought the gifts to church and during the offertory, the brought them up and they were arrayed across the sanctuary. Unfortunately I didn't get a picture! By the time I was done greeting people after Mass the people that coordinate delivery had already moved them all.]

Very soon, the sanctuary will be filled with gifts. The primary purpose of this gifts, of course, is the service of our neighbors here in Durham, a practical way of helping them have a livelier more joyous Christmas. Advent is the season to prepare for Christmas, and this is one moment, an important moment in which we help others prepare and thereby help ourselves prepare. But, there are other places we could store them. Everything in the sanctuary is here to help us pray. So, can these gifts help us pray?

Jesus' reign reflects its brightness off of us – John 18:33b-37; Rev 1:5-8

Christ the King, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

My fellow kings, rulers, queens, monarchs, servants, leaders, shepherds! That address makes about as much sense as saying “Merry Christmas” during Advent or even Ordinary Time. That is, it’s premature, but it’s not exactly wrong. You see at baptism, we are baptized into Christ’s priesthood, prophecy and kingship. We’re not kings yet, but we are already part of a kingly royal people and Christ does promise to share his rule, his servant-shepherd-kingly-rule with us in a full way when all the other powers that compete with Christ to try to rule are put down, in the New Jerusalem. And where we are now is that Christ calls us to acknowledge his true kingship while we await its full realization, and to acknowledge that we have been called to share in that, knowing that we await the full realization of that sharing too. But what we have now, is still worth living out.

Jesus shows us sacrifice – Mark 12:38-44, Heb 9:24-28

32nd Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

I wonder what emotions we imagine in Jesus when he said those words. I wonder what tone of voice carried his words. When proclaiming the gospel, I tried not to impose one on the words, but that’s really impossible, and shows why the reading aloud of scripture is the part of the process of interpreting. But, it’s a really helpful spiritual exercise to listen out for what tone of voice you hear Jesus’ words in when you read those words. (And incidentally, that’s part of why it’s a really helpful part of preparing ourselves for Mass to read the readings before Mass – you can find them online if you google USCCB lectionary, or the references are printed in the bulletin – because the Spirit can work through your imagination to lend a particular tone, a particular interpretation to Jesus’ words, and that might be precisely the one you need to hear). But, to get back to Jesus’ words… when he saw that woman give all she had to the Temple, is there admiration in his words? Is there sorrow, lament, or anger, that that kind of poverty exists, in which someone only owns a few small coins?

Jesus walks along our way – Mark 10:46-52

30th Sunday in OT, Year B; Holy Infant parish. A shorter than normal homily, as we had a presentation of the status of our building plans too.

The first time I visited Durham was just over three years ago. I was serving at Notre Dame then and me and another priest from my community had been assigned to make applications to doctoral programs during that year, so we’d be able eventually to serve as faculty members at one of our community’s universities. During ND’s Fall break, Fr. Mark and I did a kind of road trip, to check out various schools on the East coast that we might be interested in applying to. We went out to Yale, Boston College and then down to Duke, where I had a wonderful visit and became pretty convinced that this is where I really was called to do my doctorate. That, of course, led to all kinds of worry. Initially, would I get in? But just as importantly, was I sure I’d be able to thrive here as a priest, and as a vowed religious of the Congregation of Holy Cross, while I did these studies that I felt called to?

Jesus pierces suffering – Mark 10:35-45, Heb 4:14-16

Twenty-ninth Sunday in OT, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

Someone recently sent me a short video about a chef called Mark Brand. Mark is a person who was at one point in his life without housing. He talks in the video about how sometimes that meant rotating between friends’ couches; sometimes that meant sleeping rough. He talks very honestly about how sometimes his life did involve making bad decision concerning alcohol and other drugs, and other times when he was able to choose sobriety for sustained periods, but had to deal with people who assumed he wasn’t. Things changed for Mark. He now owns a couple of restaurants. He has a permanent roof over his head, he employs people.

God fills us to overflowing – Mark 10:17-27, Heb 4:12-13

Twenty-eighth Sunday of OT, Year B; Holy Infant

You’ve all probably heard that familiar adage that a pessimist says a glass is half-empty and an optimist says that it’s half-full.  Well, as Christians, we’re not called to be pessimists or optimists. We’re called to be something much more exciting; we’re called to be people of hope. A person of hope doesn’t deal in these half measures: hope proclaims that the glass can be filled.  Christian hope is assured that God can fill us up, that through the blood of Christ out poured, we can be filled to overflowing with holiness and love.  God will fill us.  That’s what Jesus means when he says that “All things are possible with God.”

Jesus brings us back to God’s creative love – Mark 10:2-12, Gen 2:18-24

Twenty-seventh Sunday of OT, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

“Go back to the beginning… how did this all start?”  When something that was meant to be wonderful starts to taste bitter, that can be just the question to ask.  What was it that so exited me and led me to take this job, to begin this course of study, to play on this team, … to marry this person?  How can I bring that initial fervor to life again, in the more mature way that’s needed to deal with our more seasoned problems or our creeping ennui?

Jesus welcomes all into Kingdom joy – Mark 9:38-48

Twenty-sixth Sunday in OT, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

There’s really no good transition from plucking eyes out to anything else, so I’m not even going to try. I’m just going to start talking about St. Lucy’s day, and that’ll get us back to eyes soon enough. I don’t know if any of you have ever been to a St. Lucy’s day celebration. It’s December 13^th, and a traditional day in many parts of Europe to lessen the rigors of Advent and celebrate. It’s a Friday this year, so for people who want to have parties prior to the start of the Christmas season, I especially recommend it. Lucy’s name is derived from the Latin word for light, so in parts of France it’s a day to let off fireworks. I parts of Scandinavia, it’s an occasion for parades in which young women wear headdresses containing lit candles. As the winter darkness draws in (which it does much more severely further North than here), these things can be wonderful reminders of how the light Christ is scatters all that’s dark. But, there’s an aspect of St. Lucy I haven’t discussed. She was an early martyr, under Decian, and legend has it that as part of the torture they subjected her to prior to her execution, her eyes were gouged out. Iconography of her often features her holding those eyes on a platter. There’s something somewhat macabre about that, but it’s a thoroughly Christian kind of macabre: As much as Roman Imperial Power tried to degrade her, she lives in Christ; as much as they tried to snuff out the light of her eyes, she inspires festivals of light among so many people; her risen life as a saint with Christ, welcomed by him into the kingdom, is full of light and joy, so full that she doesn’t need her eyes back in her sockets to know heavenly joy.

Jesus embraces us – Mark 9:30-37, James 3:16-4:3

Twenty-fifth Sunday of Ordinary Time, Year B; Holy Infant church.

There’s a puzzle that British newspapers like to publish called ‘spot the ball.’  They’ll take a photo of a moment in a soccer match, use computer wizardry to render the ball invisible and invite readers to reconstruct where it must be.  It sometimes takes some thought, but it’s an eminently doable puzzle, because all the action really is revolving around the ball; everyone on the pitch treats it as the most important object in the world and focuses their attention on it.  It’s the same when someone really important, really valued, really great is walking somewhere.  They’re surrounded, in the center, all conversations and interactions are rooted around the great one in their midst.

The love of Christ urges us on – Mark 8:27-35

24th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

I read a human interest story earlier today about George Ruiz. George had retired after serving twenty years in the Coast Guard. He drove in to the Carolinas this weekend from Alabama, cutting down trees in his way, to come rescue people. Sometimes he can get someone out alone, sometimes he can use his expertise to get more accurate information to the emergency services and help them adjust their triage list so as people who are on the wait list to be rescued and be helped sooner if time is running out quicker than expected for them. Now, I don’t know George. I’ve never met him, probably never will. But, I’m guessing he’s not out there because he loves wind and rain. I’m also guessing he’s smart enough that it’s not that he has no fear of these things. He’s not there, I’m guessing, because he thinks putting himself in danger is fun. I’m guessing he’s there, in harm’s way, because of deep-seated love for humanity that won’t shirk from danger when he has an opportunity to express that love in concrete acts of saving people.

God makes every tongue sing – Isa 35:4-7, James 2:1-5

Twenty-third Sunday of Ordinary Time, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

A world of lack become a world of plenty: that’s the picture of first reading from Isaiah painted of what God is doing. Isaiah talked of transformation of the physical world, of deserts becoming places where water was abundant. He also talks about transformation of human bodies, of bodies that couldn’t walk becoming bodies that leap, and of tongues that can’t talk becoming tongues that sing. And it’s that last point that’s really stuck with me this week as I’ve been praying with these readings. It’s the climax of how Isaiah talks about the transformation of bodies, the mute singing, what leads into the influx of water into dry land. And it says something about God’s vision for humanity. That the reading doesn’t primarily talk about getting rid of pain, or of being able to lift really heavy things, no the ultimate image of transformed human bodies is of us singing. That means that God cares about what we have to say, and He doesn’t want what we have to say muted or mumbled, but sung out boldly. Singing is speech colored in.

God gives us goodness – Mark 7:1-23, James 1:17-27

22nd Sunday of Ordinary Time, Year B; Holy Infant.

Many great actors say that they relish playing villains.  Some stories create much of their delight and intrigue by making us root against someone.  If you come out of the movie theater thinking that Scar actually had some good policies, or that Darth Vader wasn’t such a bad egg after all, you’ve kind of missed the point of those movies.  But that way of engaging narrative, seeking out the baddies… that can lead us dangerously astray when we apply it to the gospels, or to our day-to-day lives for that matter.  Because if you look at this gospel trying to find the hero, that’s clear and right; we find Jesus.  But if we look for the villains, we’d be tempted to find the Pharisees and scribes.  We’d start to read this thinking that Jesus is out to vanquish them, and miss his love for them, his will to save them.  And we’d start to think that we need to distance ourselves from them, because they’re bad and they might defile us; too much contact with them might make us… impure?  And then the gospel turns its head on us, on the judgments that rise up within us, and Jesus would sadly smile at us and say, “No, nothing that comes from outside can defile.”

God shows His love in our relationships – Eph 5:21-32

21st Sunday in OT, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

I don’t usually do this, but I’m going to ask for a show of hands on this one. How many of you had today’s second reading at your wedding? In my experience, about 25% of couples choose it (the majority go for “love is patient, love is kind” from 1 Corinthians for their 2^nd reading, but this one from Eph 5 definitely comes in second in popularity; when I had to plan a fake wedding for our liturgical celebration class in seminary, I picked “God is love” from 1 John… if you’re planning a wedding, maybe think about it). You’ve probably noticed that I don’t normally preach on the reading from Paul at Sunday Mass (I most often preach on the Gospel, sometimes on the Old Testament reading; I preach Paul a lot more at daily Mass), but this reading is one of the rare readings that I think you have to preach on if it’s proclaimed, because this language of submission is just kind of, if I’m being honest, uncomfortable. It discomforted me when I began praying with these readings a week ago to prepare myself to preach, and I think I owe it to you wrestle with that out loud for a while and not just leave it hanging. But before I get to that language, I want to look at this reading more broadly.

Announcements at Mass in the wake of the PA grand jury report

I didn't preach this weekend, but included the below at the start and end of the Mass I presided at.

God feeds us heaven for our hard walk on earth – 1 Kings 19:4-8

19th Sunday of Ordinary Time, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

I think we can tell from our first reading that Elijah was distressed, at his wits end. And I want to back up and give you some “previously on 1 Kings…” context for why he felt that way, but first I want to dwell a little with that distress. After he sits down, the first thing we heard about him was that “he prayed to die.” Taking the Hebrew a little more literally, the text says, “He asked to his own soul to die.” It’s not clear to me that he’s exactly praying yet at that point, though it could be “he asked for dying for his soul.” But I’m not sure he’s yet praying to God. He seems to be looking inward at that point, and it may not even be a fully verbalized thought, but a deep inward resignation, when he looks to his soul, his life, and wishes for only death. But, then he speaks. רב! Literally, he cries out, “Much!” We understand: “too much.” “Enough!” That verbalization seems to be enough though, to make him turn to God. “Now, God, take my life, because I (emphatic ‘I’) am no better than my fathers.” That last bit probably means, “No better than the prophets who came before, who couldn’t get Israel to return to covenant living either.” When he speaks these feelings of desperation he’s feeling, that turns him to prayer, that turns him to God, and it certainly doesn’t solve any of his problems, but somehow he gains enough peace to sleep, and that’s the first gift. And there will go on to be more gifts, because when God looks at Elijah’s soul he doesn’t will death, He sees a life worth living, he wills abundant life, just as he does for each of us. And somehow Elijah’s willingness to be brutally honest with God in prayer is the start of opening himself up to more gift.

God heals through our dependency – Mark 6:7-13, Eph 1:3-10

Fifteenth Sunday of Ordinary Time, Year B; Holy Infant

A week and a half ago, I was in the great city of La Porte, IN, celebrating the Fourth of July (and we’ll put aside for now the strange incongruity of someone who’s a British citizen and American permanent resident celebrating that particular holiday… they were burgers and fireworks, it was great). But, more seriously, going back and re-reading the Declaration of Independence, I was struck again by how it concludes with a commitment to Dependence: Reliance on Divine Providence (depending on God), a mutual pledge to one another of our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor – a confession that to be a nation, we need to depend on one another. And, providentially, while we celebrating the independence of one nation a week and a half ago, this Sunday the Gospel gives us the perfect opportunity to celebrate the dependence of the whole Church.

God reaches out in the mundane – Mark 6:1-6a, Ezek 2:2-5

Fourteenth week of OT, Year B; St. Adalbert's.

Jesus was amazed.  Jesus didn’t get amazed all that much, at least not in the scriptural texts we have, and when he did, it was generally being pleasantly amazed at someone’s faith. But here, he’s amazed and the emotions that go along with that might be saddened, mournful, lost, dismayed.  He’d come home, to the place he was most familiar with, the place he might expected comfort, even might look forward to an enthusiastic welcome; but he finds a lack of faith, a dishonor that amazes him, shocks him. And in that shock lie three gifts to us: comfort, good news, and an invitation or challenge.

Leaky Jesus (Mark 5:21-43)

Thirteenth Sunday of Ordinary Time, Year B.

I didn't preach this weekend (enjoyed hearing Mark DeMott preach mission appeal instead), but this gospel is a really important one for me, so I wanted to share some thoughts here. Four years ago today, I was admitted to our infirmary because my lungs were slowly filling up with gastric fluid (and, yes, that's about as bad as it sounds). I'm fine now, but if I don't manage certain things carefully, or if I'm just unlucky, it could easily happen again. The next semester, I took a class on medicine, magic and miracles in the New Testament with Candida Moss who shared her interpretation of this week's Sunday gospel, Mark 5:21-43, which is usually termed "the woman with the flow of blood," but she titles "the man with the flow of power." Having only recently discovered how my body is pathologically leaky, it was very powerful to (re-)discover that Jesus' body is leaky too. He gives up control, so that healing can leak out of him. "Leaky Jesus" isn't normally one of the invocations in the litany of the Sacred Heart, but I figure he's OK with me calling him that.

God forms us through weakness for powerful speech – Luke 1 Extracts

Birth of St. John the Baptist; St. Casimir's.

[Vigil and Mass of Day present two different extracts from the story of Zechariah. At each Mass I preached through the whole story, narrating it afresh for the portions we hadn’t heard. So, what was preached differed more substantially than usual than what is reproduced below. In the introduction to the Mass, I explained that we’re celebrating the birth of JBap today, why this feast is always 6 months before Christmas (/3 months after the Annunciation), why it is celebrated even on a Sunday.]

What we just heard from Luke’s gospel was really just an extract from what Luke tells us about how the birth of John the Baptist came about, and to get a sense of what God might be saying to us through this, we really need the whole story.

Dios crea un hogar para todos – Marc 4:26-34, Ezeq 17:22-24

11o domingo ordinario, Año B; San Adalbert y San Casimirio.

El profeta Ezequiel entendía la sensación de falta de hogar, de no pertenecer, de estar lejos de donde quería estar. Él había sido sacerdote en el templo de Jerusalén y los babilonios habían venido, habían destruido el templo, la casa de dios, y el palacio, la casa del rey, habían destruido toda la cuidad y exiliado a todo la gente, incluso Ezequiel. Los babilonios habían llevado a los exiliados a Babilonia.

God frees us from fearful grasping – Mark 3:20-35, Gen 3:9-15

10th Sunday of Ordinary Time, Year B; St. Adalbert's and St. Stanislaus' parishes.

I’m guessing I’m not the only one here with the following habit: when I’m bored, my hand will often reach down to my left pocket to take out my phone to distract me. Maybe it’s the right pocket or the purse for some of you, but I know this isn’t just a generational thing; I see people of all ages distracting themselves from boredom with their phones. Now either I’m sufficiently absent-minded or the habit is deeply enough engrained that a few weeks ago I was distracting myself with my phone and some website was taking long enough to load that I got bored and, without even thinking, my hand reached down to my left pocket, trying to grasp something that wasn’t even there that wouldn’t even have relieved what was wrong.

God joins His life to ours – Exod 24:3-8, Mark 14:12-26

Corpus Christi, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

I don’t know what you all think, but, the sprinkling rite that we do for some Masses during the Easter season, where the people get sprinkled with holy water… I think it’s kind of fun. That’s really why it’s assigned for Easter Sunday and an option for the other Sundays of the Easter season, because it’s kind of a joyful thing to do. It’s also a beautiful way of showing how God’s blessing is distributed with a divine playfulness. On the rare occasions we use incense, when the grains of incense are blessed and then vaporized and the vapor fills the whole space, whilst at the same time being more closely directed to certain iconic parts of our space, like the altar and the paschal candle, that’s a beautiful way too of showing how God’s blessing fills every space. I like these different physical symbols of how God’s blessing spreads, but I’m not sure, however, quite how I’d do with all of this sprinkling of blood that Moses was doing in the rite that made up our first reading.  I’m not sure how well we’d do at retaining sacristans or cleaners either, if we did all of that.  If the priesthood of the new covenant had inherited from the old the need to sacrifice young bulls… well, I don’t think I’d do very well at that either.  Praying with these readings, preparing to preach tonight, the thought did come to me, that was momentarily relieving: well, that’s not the question by which priesthood (either the ordained or the baptismal priesthood) is measured: “how good are you at sacrificing bulls?”  The question – which is actually much harder – is, “How good are you at sacrificing yourself?”  And that wasn’t immediately relieving, because the first answer that floated to my mind was: “honestly, not very.”  But, then I heard a deeper answer resounding: “but Christ is.”

God brings us into His divine Life of Love – Deut 4:32-40, Rom 8:14-17, Matt 28:16-20

Trinity Sunday, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

“The Lord is God in the heavens above and on the earth below.”  That’s what Moses has to say to his people.  They’ve been rescued by God from slavery in Egypt, they’ve encountered him and received the Law on the mountain, they’ve wandered the wilderness led by him, and now they stop on the plains before crossing the water into the Promised Land, and listen to Moses, who proclaims to them: “The Lord is God in the heavens above and on the earth below.”  And he proclaims it, because it matters.  I think we’re probably on board with God being God in heaven; it’s God on earth we might be disquieted by.  The idea that God, while totally incomparable to any finite, fallible, created thing, enters into our world, acts, concerns Himself intimately with each one of us, with our greatest triumphs, with the most mundane pieces of daily life, and with our sin, our hunger, our weakness and our need… it’s almost too much to bear.  God loved Israel so much he wanted to make them His own, and he loves us the same.  That changes everything, and that’s not always comfortable.  He offers us a mutual binding: he’ll commit to us, and He longs for us to commit to Him.  He’ll lead us, to the Promised Land; and that’s first gift and then invitation: for us to follow.

God pulls us up to proclaim – Acts 2:1-11, 1 Cor 12:3-13

Pentecost (Mass during the day); Holy Infant parish.

Fire.  It fascinates us.  Think of nights you’ve spent huddled around a camp fire, or staring up at the stars, those huge bundles of fire that we can see from so far away.  Fire warms us, lights up our world, cooks our food, fascinates us and attracts our gaze.

God shows us what yet another facet of love looks like – Mark 16:15-20, Acts 1:1-11

Ascension, Year B; Holy Infant.

Some people say that Ascension is the hardest feast of the Church year to preach on.  Not Trinity Sunday, not Good Friday, not a funeral: the Ascension.  And I’m not making excuses here, but it’s the only feast on which the primary action of God, in Christ, that we celebrate seems to be his moving away from us.  We’re on earth, and he ascends: to heaven.  And that’s not the primary movement given to us to proclaim at any other time: the Christian story is consistently one of God reaching out to us, God coming to visit and redeem his people, of us turning away, but of God’s grace eventually conquering our stubbornness and repentance moving us to accept the glorious eternal embrace offered.  Except today: when the movement is of Christ ascending.

God gives us love to hold on to – John 15:9-17, 1 John 4:7-10 Collect

6th Week of Easter, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

In our opening prayer, we asked God to help us so that “[whatever we do] we might always hold to what we relive in remembrance.” That was after we also asked God to help us “celebrate with heartfelt devotion these days of joy.” Let’s unpack that a little bit. The “days of joy” are the Easter season. This is now our 36^th day this year of celebrating the Easter season. By next week, we’ll have been celebrating Easter for longer than we spent observing Lent and we still won’t be done! And this celebrating is meant to encompass each and every aspect of our lives, but its center, its source and summit, is our celebrating together in liturgy, most especially in Sunday Mass. As we ended the opening rites of Mass, we together asked God to help us celebrate the rest of Mass well, which means, as the prayer put it, with heartfelt devotion. And that, celebrating Mass together with heartfelt devotion, is what “relive in remembrance” means. Remember, we closed the prayer asking God to help us so that “[whatever we do] we might always hold to what we relive in remembrance.” So… what is it we’re reliving in remembrance? It’s the closing words of our second reading: that “[God] loved us, and sent his son for us as expiation for our sins.” That’s what God gives us to hold to. And, boy do we so often feel like we need something to hold on to in this world which can sometimes seem to leave us no stable place to stand.

God tends to our fruitfulness – John 15:1-8

Fifth Sunday of Easter, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

We’ve had some pretty dramatic rains recently. But, a good thing about that is that you can already see the difference they’re making to how green things are all around us. I moved away from England almost fourteen years ago, and every time I do go back, I realize I’ve forgotten two things: quite how much it rains, and quite how green it is. I’ll actually be back in Ireland briefly this coming summer for the first time in years, and even though I know perfectly well in my head what Irish climate is like, I know that’ll be somewhat of a shock to system to be back there, to be surrounded by that much rain, and that much green.

The rejected Jesus commits to us – Acts 4:8-12, John 10:11-18

4th Sunday of Easter, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

Rejection is never something that’s entirely pleasant. I remember chairing a search committee at my old parish, getting about 30 resumes for a new director of maintenance, making what we thought was a great hire, then realizing we had to make 29 rejections. I also taught the confirmation class to our 8^th graders at the parish school, and I learnt from them that rejection was one of the things they feared the most. The first essay they had to write for me was to talk about what virtue they most wanted to grow in as they prepared for and received the sacrament, and the first time I did this exercise, I was surprised that a full half of them chose courage. This pattern continued each year, and consistently as they wrote about courage, they didn’t write about the courage to rescue kids from burning buildings, or whatever, but to do the right thing in the face of peer pressure, to stand up for the unpopular truth, despite the pressing fear that this would lead to social rejection.

Jesus perfects our love – Luke 24:35-48; 1 John 2:1-5a

3rd Sunday of Easter, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

Jesus, after his resurrection, appears in the midst of his disciples, and they’re terrified. So, Jesus wishes them peace. Not peace in the sense of having no conflict or struggle in their lives. In fact, he’ll soon send them out to witness to him knowing that that will mean martyrdom for most of them. No, Jesus wishes them the kind of peace in their hearts that will allow them to do that. The kind of peace in their hearts that will let them not be terrified to see him.

God does dramatic things with us and water – Exod 14-15, Isa 55, Rom 6:3-11

Easter Vigil; Holy Infant parish.

God does really dramatic things with water. We might think that the most dramatic thing we heard about tonight that God did with water is the Exodus. And that’s pretty dramatic (especially when Cecil B. DeMille filmed it). God called his people out of slavery, but as they were walking out of Egypt, they were trapped. The roaring waters of the Red Sea in front of them; Pharaoh’s chariots and horses behind. God was with them – his firey presence that lit up the night (as our Easter fire does still) and his cloud presence that sheltered them during the day. God was with them, but was that much cause for rejoicing when they felt trapped? When they were trapped? Yes, for God does not let His people stay trapped. God does not let His people stay enslaved. God acts and God leads.

Jesus raises us up as he stoops to wash our feet – Exod 12:1-14, 1 Cor 11:23-26, John 13:1-15

Holy Thursday; Holy Infant parish

There are two ways to wash someone’s feet: either you lower yourself, or you raise the other up. In Christ, God does both for us. And in a way, that’s an entirely new irruption of divine grace into the human story, but in another way it’s the culmination of how God has always acted towards God’s people. It’s new, but it’s the same divine love pouring out.

Jesus refuses abandonment – Mark 14:1-15:47

Palm Sunday, Year B; Holy Infant parish

What we’ve just heard might seem like a story of abandonment; of leaving Jesus behind.

Jesus prays loudly for us – Heb 5:7-9

Fifth Sunday of Lent, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

I wonder what you think of when you hear the word ‘reverent.’ I looked at the sample sentences in the Collins online dictionary this week, and they paint a pretty consistent picture. One text talked about someone speaking in a “reverent tone,” which, in the context, meant quietly. Another talked about “waiting with reverent patience,” which meant prolonged inaction. A third described a character as taking a book off a shelf reverently, which seemed to mean slowly, almost gingerly. We got a pretty different vision of reverence in our second reading today, from the letter to the Hebrews. We heard of Christ calling out in prayer with loud cries and tears, and that he was heard, because of this reverence.

God brings us home – John 3:14-21; 2 Chron 36:14-23 (Collect)

4th Sunday of Lent, Year B; Holy Infant parish

In our opening prayer, we prayed that we might “hasten toward the solemn celebrations to come.” Now, ‘solemn’ might jump out at us a little; but ‘solemn’ here is the older form of solemn, meaning dignified, grand, exuberant, joyous (not grey and drab). The celebrations we’re talking about, first and foremost, is Easter. Now, depending on what we’ve given up for Lent, we might really want time to hasten on towards Easter. And that’s a good thing. Part of point of those basic individual penances we take on (as well as what the Church asks us to take on together, like abstaining from meat on Fridays) is to help take our natural human attachments (not the sinful ones, but not the ones that stand at the height of our virtue either) and use those as tools to make us anticipate Easter more eagerly. So, if it’s wanting to return to dessert, a drink, a favorite parking space or social media site, or if it’s get rid of that prickly hair shirt on your face (that one might just be me…), the spiritual benefit of those things is that they make us more naturally, more bodily look forward to Easter. And where we want to go with that, how those perfectly natural inoffensive yearnings can really help our walk with God is when we pray about them, about our wishing that Easter would hurry up, and use that to try to long more whole-heartedly for what Easter celebrates, for resurrection, for heavenly life, for life in which we live perfect lives of unwavering love for God, for each other and for ourselves.

Jesus is zealous for us – John 2:13-25

3rd Sunday of Lent, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

“Zeal for your house will consume me.”  The disciples remembered those words from scripture, we’re told.  Well, they remembered wrong.  The psalm they were thinking of doesn’t say that.  It says: “zeal for your house has consumed me;” not ‘will.’  Their very memory has started to be transformed by their encounter with Christ.  They let themselves be so transfixed by this encounter with zeal incarnate that their memory of scripture, a psalm they must have sung hundreds of times, gets transformed. They remember the psalm as speaking in the future tense, because they are sure that it’s in this man, this Jesus of Nazareth, that zeal is powerfully present, so the psalm becomes future in their minds, because surely when they sang it in the past they were really singing about this moment.

God provides – Gen 22:1-2, 9a, 10-13, 15-18

Second Sunday of Lent, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

We hear this reading of the Transfiguration every Second Sunday of Lent. It’s the reminder we need before we enter into the darker parts of Lent of Jesus’ glory. It helps us remember that Jesus’ shiny glory is never actually extinguished even when human sin threatens to dim it. But, the story of Abraham’s near sacrifice of his son, Isaac, at Mount Moriah, a story called the Akedah (which means ‘binding’ in Hebrew), we only hear that once every three years. So, this week, I looked back on what I’d preached 2^nd Sunday of Lent 2015, and I was kind of disappointed with it. I’d started with a cute story, which I’ll probably tell again at some point, then I’d talked about the gospel reasonably competently, and it’s certainly an important gospel, but I left the Akedah hanging. I don’t know if I was hoping people would just have forgotten about the first reading by the time we got to the homily, but I don’t think we have. Or at least I hope we haven’t. Because a story about God telling someone to offer their child as a sacrifice isn’t something we should just gloss over, even if the slaughter never actually happens. Recall that God had promised Abraham a great line of descendants, but Abraham and his wife Sarah thought themselves too old to naturally create life, then God gives them Isaac. And, then, God says to Abraham, “take your son, your only son, your beloved son… and sacrifice him.”

God commits to us – Mark 1:12-15, Gen 9:8-15

1st Sunday of Lent, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

I have to admit that I’ve never really understood why Noah’s ark is included in every abbreviated children’s bible going. I mean, I guess it’s cute to have all those animals. But, at is heart, the flood story is about the unrepentant wickedness of humans, a level of wickedness that drove God to destroy almost the entire world. What we heard as our first reading is God’s promise to never to do that again. And, I have to admit, that sometimes when I read the news, I wonder if God gets tempted to break that promise sometimes. But, he won’t, because God is ever faithful.

Jesus loves us to loving intimacy with the Father – Mark 1:29-39

5th Sunday of OT, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

Jesus seems to be having a pretty good day.  Today’s reading picks up right where last week’s left off, and maybe we should have preceded it by a “previously, on ‘the Gospel according to Mark.’”  He showed up in Capernaum, preached in their synagogue, freed someone from a demon and everything was amazed at him, and marveled at his teaching.  And the day goes on.  Now, he heals Simon Peter’s mother-in-law, gets a good meal out of it, casts out more demon, cures many more sick people.  The whole town turns up at his door, seeking his help.  People are responding to the call!  It appears he’s up half the night with these people.  And then he leaves, quietly, when no-one’s watching.

Jesus moves us – Mark 1:14-20

3rd Week of OT, Year B; Holy Infant.

I know someone who fell in love while dancing to a Beatles song, but not exactly to the person she was dancing with. Let me back up. When I was at Notre Dame, one Spring break I led a bunch of students on a trip to spend a week at a L’Arche house. L’Arche houses are places community where people with and without intellectual disabilities live and work together as peers, creating communities of faith and friendship. I taught a class where for the first half of the semester, we studied the L’Arche movement and the spiritual and theological principles that undergird it, then we spent Spring break living it and the rest of the semester unpacking that experience. One of my students told me afterwards that she was going to apply to spend a year living as part of one of their communities. “I still want to be an attorney,” she told me. “I still want to help people professionally in that way, maybe run for office someday, but I need more of this first.” “Can you expand that, what’s ‘this’ for you?” I asked her. And that’s when she told me about the Beatles song. We’d been in the kitchen, preparing dinner. The student had shown up a minute or so late to the work shift, and there wasn’t really anything for her to do, all the tasks had been assigned. She told me how frustrating this was, as she’d come here to help people, but then that opening harmonica riff of “Love, love me do” came on the radio, and one of the core members (the community members with intellectual disabilities), asked her to dance. It was while dancing that she realized that there’s something more fundamental than helping people, and that’s loving, loving life, loving people. I encouraged her to remember that moment of clarity, that delightful dance, whether that be through journaling, telling her story to others, sketching it, whatever works for her, because things won’t always feel that naturally easy, even if objectively they’ll still be just as beautiful.

God shows us loving dwelling – John 1:3b-10, 19

2nd Sunday of Ordinary Time, Year B; Holy Infant parish.

There are some questions that don’t allow for short answers, that open things up that can’t be simply put back in their can. “Harry, how was it you got that scar again?” “Ishmael, did you ever happen to meet a ship’s captain, name of Ahab?” “What an interesting piece of jewelry around your neck, Frodo!” Well, when the disciples ask Jesus, “where are you staying?” that ends up being one of those questions too, whose answer is very much longer than the question.