"GO HOME TO YOUR FAMILY"

Homily for February 3^rd, 2020: Mark 5: 1-20.

          The story we have just heard in the gospel reading is one of the strangest in the New Testament. Jesus heals a man of insanity. He has been living like an animal in a cave. According to the ideas of that day, he is possessed by evil spirits. Jesus drives out the spirits, who enter a herd of wild pigs feeding nearby. The animals rush headlong over a cliff into the lake, and are drowned.

          We must leave these bizarre details to the Scripture scholars. Important for us is what happens to the man after his healing. He begs Jesus to take him with him. No wonder. And how crushed he must have been when Jesus refuses and tells him instead: “Go home to your family and announce to them all that the Lord in his pity has done for you.” 

          “To my family?" we can imagine the man thinking. They were the people who had driven him out of his mind in the first place. At home everyone would point him out, whisper about him, laugh at him. What would happen to his new-found sanity and peace of mind then?

          With a cold, dead weight on his heart the man watches Jesus and his friends get into the boat. They row out a little way from shore and set the sails. Gradually the boat gets smaller and smaller, until it is only a speck on the horizon. And the man thinks: “Out there is the man who has changed my life: the kindest, the most wonderful man I have ever met.” It must have been a long time before the man finds the courage to turn round and climb the cliff gain, obeying Jesus’ command: “Go home . . . ”

          In a few minutes the Lord will give you that same command. Perhaps you’d prefer to stay. How good it is to be with Jesus. It is quiet and peaceful in church at this early morning hour. How difficult it is to return to the rough and tumble of daily life, to the demands that await you as soon as you do return. But return you must. We live not on the mountain tops of great spiritual experiences. Most of life’s journey is spent in the valleys; and for each of us there are times when those valleys are dark. When you must walk in darkness, remember the beautiful words of the most loved of all the 150 psalms, Psalm 23: “Even though I walk in the dark, I fear no evil; for you are at my side, with your rod and your staff that give me courage.”

HOMILY FOR FEB 2nd

A FEAST WITH THREE NAMES

 Luke 2:22-40.

AIM: To help the hearers better understand the meaning of this feast.

 

          Today’s feast has three names: the Purification of Mary, the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple, and Candlemas. To understand the first two, we must start with Jewish law about childbirth in Jesus’ day. This said that following the birth of a boy the mother was excluded from public worship for seven days. She was considered ritually impure. On the eighth day the boy was circumcised. This provision of the law is still observed by Jews today. Thereafter the mother remained at home for a further thirty-three days for her blood to be purified. That is why the first title for today’s feast is the Purification of Mary.

If this seems strange to us in 21^st century America, it is not strange at all in other parts of the world. Even today Chinese mothers stay at home for a month after giving birth. In Jesus’ day the Jewish mother observed forty days of rest and seclusion giving birth, and then presented a purification sacrifice: a lamb for a burnt offering, and a young pigeon or turtle dove for a sin offering. Poor mothers needed to offer only two turtle doves or two young pigeons. As we heard in the gospel, that is what Mary and Joseph offered. They were poor.

Since Mary enjoyed the unique privilege of being conceived without sin, she needed no purification. The child she bore would purify the world through his sacrificial death and resurrection. But as a devout Jew, Mary observed the law of her people nonetheless. Jewish law also said that a firstborn son belonged to the Lord. This was because, in the final plague inflicted by God on the Egyptians, he had killed all their firstborn children and animals. But he spared the firstborn among his own people, the Jews. Firstborn Jewish children belonged, therefore, to the Lord. The parents could “redeem” them (take them back) by paying five shekels to any Jewish priest they chose.

Instead of paying this redemption, Mary and Joseph take their infant son to the Jerusalem Temple, to present him to the Lord. This explains the second title for today’s feast: the Presentation of the Lord in the Temple. From that day Jesus belonged completely to God. By age twelve he knew this. He knew too that God, and not Joseph, was his Father. For when his parents found him in the Temple after a frantic three-day search, he asked them: “Did you not know that I had to be in my Father’s house?”  

When Mary and Joseph entered the Temple with their infant son, 40 days after his birth, they found that the Lord had two surprises for them. How often he surprises us. The first surprise was the appearance of the old man Simeon. He was “righteous and devout,” the gospel writer, Luke, tells us, “awaiting the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him.” God had promised Simeon that he would not die until he had seen “the Christ,” which means the Lord’s anointed servant, promised for so long by Israel’s prophets. When Simeon saw the child, he knew in his heart at that this was the one: the Lord’s anointed servant, the Messiah.

Taking the child in his arms, Simeon speaks the short hymn of praise to God that we heard in the gospel. It is called the Nunc dimittis, from its first two Latin words. From early times it has been chanted during the night prayer of the Church in both East and West. Praising God for fulfilling his promise, Simeon says he is now ready to go home to the Lord. The hymn also praises the child as Israel’s glory, and for the Gentiles a light – which helps explain why we bless candles on this feast and why it has a third name: Candlemas.

Simeon goes on to say that this child will be “a sign of contradiction.” Some will accept him, others will not. This contradiction continues today in those who regard the whole notion of God as a limitation of human freedom, and his law a fence to hem us in. In reality, God’s laws, first given to the leader of God’s people, Moses, in the Ten Commandments, are sign posts pointing the way to human happiness and flourishing.

Finally, Simeon warns Mary that the rejection of her Son by many will be a sword piercing her own heart. This prophecy would be fulfilled, according to the traditional dating, thirty-three years later on Calvary, where Mary stood beside her crucified Son, as he spoke his final words: “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

The second surprise for Mary and Joseph is the appearance of the 84-year-old widow, Anna. Completely at home in the Temple, she has spent decades in fasting, adoration, and prayer – like contemplative nuns today. She now gives thanks for the child, Luke says, and speaks of him “to all who were awaiting the redemption of Jerusalem.”

Having fulfilled all the provisions of God’s law, Mary and Joseph return with their child to their home in Nazareth, where (Luke tells us) “the child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favor of God was upon him.” It was there, in hiddenness and silence, in faithfulness to daily work and prayer, that Jesus became the man who could say to rough workingmen, “Come, follow me,” and have them obey him on the spot; and to utter words that he is still saying to us today: “I have come that [you] might have life, and have it to the full” (John 10:10).

[The homily draws upon the presentation by Pope Benedict XVI in Jesus of Nazareth: The Infancy Narratives pp.80-88.]

"COME AFTER ME . . ."

HOMILY FOR 3RD SUNDAY IN YEAR A.

AIM: To challenge the hearers to respond to the Lord’s call today.

 

          A cardinal was visiting a community of Carmelite nuns in Italy.  After celebrating Mass for them, he asked the Mother Superior if he could see how they lived.  Carmelite nuns are enclosed. They don’t leave the cloister. And visitors talk to them through a grille. The cardinal’s request violated their rule. But when a cardinal asks, you don’t say No. So, the Prioress asked one of the nuns to show him round.

          They visited the refectory, where the nuns sit on wooden benches without backs to eat their simple meals off bare wooden tables. The cardinal saw one of the cells where they sleep: a small room furnished with a narrow bed, a table to serve as a desk, and a hard-wooden chair; a single light bulb overhead and a gooseneck lamp on the table. Instead of a basin with running water there was a large washbowl on a stand, and on the floor next to it a large crockery jug. The nun explained that water was brought from the bathroom down the hall.

          At the end of the short tour the nun led the cardinal up a narrow stairway to the flat terraced roof above, furnished with hard benches and a railing all round.  “On feast days like Easter and Pentecost,” she explained, “we can come up here, if the weather is fine, for our recreation period.”  The view was beautiful. Across a valley they could see a magnificent villa surrounded by formal gardens and several fountains. It was summer. A gardener was cutting one of the hedges. Children were frolicking in the swimming pool. A couple were playing tennis on one of the two courts. 

          The cardinal turned to the nun who was showing him round. 

          “How long have you been here in Carmel, Sister?” he asked her.

          “I entered twenty years ago next Easter,” she responded.

          “Sister,” he said, “if the young man of that house had asked you twenty-one years ago to come and live there with him there as his wife, do you think you would be here today?”

          “Your Eminence,” she replied. “That was my house.”

          Why? Why would a young woman give up all that luxury and all that beauty? I think if we could have asked her, or hundreds like her round the world, she would have said something like this:

          “I wanted to be with Jesus.”

          Our gospel reading today tells of a similar sacrifice by two pairs of brothers: Simon and his brother Andrew, James and his brother John. They were fishermen.  Yet at Jesus’ call, our gospel told us, they immediately leave their nets and boat and follow him. Their nets and boat were their livelihood, their security. They were burning their bridges behind them. Why?  If we could have asked them, I think they might have said something like this: “You would have to have known this man Jesus. There was something about him that made it impossible to say No.”

          Somewhere in this church right now there is a young woman whom God is calling to be a religious Sister. Somewhere there is a young man who God wants to be a priest. Let me speak very personally to you.

          Jesus is offering you something he offers to only a few, something precious beyond words. He is offering you a life that will sometimes be hard, but which will be filled with meaning and filled above all with joy. How do I know that? Because eighty-eight years ago Jesus made that offer to me.  He called me when I was just twelve years old by placing in my heart and mind the desire to be a priest. Since then I have never wanted anything else.

         Thirteen years later I fulfilled that desire. That was almost sixty-six years ago. And I’ve never regretted it, not one single day. 

          And, I say to you, whoever you may be, whatever your age, whatever your circumstances: When Jesus calls you, go for it! And one day you too will be able to say what I say to you right now: What a wonderful life! I have experienced already here on earth a little bit of heaven.

          Is God’s call just for religious professionals, priests and nuns? Don’t you believe it! While you were still in your mother’s womb, God already had a plan for your life. He calls each one of us, as he called those four rough fishermen in today’s gospel. He calls us to walk with him, to be so full of his love that others will see the joy on our faces and want what we have. Christianity, it has been said, cannot be taught. It must be caught.

          “I could never do that,” you’re thinking? You’re wrong! Here is a list of some of the great people in the Bible. Every one of them had a reason for thinking God could not use them. So, the next time you feel like God can’t use you, remember: 

Noah was a drunk. Abraham was too old. Isaac was a daydreamer.  Jacob was a liar. Leah was ugly. Joseph was abused by his brothers.  Moses had a stuttering problem. Gideon was afraid. Sampson had long hair and was a womanizer. Rahab was a prostitute. Jeremiah and Timothy thought they were too young. David had an affair and was a murderer. Elijah was suicidal. Isaiah thought himself unworthy.  Jonah ran away from God’s call. Naomi was a widow. Job went bankrupt. Martha was a perpetual worrier. The Samaritan woman who spoke with Jesus at the well was five times divorced. Zacchaeus was too small. Peter denied Christ. The disciples fell asleep while praying.  At Jesus’ arrest, they all forsook him and fled. Paul was too religious.  Timothy had an ulcer. And Lazarus was dead! 

          So, what’s your excuse? Whatever it may be, God can still use you to your full potential. Besides, you aren’t the message. You’re only the messenger.

          When you were born, you were crying, and everyone around you was smiling. Start today (if you haven’t started already) living your life so that when you die, you’re the only one smiling, and everyone around you is crying.

HOMILY FOR 2ND SUNDAY IN YEAR A

JESUS’ SACRIFICE, THEN AND NOW

2^nd Sunday in year A.  John 1:29-34.

AIM: To explain the doctrine of eucharistic sacrifice.

 

“Behold, the Lamb of God!”  John’s words from the opening of the gospel reading we have just heard are so familiar to us that we don’t stop to ask what they  mean.  We hear the words immediately before Communion at every Mass, when the priest, holds up the Lord’s body and blood and says: “This is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.”  What do those words really mean?    

To understand them we must plunge into the distant history of Jesus’ people and read about their greatest feast: the Passover.  Here is the account from the book of Exodus, chapter 12:

Moses told the people, “Go and get a lamb for your families and slaughter it for the Passover.  Then take some of the hyssop, dip it in the blood [of the lamb] and smear some of the blood ... on the door-posts and lintel. ... The Lord will go through Egypt and strike it, but when he sees the blood on the lintel and doorposts, he will pass over that door and will not let the destroyer enter your houses to strike you. You shall keep this as a rule of all time.  When your children ask you, ‘What is the meaning of this rite?’ you shall say: ‘It is the Lord’s Passover, for he passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt when he struck the Egyptians, but spared our houses.  (Ex. 12: 21-27)

The blood of the Passover lamb smeared on the doorposts kept the people safe.  Later the lamb was thought of as sacrificed to God: a gift through which God and his human worshipers were reconciled.   Such gifts, offered in sacrifice to God, were supposed to restore the fellowship which had been broken by human sin.

The prophets of Jesus’ people criticized these sacrificial offerings.  They were based, the prophets pointed out, on the fiction that the things offered to God represented those who offered them.  What God really wants, the prophets said, is not things (since everything belongs to him already).  God wants men and women themselves.  But how could people really offer themselves to God in sacrifice?  And to the extent that people did offer themselves in a spiritual sense, they were offering God gifts stained by sin.  Hence the whole sacrificial system failed to achieve what it was meant to achieve.  This a central theme of the Letter to the Hebrews:

Every priest [and the writer is talking about Jewish priests] stands performing his daily service and offering time after time the same sacrifices which can never take away sins. (Heb. 10:11)  

Hebrews also affirms, however, that a perfect, unblemished sacrifice has been offered.  The fellowship between sinful humanity and God has been restored.  (Cf. Heb. 10:12).  Jesus is the priest who offers, and Jesus is himself the sacrifice    offered.  His life of perfect obedience to his heavenly Father, consummated on Calvary, “takes away the sin of the world,” as John says at the beginning of today’s gospel.  As the blood of the Passover lamb protected Jesus’ ancestors, so his blood protects us, his spiritual descendants.  Because of our sins we are unworthy to stand before God, to pray to him, to claim his blessing.  But as sisters and brothers of Jesus Christ we can do all these things. 

Jesus’ sacrifice, which mends the fellowship between us and God, broken by our sins, is not just long ago and far away.  Though the Last Supper and Calvary are unrepeatable, they become, here and now, a living reality each time we obey Jesus command at the Last Supper, to “do this in memory of me” with the bread and wine.   To this day part of the Jewish Passover ritual is the child’s question: “What is the meaning of this rite?”  To which the person presiding replies: “It is the Lord’s Passover.”  The unique past event is not repeated.  But through its ritual celebration it becomes a living reality for the worshipers today.

 This is what we Catholics believe about the Mass.  At the Last Supper, celebrated in the context of a Jewish Passover meal, Jesus took bread and said: “This is my body.”  He meant: ‘This is me.  When you do this I am truly with you.  I give myself to you.’  Saying over the cup, “This is my blood,” Jesus was telling us: ‘I am the one whose poured out blood keeps you safe, and brings you into a new relationship with God.’  The bread and cup of this meal, previously a celebration of the Passover, are now a pledge of Jesus’ personal presence with us, his friends.  That is the meaning of the offertory prayer we shall hear in a few moments: “When we proclaim the death of the Lord, you continue the work of his redemption.”

The Catechism says: “The Eucharist is the memorial of Christ’s Passover, the making present and the sacramental offering of his unique sacrifice ... [1362] The memorial is not merely the recollection of past events but the proclamation of the mighty works wrought by God for men.  In the liturgical celebration of these events, they become in a certain way present and real. ... [1363]  The Eucharist is thus a sacrifice because it re-presents (makes present) the sacrifice of the cross, because it is its memorial and because it applies its fruit.” [1366]

The Mass is not the repetition the Last Supper and Calvary.  It is, in a unique and specially intense way, their sacramental commemoration.  It makes present, spiritually but truly, what it commemorates.  When we “do this” with the bread and wine, as Jesus commanded, we are there!  We are with the friends of Jesus in the upper room; with Mary and the Beloved Disciple at the cross.  Here in the sacrifice of the Mass we encounter him who is the true Lamb of God: the one who destroys sin; who protects us through his poured-out blood from sin’s just penalty; the one through whom we can approach God, not in fear and trembling because of our sins, but in confidence and love; calling him, as Jesus taught us to do: “Father.”

So much meaning, so much wonder, so much drama!  How often do we recognize it, and truly worship?

JAN. 12th: BAPTISM OF THE LORD

JESUS’ VOCATION — AND OURS.

Baptism of the Lord.  Is. 42;1-4, 6-7; Mt. 3:13-17

AIM: To show the happiness of a God-centered life.

 

In his posthumously published book, Treasure in Clay, the late and soon Blessed Archbishop Fulton Sheen writes: “No true vocation starts with ‘what I want’, or ‘what I would like to do,’ it starts with God.” I quote those words because the gospel reading we have just heard shows us Jesus entering publicly on his vocation. As he does so Jesus’ first concern is to show that he is a man under obedience. When John objects: “I need to be baptized by you, and yet you are coming to me?” Jesus responds: “Allow it now, for thus it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness.” 

“To fulfill all righteousness” meant, for Jesus, doing the will of his heavenly Father. That was all that ever mattered for Jesus. Later, he would say that doing his Father’s will was what kept him going. When his disciples told him he must eat something, Jesus said: “I have food to eat of which you do not know ... Doing the will of him who sent me and bringing his work to completion is my food” (Jn. 4: 31-34). Our religion is so centered on Jesus Christ that we may fail to realize how little he did to draw attention to himself. The theme of Jesus’ preaching was not himself, but God’s kingdom. He came, he said, not to do his will, but the will of another: to serve God by serving others.

As a devout Jew, Jesus knew by heart many passages from the scriptures of his people — what we call the Old Testament. The words Jesus heard as he emerged from the Jordan following his baptism, “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased,” would have reminded him of the words of our first reading, from the prophet Isaiah: “Here is my servant ... my chosen one with whom I am pleased.” Remembering what followed in that Isaiah passage, Jesus knew that he was not called to be the powerful, royal Messiah people were expecting. He would not be a political leader: “not crying out, not shouting,” as Isaiah says in that first reading. He was called instead to a ministry of gentleness: “A bruised reed he shall not break, and a smoldering wick he shall not quench,” to quote Isaiah’s words again.

Why is it important for us to know this? Because each one of us was given a similar task when we were baptized. Like Jesus, we are called “to fulfil all righteousness” by serving God and others. Responding to that call is the highest and best thing we can do with the one life that God has given us. Do we really believe that?

Many people do not. The ambition of many people is to “do their own thing,” as the popular modern phrase puts it. Actually, few of us succeed very well in doing our own thing. Rich or poor, female or male, black or white, young, middle-aged or old, all of us are limited by circumstances not of our own making.  The poor wish they were rich; the rich think they still don’t have enough, and spend much of their time guarding what they do have from loss. No wonder that so many people feel they’re on a treadmill; or say: “Its war out there.” 

Part of the gospel, the good news which Jesus Christ proclaims, is that it doesn’t have to be like that. There is another way to live: a better way, and certainly a happier one. It is the way Jesus lived. Jesus was never concerned with doing his own thing. He wanted one thing only: to do God’s thing. How many of Jesus’ sisters and brothers have discovered this key to a happy and fulfilled life we cannot know.  Most of them are anonymous.  Sometimes, however, God lets us identify some of them. Mother Teresa was such a person. So was Pope St. John XXIII — as those of us old enough to remember him know well. 

Pope St. John Paul II was another person who found happiness in “fulfilling all righteousness” — in doing not his own thing but God’s thing. Weighed down in his closing years by infirmities, a physical wreck yet still mentally alert, Pope John Paul was a sign to all the world that life is still worth living, even when one is old and infirm. On the eve of his eightieth birthday, the Pope wrote a letter “To my elderly brothers and sisters.” Here is some of what he said: “Despite the limitations brought on by age, I continue to enjoy life. For this I thank the Lord. It is wonderful to be able to give oneself to the very end for the sake of the Kingdom of God!”

The concluding paragraphs of this beautiful letter have a message for all of us: whatever our age or circumstances. Let me conclude by reading them to you.

After the words just quoted about his joy in giving himself to the very end for the sake of the Kingdom of God, the Pope continues:

At the same time, I find great peace in thinking of the time when the Lord will call me: from life to life! And so I often find myself saying, with no trace of melancholy, a prayer recited by priests after the celebration of the Eucharist: “At the hour of my death call me and bid me come to you.”  This is the prayer of Christian hope, which in no way detracts from the joy of the present, while entrusting the future to God’s gracious and loving care. “Bid me come to you!”: this is the deepest yearning of the human heart, even in those who are not conscious of it.   

Grant, O Lord of life, that we may be ever vividly aware of this and that we may savor every season of our lives as a gift filled with promise for the future. Grant that we may lovingly accept your will, and place ourselves each day in your merciful hands.

And when the moment of our definitive “passage” comes, grant that we may face it with serenity, without regret for what we shall leave behind.  For in meeting you, after having sought you for so long, we shall find once more every authentic good which we have known here on earth, in the company of all who have done before us marked with the sign of faith and hope. 

Mary, Mother of pilgrim humanity, pray for us “now and at the hour of our death.” Keep us ever close to Jesus, your beloved Son and our brother, the Lord of life and glory.  Amen!

JAN. 5th: EPIPHANY

THE LESSONS OF THE MAGI

Epiphany Year A.  Matthew 2:1-12.

AIM: To present the story of the Magi as a paradigm of the Christian life.         

          Who were these “magi” who were guided to the infant Jesus by a star? Where did they come from? Where did they go? We do not know. To discover the story’s riches, we must pay attention to its symbolism. Read in that way, we find that the story has five stages. The magi, whom we also call the wise men, saw; they searched; they found; they worshiped; and they returned home. Let’s take those five stages of their journey in turn.

They saw.

          A farmer kept a flock of tame geese which freely roamed the farmyard, always looking down for food. One day the farmer saw that his geese were nervous and restless. They were looking up. In the sky he saw the reason. It was autumn. Wild geese were flying south. The farmer’s geese flapped their wings and made a lot of noise. But they did not fly away.
          Many people are like that. Something unusual happens to raise their minds from life’s routine. They become aware of greater possibilities, a higher call. But they fail to respond. The opportunity passes. The old routine resumes. The wise men were different. They were not content with looking up.
They searched.
          Doing so required courage. How their friends must have mocked them. “Following a star? What on earth for? Have you taken leave of your senses?” To set out in the face of ridicule, on what seemed like a fool’s errand, took courage. Sooner or later, it always takes courage to be a follower of Jesus Christ. His standards cannot always be made reasonable, or even intelligible, to unbelievers. At times the follower of Jesus Christ must have courage to swim against the stream: to say No when everyone else is saying Yes; or Yes when all others are saying No; to appear to reasonable, prudent people reckless, even crazy. The wise men had such courage. They set out on their seemingly mad search, and persevered in it until –
They found.
          For this they are rightly called “wise men.” To the clever people who mocked them they seemed mad. In reality they possessed, along with courage, the truest wisdom there is: the spiritual insight to recognize the unique call of God, and to follow it regardless of the cost. As their search neared its end, our gospel reading tells us, “They were overjoyed at seeing the star.” They had reason for joy. They were successful. They were vindicated. It was they who had been proved wise; their critics were the fools. From the wise men’s point of view the search had been all theirs. In reality it was God who was seeking them. That was crucial: for the wise men, but also for us – as we see in a child’s story.
          This little one came home in tears. When the child’s mother had dried the tears, she heard the reason for them. “We played side-and-seek. I hid. No one looked for me.” When you are only three, that can be crushing. “No one looked for me.”
          Someone is looking for you – right now. God is looking for you. He is drawing you to himself, as he drew the wise men by the star. If only you will look up, and be bold, you will find him. And then, like the wise men, you too will be overjoyed. To know that, even now, God is looking for you, drawing you to himself, is already cause for joy. The wise men’s joy is not the end of the story, however. When they finally arrived at the end of their journey –
They worshiped. 
          Their worship was not merely reciting prayers by memory or from a book. They offered the best they had. The person who has never learned to worship like that is poor indeed. How sad when the Mass, for many Catholics, is merely the boring fulfillment of a legal obligation. No wonder such people habitually come late and hurry away early, complaining that they ‘get nothing out of it.’ We’re not here to get. We’re here to give. So, forget about getting. Instead do what the wise men did. Offer God the best you have: something precious, costly. Then you will discover, even if only for a few fleeting minutes, the indescribable joy of self-forgetfulness, the joy of true worship.
          After the wise men had worshiped –
They returned home.
          They go back to the people who had mocked them when they set out. But they return home changed. They have been touched by their experience, touched by God. They have a message for those who thought themselves wise, but turned out to be foolish.
          We return home from church each week, some of us daily, from our encounter with Jesus here in the Eucharist. We too have been touched by God. We too have a message for others. It is this. God is not far off. In all our sorrows, in all our temptations, sufferings, difficulties, and joys, God is with us. God is close to us always – even when we stray far from him. We think that we must storm heaven with our prayers to get God’s attention. And all the time it is God who gives us the ability to pray. It is God who is searching for us, leading us onward, drawing us to himself. That is the message we take home with us. That is the gospel – the good news.
          And when we grasp this good news, the story with its five stages begins again: the seeing, the searching, the finding, the worshiping, the return home. This is the story of the Christian life: the royal road by which untold millions have walked, the road God wants you to walk – and me – for the remaining fifty-one weeks of 2017, and for as many more weeks and years as our journey may last.  Until it ends in Him; and journeying and searching and struggle are over, because we are home: where there will be no more weariness, no more discouragement, no more sickness or suffering, no more death. Where God himself will wipe away all tears from our eyes. Where we shall experience not just joy, but ecstasy; for we shall see God face to face.

THE WORD BECAME FLESH

Homily for December 30^th, 2019: Luke 2:36-40.

          The prophetess Anna, whom we have just heard about in the gospel, was very old. “She never left the Temple, “Luke tells us, “but worshipped day and night with fasting and prayer.” There are such people in the Church today: contemplative nuns, who do not leave the convent for charitable or other good works, like most Catholic Sisters. They lead hidden lives, praying for others.

          Anna has evidently been praying, as devout Jews had done for centuries, for the coming of God’s promised anointed servant, the Messiah. When Mary and Joseph brought their baby into the Temple to present him to the Lord, as the Jewish law required, both the priest Simeon and Anna recognized at once that this infant was the long awaited Messiah. How they most have rejoiced! Anna’s joy is evident in the fact that she cannot keep the news to herself. “She gave thanks to God,” Luke tells us, “and spoke about the child to all those who were awaiting the redemption of Jerusalem.”

          Then comes what at first seems like an anti-climax. Mary and Joseph return to Nazareth with their child. Save for a glimpse of Jesus back in the Jerusalem Temple at age twelve, we know nothing about his boyhood, adolescence, or young manhood until, at age 30, he begins his public ministry with 40 days of fasting in the desert. These are called his so-called “hidden years.”

          Are they really so hidden, however? “Isn’t this the carpenter’s son?” people in Nazareth will ask later (Mt. 13:55). So we can assume that as a boy, Jesus must have worked in the carpenter’s shop. Is it conceivable that any shoddy work came out of that shop? that customers were kept waiting beyond the promised date? Luke tells us that in that shop, Jesus “grew in size and strength, filled with wisdom.” He did that by accepting the burdens, duties, and frustrations of a very ordinary and outwardly uninteresting life.

He calls us to do the same.

JESUS' HIDDEN YEARS

Homily for December 30^th, 2019: Luke 2:36-40.

          The prophetess Anna, whom we have just heard about in the gospel, was very old. “She never left the Temple, “Luke tells us, “but worshipped day and night with fasting and prayer.” There are such people in the Church today: contemplative nuns, who do not leave the convent for charitable or other good works, like most Catholic Sisters. They lead hidden lives, praying for others.

          Anna has evidently been praying, as devout Jews had done for centuries, for the coming of God’s promised anointed servant, the Messiah. When Mary and Joseph brought their baby into the Temple to present him to the Lord, as the Jewish law required, both the priest Simeon and Anna recognized at once that this infant was the long awaited Messiah. How they most have rejoiced! Anna’s joy is evident in the fact that she cannot keep the news to herself. “She gave thanks to God,” Luke tells us, “and spoke about the child to all those who were awaiting the redemption of Jerusalem.”

          Then comes what at first seems like an anti-climax. Mary and Joseph return to Nazareth with their child. Save for a glimpse of Jesus back in the Jerusalem Temple at age twelve, we know nothing about his boyhood, adolescence, or young manhood until, at age 30, he begins his public ministry with 40 days of fasting in the desert. These are called his so-called “hidden years.”

          Are they really so hidden, however? “Isn’t this the carpenter’s son?” people in Nazareth will ask later (Mt. 13:55). So we can assume that as a boy, Jesus must have worked in the carpenter’s shop. Is it conceivable that any shoddy work came out of that shop? that customers were kept waiting beyond the promised date? Luke tells us that in that shop, Jesus “grew in size and strength, filled with wisdom.” He did that by accepting the burdens, duties, and frustrations of a very ordinary and outwardly uninteresting life.

He calls us to do the same.