Pondering Mystery in our Hearts

Homily

Solemnity of the Blessed Virgin Mary,

The Mother of God

After the visit of the shepherds to Bethlehem, Saint Luke tells us: Mary kept all these things, reflecting on them in her heart. With those words we might say that Mary became the first Christian theologian as she sought to understand the meaning of the events surrounding the birth of her first-born son. When Mary and Joseph return with Jesus to Nazareth after finding him in the temple with the doctors of the law, Luke once again confirms Mary’s reflective spirit: His mother kept all these things in her heart. Mary is joined by others in Luke’s Gospel who wonder about the identity of Jesus. The evangelist tells us that on Easter Sunday night two disciples on the road from Jerusalem to Emmaus were conversing about all the things that had occurred.

That wondering and reflection and discussion about the identity of Jesus has continued throughout history as believers and nonbelievers alike seek to grow in understanding about who he is, this Son of Mary and Joseph, born under the most  mysterious of circumstances. We might think that after two thousand years everything that could possibly be known about Jesus has been discussed and written about by great scholars, saints and councils of the Church. But by its very nature “mystery” is just beyond human comprehension. It is our reaching out to try to grasp mystery that stretches our minds and our hearts to receive, ever so gradually, another insight, a fuller understanding of who Jesus is.

In the fourth century, at the Council of Nicea, the bishops of the church under the guidance of the Holy Spirit,  pronounced what we believe about God in the formula we call the Nicene Creed, still recited when we gather for Mass. One hundred years later, at the Council of Ephesus, the Church proclaimed Mary as the Mother of God, her title we celebrate on this eighth day of Christmas. As always, what we say about Mary helps to bring clarity to our thinking about her Son. In proclaiming Mary as Mother of God, we affirm what we believe about Jesus, that he is truly divine and truly human; truly God and truly man; one person with two natures that cannot be divided.

The articulation of our beliefs into creedal statements and dogmatic formulae is important. Guided by the Holy Spirit, the Church seeks to be precise about what has been revealed to us about the identity of our God. In this way God is not whoever I decide God to be on any given day. God is not held hostage to my ideas and thoughts and feelings, which are, as Shakespeare says, like the moon in constant move. Rather, I submit to the revealed truth of God’s identity and strive to conform my life to his image and likeness, rather than conform God to my thoughts and musings.

In reflecting on the nature of faith it has become popular to say: “There is only one God so what difference does it make what religion you are?”  Well, yes, I will grant you there is only one God; but we think about God makes all the difference in the world, in the same way what we think about “family” will determine what kind of family life we nurture and guide; what we think about “friendship” will determine what kind of friend we seek out and what kind of friend we will be. What we think about God will determine how we worship and pray, the decisions we make about our moral life, the way we treat others and the way we appreciate ourselves.

It is Mary’s reflective spirit, her pondering in her heart the great mysteries unfolding before her, that shows us the way to greater understanding, to greater faith. Mary invites us, encourages us, to take time to prayerfully consider who our God is and how he is revealing his plan to us as he did to Mary and to Joseph. And it is the careful teaching of the church and formulation of our belief that keeps us focused on the mystery of our God, not as we imagine him to be, but rather how he has revealed himself to us, born of a woman, born under the law, to ransom those under the law, so that we might receive adoption as his sons and daughters.

There are many images of Mary that we treasure. The image of Mary at prayer is the one that most inspires me. Mary bowed before the enormity of God’s plan of salvation as she pondered that plan in her heart. As this new year of grace begins, may God find us as he found Mary, reflective in prayer and docile in spirit before the wonder of his love manifested in his Son Jesus.

HIS STORY - OUR STORY

Christmas Homily 2010

Some of my favorite pieces of music are the overtures from Broadway musicals. In an overture, the composer will select some of the more memorable songs in the show, weave them together, and give the audience a preview of what is to come. For example, the overture to South Pacific includes “Some Enchanted Evening”, “Bali Hai”, “Gonna Wash that Man Right Out of My Hair” and “There is Nothing Like a Dame”. Once you know the songs, hearing the overture brings the entire show to light. Perhaps that is why I like overtures. When I hear them, in my mind’s eye I can picture and relish once again some of my favorite memories of the Broadway shows I have seen.

Luke’s presentation of the birth of Jesus at the beginning of the Gospel is like the overture of a Broadway musical. Hearing the story of Jesus’ birth unfold previews for us the major themes that Luke will develop in the rest of his Gospel.

For example, Luke’s Gospel is often called the Gospel of Prayer. Several times throughout his ministry, as his mission becomes clearer, Jesus goes off by himself to pray to his heavenly Father. In his story of the birth of Jesus, Luke presents us with the prayers of Zechariah, Mary and Simeon as they begin to understand the role they are playing as God’s plan unfolds in the events they are witnessing.

The backdrop for Luke’s story is the census ordered by Caesar Augustus. In response to the Emperor’s edict, Joseph and Mary make their way to Bethlehem where their names are recorded in the city of Joseph’s ancestor, King David. That census foreshadows the day when, during his public ministry Jesus shares with his disciples not earthly power, but spiritual authority and tells them emphatically: Rejoice because your names are written in heaven.

When he instructs his followers about the nature of discipleship on the way to Jerusalem, Jesus tells them: Foxes have lairs and the birds of the sky have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to rest his head. In a detail that can only be called prophetic, Luke tells us that Mary gave birth to her first born son and wrapped him in swaddling clothes because there was no room for them in the place where travelers lodged.

Throughout his ministry Jesus shows a particular love and concern for the lowly, the poor and the outcast. One day, with surprising spontaneity in the middle of his teaching, Jesus breaks into prayer: I give you praise, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, for although you have hidden these things from the wise and the learned, you have revealed them to the childlike. In our Christmas Gospel, the lowly shepherds, keeping watch over their flock by turn throughout the night, are the childlike who receive the revelation that is good news for all the people: Today in the city of David a savior has been born for you who is Messiah and Lord.

After the shepherds go to Bethlehem to see this thing that has taken place they returned to their fields glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen.  When Jesus dies on the cross Luke tells us that the centurion, himself an outsider, who witnessed what had happened on Calvary also glorified God.

Luke’s account of the birth of Jesus is an overture to the story that will unfold throughout the ministry of Jesus. And it does not end there. What began in Bethlehem of Judea, what was brought to fruition in the life, death and resurrection of the child born to Mary, reaches beyond the confines of gospel time and place and continues to be revealed throughout history in the lives of Jesus’ followers. The baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger is the Jesus who gave his life on the wood of the cross and who was raised up on the day of Easter. That same risen Jesus is present in every time and place as the Lord of all history as his gospel of peace and his mysterious plan of salvation continue to unfold in our lives, as surely as it did in the lives of Mary, and Joseph and the shepherds on that cold winter night in the Judean hill country.

In Act two of The Tempest, Shakespeare says: What is past is prologue. Those words describe Luke’s purpose in remembering the events associated with the birth of Jesus. The events surrounding his birth introduce and parallel the events that will take place in Jesus’ public life and ministry and they prefigure and give meaning to the events of our lives, here today.

Luke’s account of the birth of Jesus is not some quaint bit of history we drag out every Christmas so that we can ooh and aah over the Christ Child. We read the story of the birth of Jesus because it prepares us for his public life and ministry. And we read it because it speaks to our lives as well; it is our story, too.

We can identify with the first census taken when Quirinius was governor of Syria. In this age of advanced technology, as wonderful as it can be, how easily our lives are defined as a series of numbers: social security number, pin number, insurance card number, prescription number, cell phone number, student ID number and on and on the list goes. But on this night we rejoice because our God knows not our number, he knows our name as surely as Joseph knew the name of his child, Jesus, who would save his people from their sins. Our God speaks our names this night with a reverence reserved for his beloved that we might know the dignity that is ours as children of our heavenly Father.

How often do we find there is no room for us in the inns of our world? Your position has been terminated, clear your desk. You’re not what I was looking for, can we just be friends? You know you just can’t invite everybody to every party. I’m sorry but you lack experience. I’m sorry but you’re overqualified. But on this night we rejoice because there is always room for us in the heart of Jesus. There is always room for us at the table of the Eucharist. And when our days on earth come to an end, there is room for us in a mansion with our name on it as Jesus welcomes us to our heavenly home, his eternal kingdom of peace.

Perhaps it is our identity with the shepherds that is most poignant tonight. It is not that we mind being humble, lowly. What is troubling is that in a world that celebrates only the best, the brightest, the fastest, the wealthiest, we are made to feel not humble, but small, insignificant. We pale in comparison to those who are celebrated as the shining lights of our society. The world no longer seems to value those qualities for which we strive. Honesty, integrity, long suffering, chastity, fair play, vows that promise until death do us part, do not even deserve an honorable mention in the accolades of modern life. We are made to feel, like the shepherds in the gospel story, alone on the edge of town, while those who win at all cost capture headlines of praise and the brass ring of success. But on this night we rejoice, because the murmurings of the babe in the manger will give way to his sermon on the mountainside. And the words of that sermon will reassure us that the meek will inherit the earth, that those who mourn will be comforted, and that the pure of heart will see God.

Tonight, if we hear the heartwarming story of the birth of Jesus simply as an event that happened long ago, we might go home feeling spiritually warm and fuzzy. But tomorrow, and the day after that, when the mortgage is due and the pain won’t stop; when forgiveness is withheld and promises are broken; when the phone doesn’t ring and the drinking starts all over again, we will be left to wonder what it all means: this infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger; this Joseph, who goes from Nazareth in Galilee to David’s city to register with Mary, his espoused wife who is with child; these shepherds who keep might watch by turn over their flock on a remote hillside far from the center of life; these angels, a multitude of heavenly hosts who sing the  praises of a God in his highest heaven. And the wonder of what it all means will continue as long as we see the events of this night only as history.

The story we hear tonight is not only Jesus’ story; it is our story as well. We are Joseph registering in the census when we give to Caesar what is Caesar’s; but we are most Joseph when we say yes to the things of God, and take Mary into our homes in whatever mysterious form she appears, so that we, above all else, first give to God what is God’s. We are Mary, who spars with angel Gabriel and says “How can this be” when our lives are filled with disappointment and contradiction. But we are most Mary when we trust that God’s word to us will be fulfilled and we whisper: Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to your word. We are shepherds, alone and cold and very much afraid when life overwhelms us. But we are most shepherds when we, too, take to heart the words of the angel and come to believe that we have nothing to fear for our God shares with us only good news, tidings of great joy for all people of every time and place.

Because it is our story we hear this night, we take to heart the words of Paul to Titus. We seek to reject godless ways, because we know that through our baptism, our God dwells within us and it is his path we long to follow. We seek to reject worldly desires because the words of Saint Augustine remind us over and over again: our hearts are restless until they rest in God. We seek to live temperately, devoutly, and justly in this age because temperance and devotion and justice are the key to opening the gates of the kingdom, when the age which is to come is brought to fruition and our great God and Savior Jesus Christ appears to deliver us from all lawlessness, and to form us into a people uniquely his own.

Some days, nothing brings a smile to my face more readily than the opening bars of the overture of a Broadway musical I love. But this night, it is the opening bars of Luke’s gospel story, In those days, Caesar Augustus ordered a census of the whole world… that brings not a smile to my face but a gladness in my heart; a gladness that will last long after the story ends and the music fades. Because this night, as Jesus story, our story, is told, we who have walked in darkness and the land of gloom have seen a great light. He who is Wonder-Counselor, God-hero, Father-Forever, Prince of Peace has brought us great rejoicing. The yoke that has burdened us and the rod of our taskmasters have been broken. For a child is born to us, a son is given us. His dominion is vast and forever peaceful. The zeal of the Lord of hosts has done this.

JOSEPH THE SILENT

Homily

Fourth Sunday of Advent

19 December 2010

On the Fourth Sunday of Advent we move directly, decisively, from the preaching of John the Baptist to the gospel accounts of the birth of Jesus. This year, our lectionary presents us with Matthew’s account. Writing for Jewish readers, Matthew is intent on showing Jesus as the fulfillment of the promise to Father Abraham and as the heir to King David. In the very first verse of his gospel, Matthew leaves no doubt about whom he is writing: The book of the genealogy of Jesus Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham.

Today’s gospel story tells us of the dream of Joseph after he discovers that Mary, his betrothed, is with child. His dream parallels the Annunciation to Mary in Luke’s gospel when she is invited to become the Mother of Jesus. The gospels use several words to describe Joseph. The characteristic we quote most often is “just;” some translations us the word “righteous” or “upright.” Luke’s gospel provides an account of Joseph and Mary taking Jesus to the temple on the eighth day after his birth in accordance to the dictates in the law of the Lord. Joseph is, therefore, not only just, righteous, upright; he is also obedient.

But there is another characteristic of Joseph that precedes his righteousness and obedience. Joseph is before all else, silent. Unlike Mary, whose words are remembered at the Annunciation, the Visitation and the wedding feast of Cana; unlike John the Baptist who can’t seem to stop talking; and unlike Peter who is always putting his foot in his mouth, our Saint Joseph is silent. No words of his are remembered when he learns that Mary is with child. It is a curious thing that when Mary, who has found favor with God, is told by Archangel Gabriel that she is to bear a son who will be called Son of the Most High, she wants to know: How can this be? But when Joseph is told: Do not be afraid to take Mary your wife into your home he does not play twenty questions with his dream angel. He is silent before the mystery of God’s plan. And it is that silence before mystery that lies at the heart of his righteousness, his obedience.

Mystery is not a detective story that challenges us to discover “who done it.” Mystery, in the world that is faith, is God’s plan of salvation, God’s way of doing things. There seems to be in our DNA a certain inbred Missouri gene. “Show me,” is our natural response to that which we cannot see. And when we cannot see, there is little reason to trust. That kind of reasoning works well in the genome of our daily life. “Show me” keeps us from being swindled by fast talking salesmen and from being duped when we hear “Yes, I did my homework.” But in the realm of faith, “show me” is a show stopper. The gentle flow of God’s grace is damned up when we hesitate, when we demand to see with our own two eyes rather than, like Joseph, dream our way into the mystery of God through the eyes of faith.

And it all begins with silence. Not a silence that cuts out all noise so we can hear ourselves think. But a silence that listens to hear what God thinks. Not a silence that is passive as the world around us buzzes with sounds of a too-busy everyday life. But a silence that actively listens for what God is trying to tell us about his way of doing things.

Joseph seemed to understand that readily. Perhaps the endless hours in the carpenter shop attuned him, not to the rhythm of the hammer’s pounding, but to the rhythm of the beating of the gentle heart of the God who promised to him, and to his ancestors that he would save his people from their sins.

Joseph is a model at every time of year. He is truly a man for all seasons. But in this season he offers to us a special invitation: to join him in holy silence before the mystery that is God’s plan for our salvation. There are many sounds of the season, sounds that are filled with joy and promise: the greetings of friends, the giggles of children, the haunting refrains of the carols we love. But there are also sounds that lure us from the gentle voice of God, a voice that wants to say to us when living is frantic and loving is hard the same words he spoke to the righteous and obedient and silent Joseph: “Have no fear.” In these days before the feast, when we think we cannot wrap one more package or bake one more cookie or hear “Frosty the Snowman” one more time, then we know it is time to put down the ribbon, turn off the oven and silence the radio and join our good friend Joseph, and be silent before the God who speaks his Word; the Word that Joseph will call Jesus, the Son of David, the Son of Abraham, who will save his people, who will save us, from all our sins.

Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?

Homily Gaudete Sunday

12 December 2010

Today, I would like to talk about “time.”  Now don’t get nervous. This is not going to be some Stephen Hawking or Albert Einstein dissertation on time. No danger about the stuff of theoretical physics from me! Rather, today I would like to consider what “time” means to us in our spiritual journey through life. It is, I think, a good day for that kind of reflection. Today marks a very specific day in our liturgical year. We haven’t just given it a number, the Third Sunday of Advent; we have given it a name: Gaudete Sunday. Rejoicing Sunday. Allow me to begin with a story.

Several years ago, on this day, in this church, a friend of mine came to Mass with her young niece. When the third candle on the wreath was lighted the little girl became very excited. “Oh,” she said with great anticipation, “only one more candle to go!”  She was measuring time, and doing so with the help of our sacramental church that relies on signs to help us to understand the profound truth that is the mystery of our faith. Few of us are Stephen Hawking or Albert Einstein or Socrates; we don’t live in the world of ideas. Rather, we look to the stuff of the senses to help us understand and to express what is significant in our lives.

Let me give you some examples.

It might be hard to think about “bread” in a conceptual way. But smell bread baking and immediately we are in touch with the comfort and warmth we have felt in our childhood when, after hours of arthritic hands kneading and yeasted dough rising, our grandmothers put the loaves in a coal-stoked oven and, no matter what the troubles of the day, the aroma of home-made bread baking said all is right with the world.

We may not be able to wax eloquently about the virtue of compassion, but dry one tear from a child’s quivering cheek and what compassion means is felt deep within our caring hearts.

I would struggle to understand the fine points of musical theory; but allow me to hear just a few notes of “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” and I will know instantly how the intricacies of tone and rhythm are able to sooth the savage beast that is in all of us at times.

I say it often to remind myself: we are sacramental by nature. To understand the profound truth of “mystery,” that is, “God’s way about things,” we need to hear and see and feel and smell and touch; and when we do, a light goes on inside our sometimes “slow to get it” brains and we say: “Oh, now I’m beginning to understand what God is all about!” That is why, in our church, there are candles flickering, incense burning, water flowing and oils anointing. We say these sacramentals are outward signs of inner grace. The signs and symbols of our Catholic faith, combined with our sacred rituals, appeal to the senses so that God’s grace is not just an idea in our minds. Rather, God’s grace is a reality felt amid the confusion and chaos of everyday life; a confusion and chaos that, at times, keeps us from focusing on what is at the heart of things: the very presence of Jesus.

Now, back to time. I escaped for a few days this week for my annual pre-Christmas trip to New York City. Somehow, there would be something missing for me at this time of year if I didn’t see the tree in Rockefeller Center and smell chestnuts roasting on the cart of a frozen street vendor. As usual, I awoke early one morning before the lazy winter sun and looked out the window at a maze of skyscrapers and leafless trees outlined against a deep purple sky. I don’t know if you can really “see” cold, but I did that morning, and I thought to myself, “Another winter has arrived.”

What is it we do when we consider time? Often, I think, we are not counting hours and days when we look at the clock or turn the page of the calendar. In this faced-pace world of ours, “time” often means “what I have to do before the day ends,” or, on this Gaudete Sunday,  “what I have to accomplish with just 13 days until Christmas.”

Time has become, not where we are, but what we have to do. To go back to the eyes of a child, for our young friend the lighting of the rose candle meant that she was ever so close to the promise and joy and excitement of Christmas day. I suspect to her aunt and mother and father and to most of us, the lighting of the third candle reminds us of how little time we have left to do so many things.

On this Gaudete Sunday, the church says to us, no, the liturgy commands us to “rejoice.” But we can only rejoice when we at home with who we are and where we are, right now. When we are focused on where we think we should be and what remains to be accomplished, there is no room for rejoicing; there is only room for fretting and fussing; a fretting and fussing that keeps us from being in God’s presence, which is what rejoicing, “gaudete-ing” if you will, is all about.

Here is how spiritual thinkers, not theoretical physicists, have described time throughout the centuries. In Greek, there are two words for time: chronos and kairos. Chronos measures time on the clock, time on the calendar, the ticking away of the hours and passing from one day to the next. Kairos, on the other hand, measures God’s time: time that we tell not with the watch on the wrist or datebook on the desk. Rather, kairos is the time we know when our heart beats in sync with the heart of Christ, the reason we have to rejoice. Kairos tells us not where we ought to be and what we ought to do. Kairos tells us that we are, right now, in God’s presence and He is in ours.

Chronos time is a construct we have invented to punctuate our years into months, our months into days, our days into hours, our hours into minutes and our minutes into seconds. Perhaps Kairos, God’s time, should not be called time at all. Kairos is not about measuring anything; it is about being in God’s presence. It is forgetting about time and all the agida time causes us when we realize we have so little of it. Kairos is taking off the wrist watch and closing the date book and remembering who we are and what we are all about.

Kairos is the face of a little girl enlightened by a rose candle whose smile goes on for miles because she knows that Jesus is, oh so near.

Kairos is the shopping cart parked in the supermarket aisle while we talk with a neighbor about our grandchildren and our vacation and aches and pains, even though there are dozens of cookies to bake before the day is over.

Kairos is the TV silenced so we that can hear the wind rush through the barren trees telling us that another season of grace is upon us.

Kairos is sharing a memory before we sign the Christmas card to a friend we have not seen in too long a time.

Kairos is turning off the Blackberry and silencing the cell phone and going to church, where God waits for us to rejoice in his presence as his word is proclaimed and his sacrament is shared.

Kairos is Advent, which has nothing to do with Rudolph and Frosty and everything to do with John called the Baptist and Mary called the Mother of God and Joseph called his just father on earth.

Kairos is strengthening hands that are weak and knees that are feeble when we dare to say to those who are burdened with the cares of everyday life: “Be strong, do not fear… God will help you through this.”

Kairos is a life once blinded by the lure of talk show gurus promising an easy life now seeing with the eyes of faith the only true way to eternal peace of mind.

Kairos is ears once deafened by the lies of false prophets now hearing clearly the wisdom of the only prophet who speaks the truth from the pulpit of his cross.

Kairos is the lame once crippled by fear and oppression now running joyfully in the freedom that belongs to the children of God.

Kairos is waiting in patience for God’s seed to grow, knowing that it is his harvest alone that will satisfy the hungers of our hearts.

Kairos is today, and tomorrow and every day after that because the presence of God transcends our silly calendars and our obsession with time and all that we think we have to do before tomorrow dawns and today is just a memory.

 Kairos is the Third Sunday of Advent. Gaudete Sunday. Rejoicing Sunday. The day when there is only one more candle to go and Jesus is, oh, so near.

The Second Sunday of Advent: Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

John the Baptist appeared, preaching in the desert of Judea and saying, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand!”

On the second and third Sunday of Advent it is the figure of John the Baptist who takes center stage, above the fold in newspaper parlance. It is not surprising. His pointing to Jesus as the Lamb of God directs our attention during this Advent season to coming of the Lord, both in history and in the time yet to come. Next Sunday we will hear Jesus say of John: “Amen I say to you, among those born of women there has been none greater than John the Baptist…”  I will take Jesus at his word, but John has never been one of my favorites. 

There are other principal players in the Gospels with whom I would prefer to spend time. I would relish and hour or so with Simon Peter, preferably over a beer, to talk about what he was thinking and feeling that fated night before Calvary when he said of Jesus, “I tell you, I do not know the man.”  Although it might be a little eerie, hearing what Lazarus had to say about his more than near-death experience would make for quite a listening session. I know many would like to talk with Mary, and, of course, that would be graced time. But I have always been curious about Joachim and Ann, her parents. I suspect they are not beer people, but I would like to hear, maybe over a nice chardonnay from the Galilee vineyards, how these small town folks handled the news, the scandal really, that their daughter was found to be with child before she and Joseph, her betrothed, lived together.

I guess I am a little afraid of John the Baptist. And who wouldn’t be? He is one of those people who are not afraid to tell you what they are thinking; or more ominously, what God is thinking. Today, what God is thinking makes us sit up and take notice and, maybe, squirm in our seats: “I am baptizing you with water, for repentance, but the one who is coming after me is mightier than I. I am not worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fan is in his hand. He will clear his threshing floor and gather his wheat into his barn, but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” Not exactly the kind of rhetoric I want to hear at this time of year! I prefer the gentle twinkling of lights to the raging of unquenchable fire. And the carols of the season rest more comfortably on the ear than all this talk about repentance and winnowing fans.

One of the unsettling things about John is that he will not go away. He continues to be a prophet for our time. His voice is to be heard not only in the wilderness on the banks of the river Jordan, preparing the way for the rabbi Jesus of Nazareth fame; his voice is to be heard today, on the shores of our lives, preparing the way for the return of the Risen Jesus, the Lord of History, who will come at the end of days at a time we cannot know. He will come, says Isaiah, and on that day “justice will be the band around his waist, and faithfulness a belt upon his hips.”

That is why, on day one of Advent, we were told to “be awake.” And why today Saint Paul tells us: “Whatever was written previously was written for our instruction, that by endurance and by the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope.”  What was written of John cannot be put on a shelf in the history section of our libraries. What was written of John is still page one news. We view the Baptist not through a telescope as if he were sitting on some far away bank of a river of history. He is here, next to us, urging us, cajoling us, challenging us and maybe at times even frightening us to consider our ways, measuring them with the yardstick of the Gospel ethos.

I would like to sit at table with Simon Peter, and Lazarus, and Joachim and Anne. But it is John the Baptist who comes to dinner today. His diet of locust and wild honey may not be pleasing to the taste. But it will surely cleanse the palate of our lives. Pope Benedict says that John the Baptist “offers us something completely new… a conversion that gives the whole of life a new direction forever.” (Jesus of Nazareth, chapter one)

And so while we wrap the presents and trim the tree and bake the cookies and hum the carols, as indeed we should, we also take pause to hear the voice of one crying in the desert, the voice of one still crying in our hearts calling us to repentance, calling us to turn toward the God who is yet to come. And when he comes, for those who heed his word and follow his way, the wolf shall be a guest of the lamb and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; the calf and the young lion shall browse together, the cow and the bear shall be neighbors, together their young shall rest. When he comes there shall be no harm or ruin on God’s holy mountain, for the earth shall be filled with knowledge of the Lord.

Maranatha, Come Lord Jesus!

ADVENT - AGAIN? STILL?

We awake to clock radio news that is, once again, less than good. The “off to school weather” too, holds little hope for extended warmth and sunshine.

The uncorking of the champagne bottle; the singing of auld lang syne; the turn of the calendar page.  A new year with little to imagine that the confetti and the streamers will make this one any different from the one just bid farewell.

Do the smoldering candles on the cake and a whisper for any number of hoped-for wishes mark the end of one year or the beginning of another? As years creep along, the lines are blurred.

We live our lives by many calendars marking the hours and days and months and years. Alarm bells and datebooks and seasons changing help us keep track of what has been, and what might yet be.

Our liturgical year is a calendar of sorts, but one that seems to go in circles, spirals, really. With our prayer calendar we mark less the rising and the setting of the son, the beginning and the ending of a day, and more a spiral of time; a spiral whose ever widening center is the Son of God and whose momentum is not determined by the planet’s orb or the tides of the moon. No, the momentum of our festal days and measured seasons is the ever-present, sometimes elusive, saving grace of the Redeemer-King, the Lamb who was slain, the Risen Carpenter-Rabbi, the Son of the Virgin, the Beginning and the End, the Alpha and the Omega of the alphabet that is our lives.

And so here it is, again. Or better yet, still. The First Sunday of Advent. Less a beginning and more a continuation of the cycle of our days spiraling toward the infinite that is the kingdom of God.

I read in another parish’s bulletin that it is the First Sunday of Advent, the beginning of the preparation for the birth of Jesus. And I must say I cringed a bit. We do not have to prepare for the birth of Jesus. It is a fait accompli. It has already happened. The birth of Jesus needs not our expectant spiritual doting around an empty manger. The manger has already received its infant.

No, this first Sunday of Advent looks for the Babe of Bethlehem turned Victim on the Cross to come again; this time not to fulfill the edict of a census but to fulfill a promise he made to those who would follow him: where I am going you cannot come, but I will come back again to take you with me so that where I am you also may be.

The waiting of this First Sunday of Advent happens not at the manger stall. Our waiting today happens wherever we may be, with eyes wide open and hearts yearning for the return of the One whose pedigree is not recorded on a birth announcement naming Mary his mother and Joseph his father. No, the credentials of the One for whom we wait were written in blood on the hillside of Calvary and presented to the Father on a day of crucifixion with the haunting refrain: Into your hands I commend my spirit.

Is it any wonder Jesus says: Stay awake! For you do not know on which day your Lord will come. Paul echoes the words of the Master: It is the hour now for you to awake from sleep. For our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed. Isaiah too longed for the Lord’s coming with the heart of a poet: They shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks; one nation shall not raise the sword against another, nor shall they train for war again.

The ways in which our time is measured will be many and varied. Seconds will tick away; alarms will call us to start the day anew; and with each turn of the calendar page we will shake our heads and wonder, where have the days and months gone?

But with this new church year we measure not what has been, but to whom we are called. In a year that is set before us in measured grace, we will conduct our days not to the pealing of a Westminster chime but to the rhythm that is the beating heart of the living Christ who is yesterday and today, the beginning and the end; the Alpha and Omega; all time belongs to him and all the ages; to him be glory and power through every age. Amen. Maranatha, Come, Lord Jesus. Come, O Christ the Lord.

HOMILY - THANKSGIVING DAY

Thanksgiving ought to be a natural for us as. After all, how often are we reminded that “Eucharist” – the center of our Catholic spirituality – means “thanksgiving?”  The opening dialogue of the Preface at the beginning of the Eucharist Prayer reminds us “It is right to give God THANKS and praise. Yes, “thanksgiving” is in the makeup of our spiritual DNA. But just what is it we are thankful for?

Oh, there are many answers to that today. I am grateful for the precious gift of life and the privilege of spending that life with you, the faith-filled “living stones” of the church of Saint Joseph. I am grateful that in a few hours I will be around the table with family, giving thanks for our each other, for the bounty we share, for my sister who prepares that bounty as deliciously as did my beloved mother, for the freedom our nation provides, for  the precious memory of those who shared life with on earth and who now, we pray, live the fullness of life in the heavenly kingdom. Those blessings are on all of our minds as we gather for this prayer that is the “great thanksgiving” of our church. And rightly so; there is much for which give God thanks and praise.

But perhaps today is a good day for us to dig a little deeper, to get to the heart of the matter about our gathering for the Eucharist. For what we do here is focused not so much on the things of the earth, as wonderful as many of those things are. No, what we do here on this great day, but on every day we gather for the Eucharist, invites us to fix our attention beyond the blessings of the relatives and the turkey and the flag and the parades and especially beyond the full shelves that go on for miles if you are to believe the fliers in this morning’s paper. Here, as the Second Vatican Council reminded us, “we share in that heavenly liturgy which is celebrated in the holy city of Jerusalem toward which we journey as pilgrims, and in which Christ is sitting at the right hand of God, a minister of the sanctuary and of the true tabernacle (cf. Apoc. 21:2; Col. 3:1; Heb. 8:2); we sing a hymn to the Lord’s glory with all the warriors of the heavenly army; venerating the memory of the saints, we hope for some part and fellowship with them; we eagerly await the Savior, our Lord Jesus Christ, until He, our life, shall appear and we too will appear with Him in glory (cf. Phil.3:20; Col. 3:4).” [Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy, chapter 1, paragraph 8]

Here, for so brief a time, we allow our hearts and minds and voices to be lifted up beyond the limits of what we can see and what we can hear and what we can touch, and enter into the great prayer of thanksgiving that is the death and resurrection of Jesus his promise to return in glory. “When we eat this bread and drink this cup, we proclaim your death, Lord Jesus, until you come in glory.”

Why all this fuss today? Why this little catechism lesson on the Mass? Why isn’t Father Snyder saying more about the tradition of the Thanksgiving table and the pilgrims, and the Macy’s parade and the wonderful balloons? Well, trust me. I love the bounty of the table and the fantasy of the parade. But every now and then we have to call ourselves back to what we are all about as a people of faith. We have to lift our eyes beyond the limited horizons of our earthly life to see with the eyes of faith what God has in store for us in the vast, eternal expanse that is his kingdom without end; for as Saint Paul reminds us in his letter to the Philippians, my favorite letter, our citizenship is in heaven. Our earthly existence will have meaning only when we remember we carry a heavenly passport. Remembering that is what our coming together for the Eucharist is all about.

We enter the Church and bless ourselves with the water that reminds us of our baptism; we leave behind the “good stuff” and the “bad stuff” of our daily life and for a time we take on with the saints and angels in heaven who join us for prayer, the “best stuff” that is our union with Christ Jesus in the wisdom of his word and the nourishment that is the sacrament of his body and blood.

When the turkey is gone and the pumpkin pie a happy memory; when the crazies of our family we button our lips for on this fourth Thursday of November begin to drive us crazy again on the fourth Friday; when the challenges and hurts and worries we put on hold for a time surface again, we are able to face them all because here, at the Thanksgiving table that is the Eucharist, we remember who we are as Christ’s beloved, made in his image and likeness.  Here, at this altar, we remember that we face the stresses of our days armed with more than our own devices; we are filled with God’s strength, God’s grace, a weapon more powerful than we can ever imagine.

 Here, in this holy place that is our parish church, even though the time is brief, we are given strength for an eternity of living, the strength won us by the suffering, death and rising of Jesus. It is his victory we celebrate in this great prayer of Thanksgiving. It is his victory that, above every other blessing, that we give thanks for today.

THANKSGIVING 2010

(with apologies to Doctor Seuss)

“He’s gone, he’s gone,”

 said my dad with a frown.

“The day will be ruined,

We will never rebound.”

From the chill in his voice

We knew he was right.

The day would be ruined

For Tom Turkey took flight.

“He was there in the morning

When I fed him corn meal

So the breast would be plump

And the taste would appeal

To all who would gather

For a time gay and merry

To feast on the stuffing

And the tartest cranberry.

But now what shall we do?”

He said with a fright.

“For the day will be ruined

For Tom Turkey took flight.

The family had gathered

And sought to discover

How we might save the day

With a plan to recover

From this horrible day

Filled with grief and distress

What to do next

Was anyone’s guess.

“Spaghetti’s the answer ,”

Said my mom with resolve

“I’ll serve it al dente

With my famous meatballs.”

“It won’t work” said my brother

With fiendish sarcasm.

“The pilgrims would grimace

For they were not Italian.”

“Then how about pork chops?”

Said sister in voice ever so sweet.

“No one will take notice

It’s the other white meat.”

“You’ll not fool the guests.”

Replied my brother so quick.

“They’ll know something’s wrong

When they see no drumstick.”

“I’ve got it,” said Auntie

With her usual finesse

“We’ll get through this together

It will be all for the best.

We’ll be one with the turkeys

As true egalitarians.

We’ll gather at table

As staunch vegetarians.”

And so we gave in

To one more of her scams.

And feasted on corn bread

And turnips and yams.

The squash was delicious.

As was the corn on the cob.

We even had parsnips

And broccoli rabe.

With dessert came ambrosia

And pecan pie so sweet

We thought we had conquered

This day of defeat

When Tom Turkey took flight

And left us to ponder

How to cope with this scene

Of our holiday drama.

But when dinner was over

No one was surprised

We were all quite unhappy

With this planned we devised

To forego roast turkey

The effort was all in vain

For no one could nap

Without tryptophan.