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.



Homily - Solemnity of Christ the King

All throughout his public ministry, Jesus preached about the kingdom of God. He taught his disciples to pray: “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done…” During his trial at the end of his life he told Pontius Pilate: “My kingdom is not of this world.”

 Throughout the ages Jesus has been acknowledged as Lord and King. But it was not until 1925, at the direction of Pope Pius XI, that the church instituted a feast to honor the Lord as our King, today’s feast: the solemnity of our Lord Jesus Christ the King. I am not sure why, but it always comes as something of a jolt when I prepare the homily each year and find that the gospel is about Jesus as King, not in his heavenly glory, but Jesus as King on the throne of his cross.

Today’s gospel scene presents us with some of the most unsettling words in all the scriptures: those spoken by the leaders of the people and the Roman soldiers who jeered and taunted Jesus: if you are the King of the Jews, then save yourself. The criminal, also hanging in crucifixion, joined in with words crying out, half in scorn but perhaps also uttered with the hope of a way out: if you are the Messiah, save yourself and save us. Those words are unsettling for our theological sensitivities in this time and place far removed from Calvary, for we understand that it was only the acceptance of the cross and not its abandonment that crowned Jesus as Lord and Savior.

In today’s gospel, the words that give meaning and hope are those spoken by the other criminal, the one tradition has named “Dismas”; it is the words of the good thief that echo down the corridors of time and find a home on our lips; often when fear is crippling; sometimes when the drama of life brings confusion and uncertainty; usually when we know we have nowhere else to turn. Then, with silent expectation, the words of Dismas become our own whispered with a hope that they will be heard by the one whose cross is never far from our own: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.

We pray those words when we finally admit that once again we have given in to false gods who tell us we can dull the pain with one more drink or one more pill. The next day, when the euphoria wears off and the pain of real living envelopes us once again, we turn our aching head in the direction of the cross and say with embarrassment: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.

We pray those words when the news is not good, when the last hope of treatment fails, when the doctor says there is nothing more that I can do. With humble resignation we attempt to take one foot out of this world and place it in the next with an earnest plea to the one who understands out helplessness: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.

We pray those words when the biting insults of the one we love pierce our broken heart; when the friends who promised to be there in good times and in bad are nowhere to be found at the moment we need them most; when the church we love demands of us perfection while she, herself, is at times guilty of the greater sin. Wondering if we can forgive one more time we look into the eyes of the one who understands what it is to be denied, to be betrayed and we cry out: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.

We pray those words when we have to say “no” to our child for the 100^th time, and “no” to our aging parent for the first time ever when with tears we announce I can no longer care for you at home. Then through the frustration and through the tears we look to the one on the cross who had nowhere to lay his head and plead: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.

We pray those words when the day begins and holds no more than the same routine as yesterday, and ends with the stark realization that it will all begin again with the less than exciting obligations of tomorrow. Then needing strength to do just what is expected of us, what we promised we would do, we impose on the one who took up his cross daily, and dare to ask: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.

We pray those words when Christmas comes too early and the check comes too late; when the numbers do not balance and there’s no relief in sight; when the security we expected seems to be slipping through our hands. Then, with no other rudder to steady us and no anchor to keep us from running adrift, we fold our hands and say to the one who calmed the storm at sea: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.

It is a great paradox, it is a challenge that defies human reason, to profess a faith in one whose kingdom is not of this world, and whose kingship is manifested not on a throne adorned with gold and precious jewels, but on a throne whose wood splinters the all too human flesh of a God made man.

But I sometimes wonder if the greater challenge is to have the honesty to admit that the golden throne and the balanced checkbook and the body most beautiful do not, when all is said and done, bring us the peace we seek and a security that will last beyond the next day’s crisis.

The criminal mind of Dismas knew that true freedom was not to be found by release from the pain of the cross; his freedom could only be secured when he was released from the pain of his sins. The profligate Augustine, after a life that gave into his every whim and fancy, had to admit that his heart was not at home in the warmth of the next available bed, but only when it found rest in the pierced heart of the one who is the crucified king.

You and I, on a day of splendor that celebrates the victory of the king, are asked to take inventory; to set aside all pretense and false hope; and to anchor our lives not on the firmament that is the earth beneath our feet, but on the kingdom that is in the heavens above, beyond our reach but thanks to God’s saving grace, not beyond our grasp.

Today, with hearts humble and contrite, with hearts longing for a peace this world cannot give, we say with the good thief: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom. And if we empty ourselves of the noise of the Roman soldiers of our day, who lure us with their misguided cynicism and promise that for the right price we can have it all, we just might hear the crucified king answer our prayer: this day you will be with me in paradise.