Christmas Homily 2011

Everyone went to register...

“Everyone went to register, each to his own town. And so Joseph went from Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to David’s city of Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to register with Mary, his espoused wife, who was with child.”

My older brother is, and for as long as I can remember has always been, a fisherman. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t spending any spare time he could find or could make with rod and tackle box in hand traveling off to stream or ocean to do what he loves most: fish. When he retired some years ago he moved to the seashore so that when he could get out of bed long before God did to join a circle of friends who shared his passion. Fishing is in his blood. I remember once that the biologist in him must have decided it was time to find out if it was in my blood, too. So when I was very young he took me with him to a favorite stream and taught me how to bait a hook with some innocent, unsuspecting worm spending a day that would not end waving off flies and sending a night crawler we had unearthed the day before to his eternal reward; for my brother it was nirvana, for me, the lower recesses of Dante’s Inferno. It didn’t take my brother long to realize that this fishing thing was not in my blood. We were brothers but with a decidedly different strand of DNA flowing through our entertainment genes. And so to this day he is off to the inlet the moment he hears the blues are running and I am off to the theatre or to my favorite chair to read about The Old Man and the Sea, or Ishmael or Jonah. But even if I choose not to join him at ocean’s edge I do like to hear my bothers fishing stories, particularly about the people he meets while casting away for endless hours.

One story is about a man  who seems to be an anomaly in today’s world: an angler who does not use a cell phone, does not carry a credit card, and who waits in long lines at the toll booth while we whiz by,  Easy-Pass adhered to the windshield. My brother and I have spent hours speculating on why he does not want Uncle Sam or Macy’s or Verizon to know where he is at any given moment. The speculating lead to the stuff that keeps John Grisham and John LeCarre with enough material to write yet another spy novel. But for whatever reason, my brother’s friend does not want to be counted. He comes to mind this night (day) because what we are about here is remembering that you and I have been counted. Not by Caesar who seems to know every dollar we earn; not by Big Business who tells us what we need for a happy life; not by Garmon or Tomtom who can pinpoint our exact location at any given moment of the journey; not by the Giant or Karns or Wegman’s who scan our rewards card so they know if we prefer raisin bran or fruit loops; not by Orbitz, who with the promise of cheaper airline tickets wants to know if we are longing to escape to the Caribbean or to Rome; not by the Turnpike commission who counts us each time we decide to pay the toll to travel from the Gettysburg exit to Harrisburg East exit to avoid holiday mall traffic; and not by the monitor that knows if your heart skips a beat.

No, tonight we remember that like Joseph and Mary we have been counted, not by some Roman census official and not even by the Babe wrapped in swadding clothes. No, tonight we remember that we have been counted by the Babe who grew into a man who traded the wood of his manger for the wood of his cross so that, as we will pray in the Roman Canon, this night (day), we might be “delivered from eternal damnation and counted among the flock of those you have chosen.”

Tonight (today) we want to be counted; we want the Savior of the world to know where we are at every moment of everyday: when life is good and we are one with the triumphs of the sky; and when we need the everlasting light to navigate us thru the dark streets of uncertainty as we travel to our own little town of Bethlehem wherever that may be.

Tonight (today) we want to be counted when with shepherds our joyous strains prolong; and when with those same shepherds we quake before the litany of disappointments and unfulfilled dreams that punctuate our days and interrupt the rhythm of  the life we have planned for ourselves and those we love.

Tonight (today) we want to be counted when with the child we rest on Mary’s lap and are lulled to sleep with angel’s anthems sweet, and when the nights are endless and we lie in the mean estate of our doctor’s latest diagnosis and our financial planner’s review of our retirement portfolio.

Tonight (today) we want to be counted in triumph as the star shines forth with royal beauty bright and we are crowned with gold by a king named Caspar. Tonight we want to be counted when the gift we are given by a wise man named Balthazar is myrrh’s bitter perfume and we are left sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying sealed in stone cold tomb.

Tonight (today) we want to be counted when Isaiah’s words ring true and every boot that trampled in battle and every cloak rolled in blood is burned as fuel for flame and even if only for a moment our world is at peace. And tonight (today) we want  to be counted when we do not heed Paul’s advice to Titus and we fail to reject godless ways and worldly desires and live temperately, justly and devoutly in this age. Tonight (today) we most need to be counted and see the saving grace and glory of our God that has appeared in the person of his Son, our Savior Jesus Christ, who gave himself to deliver us from all lawlessness and to cleanse for himself a people as his own; when we need once again to be eager to do what is good.

“Gospel” means good news. And it is my joy, my pleasure to remind you this night (day) of the good news that WE HAVE BEEN COUNTED. This night (day) remember the name they have given him: Wonder-Counselor, God-Hero, Father-forever, Prince of Peace. Remember this night (day) that this God of ours lives not in some far away heaven; he is Emmanuel, God with us.

This God of ours is as close as person sitting next to you who shows you kindness when you are most undeserving; He is as close as the beggar or undocumented neighbor who needs your understanding and hosptality.

He is as close as the gentle breeze that cools your forehead in the midst of summer’s heat and as close as the driving wind that reminds you of his power when you are most weak and trembling with fear.

He is as close as the baby who hungers for the milk of human kindness and as close as the bread of the altar that feeds you for life’s journey.

He is as close as the next confession that extends to you the forgiveness you so desperately need and as close as the family member who needs from you that same forgiveness to be freed from days or months or even years of guilt because you choose to hold onto your hurts and disappointments.

He is as close as the healing you know when sleep follows fever and as close as the latest ache and pain that unites you with his suffering.

This God of ours is closer to us than we are to ourselves because he knows the frailty of our hearts and allows them to beat in tune with his own sacred, loving heart. This God has counted us to be among his chosen giving himself for our salvation without counting the cost himself.

I like to hear my brother’s fish tales. But I like even more to hear the tale of the fisherman called Peter who left his fishing nets and who with his brother Andrew allowed themselves to be counted as disciples of the carpenter of Nazareth.  And I like to hear the tale of the successor of Saint Peter, Benedict, who in a midnight Mass homily reminds us: “God’s sign is simplicity; God’s sign is the baby; God’s sign is that he makes himself small for us. This is how he reigns.”

That is why I like to hear the Christmas story told over and over again; why it is in my heart and mind forever. It reminds me, reminds us, that we who rely on his patronage have with Joseph and his espoused wife who was with child been registered, have been counted by that child to stand forever in God’s presence, holy and righteous in his sight all the days of our lives.

“Everyone went to register, each to his own town. And so Joseph went from Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to David’s city of Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to register with Mary, his espoused wife, who was with child.”

Those Lazy Hazy Crazy Days of Summer

I remember as a kid touring the Valley Forge Military Park with my sister and her new husband and hearing for the first time Nat King Cole on the radio singing “Those Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Summer.”  Maybe it was the joy of a school-free summer.  Maybe it was feeling special because I was spending vacation time with my sister and new brother-in-law.  But something about the melody and lyrics resonated with my young mind and heart.  To this day, when the first days of summer heat and oppressive humidity are upon us, I still hear Nat King Cole singing of “soda and pretzels and beer” and my spirits are lifted.

How blessed we are to live in a part of the world where each of the four seasons has its distinctive character.  I like to think of the winter’s chill, springtime’s promise, the summer’s sun and autumn’s color palette as a reminder of what Saint Augustine called “the diversity of God’s brilliance.” Maybe someday I will be attracted to a part of the world that is ever spring time, but, for now, the ever changing seasons invite me to appreciate and adapt to what nature has to offer.

A memorable part of my childhood summers was going on a picnic. I wonder, does anyone still “go on a picnic?” My mother would prepare food (always potato salad!), pack a large cooler and off we would go to a local swimming pool or lake to join other family members or friends to spend a day doing nothing! The kids would swim, the adults might play cards; but mostly they seemed to sit around on portable folding chairs and talk for hours on end. There were no cell phones, and no I-pods and imagine this: no one was bored! At some point the portable grill was fired up, no easy task since there was no such thing as easy-light charcoal in those days! Endless hamburgers and hotdogs and shared picnic food kept us happy and well-fed all day long. As evening shadows began to fall we made our way home, relaxed and rested.

I wonder if that isn’t what summer is all about: finding ways to escape from what has become the routine hectic pace of life we live so that our bodies, minds and spirits are refreshed. So harried are we in this modern world that often vacation and time with family and friends have become one more thing to do rather than a time of refreshment and renewal.

On the western slope of the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem, the remains of a Crusader church are built over a cave where it is said that Jesus went with his disciples in secret. There, freed from the crowds (some seeking his counsel, some looking for ways to entrap him) he found a safe place to share his wisdom with those closest to him. On the other side of the Mount of Olives is the village of Bethany where Jesus found rest and friendship in the home of Mary, Martha and Lazarus. Jesus knew the importance of rest and friendship.

When the “lazy, crazy, hazy days of summer” come to an end, may a new season find us renewed in spirit because we too have made time for rest and friendship in the summer sun.

Lenten Meditation

WAITING – THE GREAT CHALLENGE OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE

A few days after the start of the New Year I went grocery shopping.  I was surprised to find peanut butter Easter eggs for sale at the cash register. We had not even completed the twelve days of Christmas and Easter was more than three months away, but shoppers were invited to be hippity-hoppity happy with Easter treats.

I remember a time as a child when my mother made Easter eggs. The aroma of freshly grated coconut and molten dark chocolate teased the senses, but my mother was firm – no Easter eggs until Easter Sunday.

The book of Ecclesiastes tells us that there is a season for everything, a time for every affair under the heavens. But in our fast-paced, technologically savvy, internet world, everything is at hand, at our disposal within minutes. Want to read the latest novel? No need to put your name on the wait list at the library; download Ken Fowlett or John Grisham on your Kindle for an immediate read. Hungry for shortcake? No need to wait until May. Strawberries from Florida are available twelve months of the year. Not wanting to stand in line at the cinema for movie tickets? Go online, pre-purchase your ticket, walk pass the crowd and buy your popcorn without a minutes wait.

While the conveniences of modern life are often a blessing, I wonder if having the world instantly at our finger tips has caused us to forget the art of waiting. And it is the art of waiting that is at the heart of the spiritual life. The spiritual life in every tradition tells us that reality is more than what appears. What is meaningful cannot be measured by the seconds on the clock or the dates on a calendar. What is of God challenges us to step back and take a long loving look at that which we cannot see save through the eyes of faith. What is of God challenges us to live expectantly in God’s time rather than in the instant gratification this world has to offer.

I hear it from people of every age in every walk of life: my biggest problem is patience. I am not surprised. How can we be patient if we never have to wait? Patience is not a virtue inbred in our spiritual DNA. It is a virtue that is learned by the discipline of waiting. I will wait until Easter to taste the peanut butter egg. I will wait until Christmas before I decorate the tree. I will wait without fuss while I give another preference in a long line of traffic.

I say it often: most of our frustration, most of our anger happens when we fail to remember that this is not heaven yet. Learning to live in this less-than-heaven world of ours challenges us to wait, to be patient. To be willing to wait, to practice being patient lowers our blood pressure and lifts our spirits as we choose to live in God’s good time.



We Have Seem His Star At Its Rising

Homily

The Epiphany of the Lord

I have an aunt, my mother’s sister, who always sends Christmas cards with an image of the Magi. Each year I look forward to her card. Some years the image is traditional, some years a little more avant-garde. Her appreciation of the Magi is not unusual. I think we all find these visitors from the east a bit alluring.

 It has been that way from the earliest days of Christianity. The religious imaginations of saints and theologians have long expanded the story of the magi to include details we do not find in the gospel. Although Matthew does not tell us how many visitors there were, tradition has long put the number at three, perhaps because there were three gifts offered to the Christ Child. The visitors are not named by the evangelist but again, tradition fills in the details calling them Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar. There are even legends written about a lost wise man. And the Italians have a tradition about the wise men visiting the good witch Befana.

While we might find the story of the magi intriguing, the readers of Matthew’s gospel would have found it disturbing. Remember, Matthew was writing for believers who came over to Christianity from Judaism. We will be reading from Matthew all throughout the Ordinary Time of the year. Often we will hear Matthew tell us that what was happening in the life and ministry of Jesus was to fulfill what had been foretold by the prophets of Judah and Israel. Jesus came as savior of his people. But at the beginning of his gospel Matthew prepares the reader for the message he will deliver at the end of the Gospel: Jesus came not for the Jews alone, but to bring salvation to all of God’s children, Jew and Gentile alike. Jesus identity is revealed to the Magi, visitors from the east. They represent all of those who will later see in Jesus salvation, light and peace.

In his moving prophecy, Isaiah sees Jerusalem, after a period of exile and shame, serving as a shining light not only for God’s people returning from captivity. He sees all nations and kings walking by Jerusalem’s light and radiance. And in verses that portend the visit of the Magi to Bethlehem, Isaiah says of Jerusalem: the wealth of nations shall be brought to you. Caravans of camels shall fill you, dromedaries from Midian and Ephah; all from Sheba shall come bearing gold and frankincense, and proclaiming the praises of God. I suspect those words from Isaiah helped to stoke the imagination of Matthew and those who later added to his story of the visitors from the east.

Throughout the Christmas season there is a gradual unfolding, a gradual epiphany, a gradual manifestation of Jesus’ identity: first to the shepherds at his birth when the Word became Flesh; then to the Magi and the whole of the Gentile world. That unfolding will continue next week when we celebrate the Baptism of the Lord and hear Jesus’ identity ratified by the voice of his Father: This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.

Important in this manifestation, this Epiphany, is a recognition that the plan of God for the salvation of his children extends beyond the expected; God’s plan of salvation is greater than our human imagining. God’s love, God’s grace is given to all who would receive it, not because they are so deserving, but because God is so good. It would take Saint Paul, mindful of his own unworthiness as he calls himself the least of the apostles, to formulate the early church’s understanding of this mysterious plan as he wrote to infant churches throughout the Mediterranean world as the Apostle to the Gentiles.

That same mystery, the immensity of God’s love and forgiveness and his plan of salvation, challenges us when we are tempted to determine whom we deem worthy of divine mercy and grace. And it challenges us when we somehow think that our sinfulness is more powerful than God’s forgiveness, or

when we fail to accept with grateful hearts the dignity that is ours as children of God.

So profound is the mystery of the Incarnation that it invites a lifetime of reflection and prayer so we might come to embrace ever more fully its meaning and promise. Perhaps that is why the Church gradually unfolds that mystery for us not with a one day feast but with a season filled with light and promise, song and rejoicing.  Like the Magi following the star at its rising, we travel through life with our gaze fixed not on the star, but on the one whose birth the star announced. And in that lifetime of reflection we come to live and to accept, ever so gradually, the embrace of the one who came to shepherd his people Israel and all who would open their hearts to his love.

A friend of mine recently introduced me to the religious poetry of Ann Weems. Her “January Song” expresses our need for prolonged meditation on the mysteries we celebrate with such splendor these days.

There is a rumor on the streets

that Christmas is over.

Lights and ornaments are packed away,

trees dragged to the curb,

people back to business as usual.

We’re no longer in the party mood;

the humbugging is back in vogue.

This is January…

How can Christmas be over?!

The Child is just newborn,

the song of Peace and Goodwill

still rings in our ears.

The shepherds and sages still kneel

to this one who is born to us…

just born to us!

How can Christmas be over?!

The story of the gospel is just beginning.

We who saw the Star

now live in its Light.

We who saw and heard

now believe.

Christmas is not over.

We’re just beginning

to follow this One

who calls us now to

Live in the Light of Love.

Christmas is not over.

It’s just beginning

and this is January’s song!!