Messy Christmas - Homily for the Solemnity of the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Year B

            My favorite Meyer household Christmas decoration is our Fontanini
Nativity set. In the early years of familyhood, we decided to invest in a nice Nativity that we would collect piece-by-piece over the years. That plan quickly changed to two pieces per year after Caitlin and Annie began to fight, as only sisters can, over who owned each new piece. To this day they refuse to accept that Mom and Dad own everything. Aside from our history of collecting the pieces together over the years, what I love the most about our Nativity is that it allows me to step out of the messiness of this world, even if for a moment, into the “heavenly peace” where “All is calm, all is bright!” Today’s readings challenge that image for me, though. It seems that the scene into which Jesus was born may not have been as idyllic as my Nativity suggests. It seems like that first Christmas was a Messy Christmas.

          Today’s Gospel gives us important insight into Jesus’ life. The fact that his parents presented him in the Temple forty days after his birth tells us that Mary and Joseph were devout Jews committed to raising their child under the law of Moses. Their sacrificial offering of two pigeons tells us that they were poor, as only the poor were dispensed from the customary tribute of a year-old lamb and a turtledove. And the prophecies of Simeon and Anna tell us not just that Jesus is a “special” child, to say the least, but also that his family’s life would be marked by both triumph and tribulation. In other words, our Gospel tells us that Jesus was born into an ordinary home, “a home where there were no luxuries, a home where the cost of everything had to be considered carefully, a home where the members of the family knew all about the difficulties of making a living and the haunting insecurity of life.”[1] It tells us that Jesus was born into a home just like ours, a messy home.

          Taken together on this Solemnity of the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, our readings emphasize the importance of family and community in dealing with the messiness of the world in which we live. “Today’s readings are reminders that the family is a foundational relationship that must be nurtured, and the community is an extension of the family.”[2] You’ll recall that the family is the domestic Church. That phrase, which we find in Lumen Gentium, the Dogmatic Constitution of the Church, captures beautifully the vital role that the family plays in building up the Kingdom of God here on earth. As Saint John Paul II said in 1995 not too far from here at Aqueduct Racetrack, “parents must learn to form their family as a domestic church, a church in the home as it were, where God is honored, his law is respected, prayer is a normal event, virtue is transmitted by word and example, and everyone shares the hopes, the problems and sufferings of everyone else.”[3]

          This image of the family as domestic church is exactly what today’s readings call us to be. Our first reading from Sirach is all about strengthening our relationship with God by fostering strong relationships at home. It makes clear that “bettering relationships between husband and wife, parents and children, the young and the old, the rich and the poor ultimately leads to an improvement in the reverence paid to God and to God’s will.”[4] Our second reading from Saint Paul’s letter to the Colossians turns to relationships within our community. He calls us to holiness through heartfelt compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, patience, forbearance, forgiveness, and gratitude. Simply put, Saint Paul challenges us to love God by loving each other, just like Jesus does.

          You may be thinking that this all sounds lovely, but it’s easier said than done. Life is difficult, it’s messy, and our relationships with one another can be messy, too. I couldn’t agree more. The nature of our society and economy drives us to spend more time working and less time building the ties that bind us. Add COVID to the mix, and we become even more isolated from each other and more challenged to build and sustain family and community relationships. Our relationships become strained, and we don’t always treat each other the way we should.

I’d argue, then, that the message from today’s readings is all the more important. It isn’t a call to return to days gone by, to a way of life that’s no longer possible; it’s a call “to return to the roots of human development and human happiness!”[5] Loving relationships are our best protection against the challenges of this messy world. Jesus calls us, then, to look the messiness of life in the eye, and prioritize God, family, and community above it all. That’s what he did. Jesus didn’t choose to stay in the perfect comfort and peace of heaven; he didn’t pick a palace loaded with servants as his earthly home; he didn’t shun suffering or even death; he made his dwelling among us, among real people with real joys, and real sorrows, with the real messiness that a very real human family life brings. Jesus chose our life as his life to show us how to live the Kingdom of Heaven right now, no matter what messiness life may throw at us.

How do we do this? Start small. When dinner time rolls around, but there’s one more thing to finish for work, eat dinner with the family instead. When our children, our spouses, our relatives, or friends scratch our last nerve or wrong us and invoke our right to retribution, forgive them instead. When our sufferings and sadness pile up and overwhelm us, count our blessings instead. Every act of charity, kindness, humility, forbearance, forgiveness, and gratitude slowly but surely builds loving, lasting relationships in our families, in our community, and with God, relationships that build up the Body of Christ, that bring heaven to earth, and that will lead us into the fullness of God’s Kingdom at the end of time.

          You know, when I look at our Nativity set at home, I realize that it isn’t perfect. The wise man bearing gold is scowling, as if he’s thinking that he must have overspent if the other two could get away with frankincense and myrrh. Saint Joseph has a “What in the world did I get myself into?” look on his face, and one of the dogs falls over like a drunkard if it’s not propped up next to the manger. I love it, anyway. It reminds me that Jesus didn’t choose to live in a perfect world; he chose to live in our messy world perfectly. It reminds me that God really knows what it’s like to live in our messy world because he did it himself. It reminds me that that first messy Christmas in Bethlehem brought heavenly peace into this messy world, and that’s what makes our messy Christmas a Merry Christmas.

Readings: Sirach 3:2-6, 12-14; Psalm 128; Colossians 3:12-17; Luke 2:22-40

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[1] William Barclay, The Gospel of Luke (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 30.

[2] James L. Waters, “Family and Community,” America 223, no. 7 (December 2020), 69.

[3] John Paul II, Homily for the Mass at Aqueduct Raceway, Queens, NY (October 6, 1995).

[4] Catherine Coy, et al., Workbook for Lectors, Gospel Readers, and Proclaimers of the Word, 2021 Year B (Chicago, Liturgical Training Publications, 2020), 37.

[5] John Paul II.

O Come All Ye Faithful

 We weren't able to live-stream or record our "Christ in the Carols" presentation this afternoon due to audio challenges, so I thought I would post my reflection on O Come All Ye Faithful. Since I encourage you in the talk to look up a particular Luciano Pavarotti rendition, I have added a link to it at the end of the text.  Enjoy!

         John Francis Wade left England for France in 1745 to escape anti-Catholic persecution. To support himself, he took up work copying music scores by hand at the renowned Roman Catholic College and Ministry Center in Douay, France, famous for producing the Douay-Rheims translation of the Bible. Two years earlier, Wade published a Latin Christmas carol that became popular among his fellow exiled Catholics in France. While historians long thought that Wade had merely transcribed an ancient hymn by an unknown composer, most now believe that he wrote the song himself. About 100 years later, in 1841, an Anglican priest named Frederick Oakley, who was deeply moved by the hymn, took a crack at translating the original Latin version into English. He dubbed the rousing hymn, “Ye Faithful, Approach Ye.” That didn’t catch on, so four years later, after becoming a Roman Catholic priest and thereby improving his Latin, Oakley tried again with much greater success.  From then on, Adeste Fideles would be known throughout the English-speaking world as O Come All Ye Faithful.

         Although its lyrics and score are fairly simple, O Come All Ye Faithful is laden with deep theological meaning. As a little background, Christology, the study of Jesus Christ, has two basic starting points: ascending and descending. Ascending Christology starts with Christ’s humanity, moving with Jesus as he grows in wisdom and understanding, ministers to God’s people, suffers, dies, rises from the dead, and ascends to the Father. The synoptic Gospels, Matthew, Mark, and Luke, present predominantly an ascending Christology.

Descending Christology starts with Christ’s divinity. God’s eternal Word present at the beginning and through whom all of creation came into being, humbles himself to take human form, experiences every aspect of human life, except sin, and remains obedient to the Father through suffering and even death on a cross. As a result, God highly exalts him and gives him the name “LORD” so that every knee shall bend before him in adoration, a gesture reserved only for God. John's Gospel is solidly in the descending Christology camp.

As for our hymn, O Come All Ye Faithful is descending Christology at its best. In it, we learn that the “King of Angels,” was “born this happy morning,” and that the “Word of the Father” is “now in flesh appearing.” We join the “choirs of angels” as we “sing in exultation”: “Glory to God, glory in the highest,” together acknowledging the name that is above every name, “Christ the LORD.

The clearest indication of Christ’s divinity in the hymn is found in the refrain, when we’re invited to “come” and “adore him.” While we venerate the saints, we only adore God. So, in true trinitarian fashion, each refrain bids us three times: “Come let us adore him.” Note that we’re not called to adore individually, but together. This beautiful hymn profoundly proclaims a fundamental tenet of our faith: Christ the LORD, the Word made flesh, dwells among us and calls all of us to find communion and salvation in him.

O Come All Ye Faithful is, by far, my favorite Christmas hymn. I love it loud and proud, the way Luciano Pavarotti sang it at Montreal’s Notre Dame Cathedral in 1978 (look it up on YouTube, it’s magnificent). I love it soft and soulful, the way Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole croon it on their still-popular Christmas albums. I love it sung solo, by the likes of Celine Dionne, Luther Vandross, and Susan Boyle, and I love it sung in groups—like the Irish Tenors, Il Divo, and the Priests. I love O Come All Ye Faithful so much that I have twenty-five renditions of it on my playlist, including two by Josh Groban, three by Andrea Bocelli, and two by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They may not be Catholic, but they sure can sing! I listened to all twenty-five recordings while preparing this talk, and I’m not sick of it at all. I can’t wait to hear Katie and David perform it. I have no idea how they’re going to present it this afternoon, but I do know that I’ll love it.

            I will admit, though, that there is one version of O Come All Ye Faithful that I love the most. It’s the version that gives me goosebumps every time, and it never fails to put a lump in my throat and a tear on my cheek. It’s the version we sing right here at Immaculate Conception as the processional hymn at Christmas Mass. It’s the version that we sing on that most blessed day when together, as the body of Christ in Annandale, NJ, we “come” to “adore him.”

 

The Preachin' Deacons! Fourth Sunday of Advent, Year B - December 20, 2020

Welcome back to the Preachin' Deacons! Links to our homilies and this week's readings follow, along with the text to my contribution. 

Readings: 2 Samuel 7:1-5, 8B-12, 14A, 16; Psalm 89; Romans 16:25-27; Luke 1:26-38

 

 Behold!

         I learned a new word this week. Actually, I learned a new meaning for an old word— “manifest.” I always understood “manifest” to mean “to reveal” or “make known,” but my daughter informed me that young people use it more broadly these days. It now means “to make something happen.” For example, “I wanted to do well on my test, so I studied hard and manifested an A.” To be honest, I like the old meaning better, perhaps because I like old words. Old words have a certain charm, a certain character and power that we just don’t find in today’s “made for Insta” words. Take the word “behold,” for example. I think our Gospel makes clear that it doesn’t need a new-fangled definition. The old meaning suits it just fine.

          The word “Behold” is defined as “a call to observe something that is remarkable or impressive.” Well, “behold” is just perfect for today’s Gospel, then, because our Gospel certainly gives us something remarkable and impressive to observe. In fact, it gives us two. In the first use of the word “behold,” the angel Gabriel announces that Mary will bear a Son named Jesus, the Son of God, who will sit on the throne of David and whose kingdom will never end. In the second, Mary, the young maiden from Nazareth, bravely accepts her role as Mother of God. That one word, “behold,” calls our attention both to the miraculous, merciful mystery of the Incarnation, and the very human, heartfelt, humility of Mary’s fiat.

          As I mentioned in my homily two weeks ago, Advent is a time of exclamation and excitement. Well, I can’t think of a better exclamation to end our four weeks of Advent with than “Behold.” Our Gospel tells us that something big happened that’s certainly worthy of our attention, but we also have to remember that there’s more to come. In Advent, we anticipate both Jesus’ birth at Christmas and his second coming at the end of time. So our Gospel passage doesn’t simply recount a “one and done” historical event, but, rather the first offer and acceptance of the new, permanent, and eternal covenant between God and humanity that we hear about in our first reading and our Psalm.

 Interestingly, the etymology of the word “behold” further suggests that the thing we “behold” is worth holding onto and retaining as our own. So, we’re not just summoned to observe Gabriel’s annunciation and Mary’s “yes.” We’re invited to cling to it and incorporate it into our lives. We’re beckoned into a new relationship with God through his Word made, well, manifest to the world. We’re called to experience Emmanuel, “God with us” in word and sacrament so that by our own words and actions, we can announce to the world that Christ’s real presence among us is something to behold.

The Preachin' Deacons - Second Sunday of Advent, Year B, December 6, 2020

The Preachin' Deacons are back for the Second Sunday of Advent, with Deacon Bill Bauer and Deacon Mike Meyer preaching. For those who prefer to read, a text of my homily is posted below the video, although this one might be more effective on video!

Readings: Isaiah 40: 1-5, 9-11; Psalm 85; 2 Peter 3:8-14; Mark 1: 1-8

 

                                                                           

Prepare (phhh, puht)!

         When the Danish Comedian Victor Borge arrived in the United States, he didn’t speak English at all. He said many times that the hardest thing about understanding English was that people spoke too quickly; he wanted them to use punctuation when they spoke so he could follow along better. So he invented a way to hear punctuation, as well as see it. Here’s how it works. A period sounds like this: puht; A dash like this: phhh. An exclamation point is a vertical dash with a period under it: phhh, puht.  A comma is a clicking noise: click, and a semicolon is a period with a comma underneath it: puht, click. So if we were to take a few lines from today’s readings, it would sound like this: “Go up on to a high mountain (click), Zion (click), herald of glad tidings (puht, click); cry out at the top of your voice (click), Jerusalem (click), herald of good news (phhh, puht)!” You get the idea. Why all this attention to punctuation? Our readings explain.

 If you look at all of the readings for the four weeks of Advent, you see a lot of exclamation points—15 altogether, and 4 in today’s readings alone. That’s because Advent is the season of exclamation and excitement. We’re excited about Christmas, of course, but there’s more to it than that. In Advent we joyfully await not only Christ’s coming at Christmas, but also the parousia, when Christ will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead. We don’t know when Jesus will come again, so for the time being, we wait.

 Now, if I were to channel my inner teenager, I would say, “Waiting’s boring (phhh, puht)!” Well, not if we listen to our readings. All three of our readings tell us that now’s the time to prepare. They call us to “prepare the way of the Lord, make straight his paths!” They instruct us to conduct ourselves in holiness and devotion.” What does all of that mean? Well, remember, when Jesus comes again, we’re going to be judged. We’re going to find out, as we heard a few weeks ago, whether we’re the sheep who get into heaven, or the goats who land in H-E- double hockey sticks.

 You may be wondering, then, “If we’re going to be judged, how is our expectation joyful?” The answer’s simple, we wait joyfully because Jesus gave us all we need to prepare ourselves for his final judgment and to pass it with flying colors. Jesus gives us Scripture and liturgy, so we can prepare ourselves by conforming our lives to his teaching. Jesus gives us the Sacrament of Reconciliation, so we can prepare ourselves by seeking forgiveness for our sins. And Jesus gives us himself in the Eucharist, so we can prepare ourselves by receiving his grace and carrying it out into the world. You see, we have every reason to await Jesus’s second coming joyfully. We just need to listen to the exclamation that resounds throughout today’s readings: “Prepare (phhh, puht)!”

Fit for a King - Homily for the Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe, Year A

 

 The sanctuary of Christ the King Church in Gothenburg Sweden is surrounded by beautiful mosaic murals. To the left and right of the altar we find images of the Swedish Saint Sigfried and the Blessed Mother fittingly kneeling in humble adoration before the image at the center of the sanctuary behind the altar—Jesus Christ. Seated at the center of a royal blue background, Jesus is depicted as strong, sinewy, and very serious. Golden robes drape his bronzed body, and the five-pointed diadem that crowns his head emits crimson tongues of fire. One hand points to the heavens, the other illuminates the earth with the rays of Divine Mercy. Surrounded by multiple rings of halos and stars, there’s no doubt that this mosaic is fit for a King. Our readings today challenge us to ask ourselves whether we are.

With Advent beginning next week, believe it or not, today marks the last Sunday of the liturgical year, “celebrated under the leave-nothing-understated-title of The Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe.”[1] Being the end of the Christian year, it’s fitting that our readings turn our attention to the end of time, when Christ will render final judgment on all, and will hand his Kingdom over to the Father, so that God may be all in all. “The first reading and the Gospel declare the certainty of a final judgment, where people will hear their eternal destiny. The second reading assures the baptized that Christ is alive and reigning and that the divine plan for humans to enjoy God’s life forever is moving toward its fulfillment.”[2] Our readings are perfectly clear that Christ will judge, the sheep will be separated from the goats, the good will enter eternal life, and the evil eternal punishment.

          Not so clear, however, is the image of Jesus presented in our readings. On the one hand, our first reading from Ezekiel, our Psalm, and our Gospel identify the Christ as a shepherd who watches over, protects, and saves his flock. Yet, while our beloved Psalm 23 speaks of a gentle, generous shepherd, Ezekiel and Matthew compliment this image with that of a shepherd who means business, who judges, saves the righteous, and destroys the evil ones. On the other hand, our Gospel and second reading also present Christ as a King whose judgment is “taking place in a royal heavenly court, complete with angels and a glorious throne,”[3] and as a triumphant ruler who puts all his enemies under his feet. While seemingly contradictory, the shepherd/king images are well known to us. Throughout history, Christian artists have created a wide variety of images of Christ as King. “There is Michelangelo’s super muscular, Apollo-like Jesus who raises the blessed and dismisses the damned. Orthodox icons generally depict a Savior more serious than welcoming, and many popular depictions present Jesus crowned and resplendent in royal/priestly robes,”[4] like the mosaic in Christ the King Church. We’re also very comfortable with the shepherd image of the Messiah. In fact, one of the oldest images of Jesus, found on the walls of the catacombs in Rome, depicts him as the Good Shepherd carrying the lost sheep on his shoulders.

How do we reconcile these images? Well, think of the royal image as representing Jesus’ sovereignty over all of creation, his king-like authority to rule and to judge. At the same time, think of the shepherd image as representing how Jesus exercises his sovereignty—with a shepherd’s fervent care. Together these images give us the calm assurance that Christ reigns over all with the loving compassion that a good shepherd extends to his sheep. We need to ask ourselves, then, are we his sheep, or are we the goats?

While these messianic images may be a little confusing, Jesus leaves no ambiguity surrounding the standard by which we’ll be judged. “This is one of the most vivid parables Jesus ever spoke, and the lesson is crystal clear — that God will judge us in accordance with our reaction to human need. His judgment [doesn’t] depend on the knowledge [we’ve] amassed, the fame [we’ve] acquired, or the fortune [we’ve] gained, but on the help that [we’ve] given.”[5] Jesus identifies himself with the poor and suffering so much that he considers the mercy we extend to them as mercy extended to him, and our failure to show mercy to them, as a failure to show mercy to him. Jesus identifies “with every person who suffers and is in need of compassion.”[6] That’s good news for us all. Why? Because in some way, every one of us suffers and needs compassion. We may want to play the tough guy, put on our poker face, or keep a stiff upper lip, but we all hurt in our own ways. Rest assured, though, through his passion, death, resurrection, and steadfast presence among us in the Eucharist, Jesus proves that he’s on our side, shepherding us beyond our wants, beyond our needs, from death into life. Yes, we will be judged, but the standard by which we’ll be judged is no greater than whether we treat our fellow human beings with the merciful compassion that we ourselves want and need.   

There’s no shortage of opportunity to be found fit in Jesus’ final judgment—to be counted among the sheep— by showing mercy to those with whom Jesus identifies most closely. Just look around. Ask people how they’re doing, and really listen to how they respond. Drop off some baked ziti. Knit hats for cancer patients. Call a parishioner who can’t come to Church yet. Babysit a frazzled parent’s children. Join our prison ministry. Assure everyone you meet of your heartfelt prayers for them. The opportunities to serve the people Jesus claims as his own are endless. If we take advantage of those opportunities, we have nothing to fear at Jesus’ final judgment.

            Last week, the Church of Christ the King in Sweden was desecrated. The mosaics were spared, but the altar was overturned, candles and furniture were damaged, and hymnals were strewn all over the floor. While these violent acts shock and hurt us, the fact remains that Jesus Christ still reigns as King of the Universe. No president nor prince, no televangelist nor tyrant, no deacon nor dictator has taken his place. Only Jesus merits our humble adoration and unfailing devotion. It’s not our place, then, to judge or condemn the person or people who committed these heinous acts. That’s Jesus’ job. It’s our job to extend our merciful compassion to them, praying that they find relief from whatever pain led them to do this. It may not be easy, but that’s the standard against which we’ll be judged, and that’s exactly the type of servant that’s fit for a King. Are we?

 Readings: Ezekiel 34:11-12, 15-17; Psalm 23; 1 Corinthians 15:20-26, 28; Matthew 25:31-46

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[1] Mary M. McGlone, “The King of Solidarity,” National Catholic Reporter 57, no. 3 (Nov. 13-26, 2020), 19.

[2] Elizabeth M. Nagel, Elaine Park, and Mary Pat Haley, Workbook for Lectors, Gospel Readers, and Proclaimers of the Word (Chicago: Liturgy Training Publications, 2020), 287.

[3] John Shea, The Spiritual Wisdom of the Gospels for Christian Preachers and Teachers: On Earth as It Is in Heaven, Matthew, Year A (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2004), 325.

[4] McGlone, 19.

[5] William Barclay, The Gospel of Matthew, vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 379-380.

[6] Curtis Mitch and Edward Sri, The Gospel of Matthew (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2010), 326.

 

Guess the Title - Homily for the Thirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A

           Ree, as her friends and family knew her, was just 18 years young when she became a professional singer. In the first 7 years of her musical career, she recorded 9 albums for Columbia Records but never charted higher than number 37 on Billboard Magazine’s Hot 100. That all changed in 1967, when her debut single under the Atlantic Records label became her first Top 10 hit, and Aretha Franklin was catapulted to global fame. In I Ain’t Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You, the Queen of Soul croons a bluesy ballad about her inexplicable love for a “no good heart breaker, liar, and a cheat.” I wonder if Aretha Franklin had today’s Gospel in mind when she recorded that song, because the commandment to love others is pretty hard to explain. Allow me to try.

          Ever since Adam and Eve strolled the Garden of Eden, God has given us commandments to encourage us to live a godly life. Starting with that first commandment to be fruitful and multiply, the number of commandments seems to have exploded as we humans drifted farther and farther away from God, so much so that it’s said that there are 613 commandments in the Old Testament. As a result, it was pretty common in Jesus’ time for people to risk-rank and debate the importance of each commandment. It’s no surprise, then, that a scholar of the law would ask Jesus which of the commandments is the greatest. “Whether sincere or conniving, [he was] asking the core question of every human life: ‘What’s it all about?’ ‘What does God expect from humanity?’”[1]

Shrewd as he is, Jesus refuses to name just one. Rather, he links the greatest commandment from Deuteronomy—“You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind—with the second greatest from Leviticus—“You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” He doesn’t just leave it there, though, Jesus specifically notes that these two commandments are “like” each other, they’re intertwined. “By saying that love of the other was akin to love of God, Jesus declared that they were inextricably bound together creating a lifestyle of love.”[2]

          Perplexed, no doubt, we ask, “How are these two commandments linked?” Sure, we understand the love God part, but our neighbor? All of them?  Really?  Yes. You’ll recall from Genesis that we humans are created in the image and likeness of God. That means that our human dignity is given to us by God; we don’t develop it on our own; and we certainly don’t get it from anyone else. If every person is created in the image and likeness of God, then it follows that we must honor the image and likeness of God in every person. We honor it, by loving them. If for no other reason, human beings are still lovable because we’re created in God’s image and likeness.[3]

          Every one of us is called to love God and our neighbor every day of our lives, but do we? One look at the news, Facebook posts, and blog comments and the answer seems to be no, especially when it comes to people whose lifestyles, religions, and political opinions differ from our own. Don’t get me wrong, there’s no issue with disagreeing or challenging an opinion or behavior. In fact, we’re called to speak out against falsehoods, immorality, and injustice in all of their forms, and doing so is one way to love God and our neighbor. However, when our disagreements turn into ad hominem attacks, invective directed against the person rather than the position or action, then we’re not loving our neighbor, and we’re not loving God. Part of our sinful inclination leads us sometimes to approach life like it’s the Hunger Games. We see everyone else as a potential enemy, so we strike first, and we strike hard. But let me let you in on a little lawyer secret: You know you’ve won an argument when your opponents resort to ad hominem attacks. It means that they’ve run out of legal, moral, and intellectual arguments to counter yours, and they have nothing left but to attack you personally. I’ll also let you in on a little Jesus secret: “Whenever [we] draw a line between us and them, bear in mind that Jesus is on the other side of that line”[4] loving our neighbor. Our Gospel and our first reading affirm that we’re called to love everyone, especially those who are different from us. “Without loving contact with people whose experience, culture, [opinions], or faith tradition stretches us, we can live trapped in a self-affirming hall of mirrors.”[5] Loving others, then, makes us better people by making us more like the God who loves them first and best.

          Can we really love everyone?  Of course, we can. Jesus became human, in part, to show us how. But let’s be clear about what we mean by love. Love, as Thomas Aquinas tells us, is “to will the good of the other.” It’s to want what God wants for our neighbors—all that is good. We don’t have to like people to love them. We don’t have to be all huggy-kissy with people to will that they have, are, and do all that is good. We know that some people can be physically or psychologically dangerous to us, and we may need to keep our distance from them. But we can still love them, even if from afar. God doesn’t give us commandments we can’t keep.  As our Psalm tells us, “God always blesses us with his help to fulfill our tasks and every mission entrusted to us.” [6] When faced with a Chain of Fools, be Willing to Forgive, or Try a Little Tenderness, and love them instead. Before lashing out in anger at the most inane online commentators, Think, Say a Little Prayer, and love them instead. When tempted to make a derogatory comment or label people pejoratively, turn to Jesus’ Rock Steady example for strength, like the Thessalonians in our second reading, and love them instead. Imitation is the highest form of flattery, and with God, our highest form of love. If we imitate Christ, we’ll love God and our neighbor, we’ll live United Together, and we’ll ride God’s Freeway of Love into eternal life.

          The song that made Aretha Franklin famous became the title song of her first number one album that was released later that year. No fewer than 5 songs on that album have become Aretha Franklin classics, but one song stands above the rest. An instant hit single itself, that song became an anthem to the Civil Rights and Women’s Rights movements. In her own words, that song “reflected the need of a nation, the need of the average man and woman in the street, the businessman, the mother, the fireman, the teacher.” And guess what? The one-word title of that song is the perfect first-step on the journey to a loving lifestyle. The keen-eared among may have noticed that the first letter of each of the seven paragraphs of this homily spells out the name of that song. For those who missed it, if you want to love God by loving our neighbor, start with a little R—E—S—P—E—C—T.

 Readings: Exodus 22: 20-26; Psalm 18; 1 Thessalonians 1:5c-10; Matthew 22: 34-40

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[1] Mary M. McGlone, “A Call in Two Dimensions,” in National Catholic Reporter 57, no. 1 (October 16-29, 2020), 19.

[2] McGlone, 19.

[3] William Barclay, The Gospel of Matthew, 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 324.

[4] Reverend Susan Schneider.

[5] McGlone, 19.

[6] Jeffrey Cole, ed., The Didache Bible (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2014), 622, note.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes - Homily for the Twenty-sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A

 

           We humans don’t like change. A 2015 McKinsey study shows that 70 percent of change programs in the workplace fail because of employee resistance and lack of support.[1] Another study points out that “while we usually accept that change leads to growth, we also resist change because it’s uncomfortable.”[2] Personal business coach Jim Earley sums it up nicely: “When forced to embrace change, 10 percent will respond like James Bond, 10 percent will respond like Moe Howard from the Three Stooges, and 80 percent will do nothing at all.”[3] Simply put, we don’t like change. But today’s Gospel calls us to change anyway because Christianity is all about, well, Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes. Let’s take a look at why.

           In today’s Gospel, Jesus emphasizes our need to change through the Parable of the Two Sons. He compares the first son, who initially refused to do his father’s bidding, to prostitutes and tax collectors. These “stereotypical sinners of Jesus’ day” don’t want to live according to God’s will but change their minds when they hear John the Baptist preaching.[4] The chief priests and the elders, on the other hand, are like the second son. They agree to work for God but don’t. “They talk about divine demands and ways but [don’t] live by them because [they’re] inconvenient and require them to change how they spend their time.”[5] Jesus’ simple point is this: those of us who repent and follow his ways will enter the Kingdom of Heaven, even if we come late to the game. In short, if we want to go to Heaven, we have to change.

           So what kind of change are we talking about here? Well it’s pretty extreme. Last week’s first reading from Isaiah tells us that our ways aren’t God’s ways, and God’s ways aren’t our ways (Isaiah 55:6-9). Well, our ways need to be God’s ways. Distorted by sin, our world is turned upside down. Jesus came to turn the world right side up. He came to help us change our lives completely. As disorienting and uncomfortable as it may be initially, changing our lives is for our own good. It leads us to eternal life.

 You see, Greek has two words for life: bios, physical, material life; and zoe, eternal life, God’s life. We humans were intended to live bios and zoe simultaneously and harmoniously, but sin interfered with that plan. So God sent his only Son not just to teach us, but to show us, through his perfect example, that it’s possible to live God’s eternal life right here in our physical, material world. Jesus came to divinize us—to return us to the likeness of God that was bestowed on humanity at Creation. In fact, we pray to be divinized at every Mass. You may notice the deacon praying softly as we add a drop of water to the wine to prepare the chalice for the Eucharist. Here’s what we pray: “By the mystery of this water and wine, may we come to share in the divinity of Christ, who humbled himself to share in our humanity.” We pray for zoe, we pray to live God’s perfect, eternal life right now.

 Unfortunately, we tend to cling to our familiar, comfortable bios, and shun, disregard, or even fear zoe. We don’t like change, but Christ demands nothing less from us than radical change. As C.S. Lewis explained it, “A [person] who changed from having Bios to having Zoe would have gone through as big a change as a statue which changed from being carved stone to being a real [person]. And that is precisely what Christianity is about.”[6] It’s about continuing the “sublime transaction of the Incarnation in which Christ said to [humanity], ‘You give me your humanity, I will give you my divinity. You give me your time, I will give you my eternity. You give me your bonds, I will give you my omnipotence. You give me your slavery, I will give you my all.’”[7]  Christ came not to just make us better people, but to make us fully human, God-like. It’s not like teaching a horse to jump higher and higher. It’s like showing a horse that it can actually fly.

 How do we get there? We follow the perfect role model identified in our second reading—Jesus Christ, “who humbled himself, becoming obedient to the point of death, death on a cross.” Change starts with humility, and Jesus is the best example. We follow Jesus’ humble example by acknowledging that we need to change. We accept Jesus’s invitation to change by identifying how our ways don’t measure up to God’s ways. We effectuate God’s plan to change the world by accepting that the changes we want to see in the world will only come about if we change ourselves first.

 Let’s face it, we live in trouble times where human life is threatened by abortion, violence, war, and euthanasia. If I want a better world, I have to accept that “the conversion of the world begins with me as I learn to be less reactive, less anger-prone, less ridiculing, less bigoted, less fearful. The conversion of the world begins when I ask God . . . to help me to deeply love everyone, even the difficult people in my life. The conversion of the world begins when I . . . forgive people who have harmed or hurt me. The conversion of the world starts when I . . . more deeply experience the dignity of every person, especially the most vulnerable, the poor and the troubled.”[8] When I change myself, others benefit as well, and our world begins to look a lot more like the Kingdom of God. We need to ask ourselves, then: Will I embrace Christ’s invitation to eternal life by exchanging my ways for God’s ways, or will I avoid it?

 You know, only one out of nine people will make lifestyle changes like diet and exercise even if they could prolong their life, restore their health, reverse diabetes, hypertension, and heart disease by doing so?[9] That means that only 11 percent of us choose life, and 89 percent choose death. I hope the same isn’t true of our spiritual lives. No, we don’t like change—it’s uncomfortable, scary, and some of Jesus’ teachings seem downright strange. But in the words of the celebrated philosopher, David Bowie, it’s time to “turn and face the strange.” It’s time to live as God intended us to live—full of life, bios and zoe. It’s time to live God’s Kingdom here and now. And just in case I haven’t firmly planted that worm in your ear, it all begins with Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes!

 Readings: Ezekiel 18: 25-28; Psalm 25; Philippians 2:1-11; Matthew 21:28-32

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[1] Boris Ewenstein, Wesley Smith, and Ashvin Sologar, “Changing Change Management,” McKinsey & Company, https://www.mckinsey.com/featured-insights/leadership/changing-change-management#.

[2] Lucas DeBoer, “Resistance to Change at Work Holds Back Automation,” Signavio Blog, (March 4, 2020), https://www.signavio.com/post/change-at-work/.

[3] Rich Becker, “If 80 Percent of People Won’t Change, Why Force Them?” Words. Concepts. Strategies, (September 25, 2020), http://www.richardrbecker.com/2014/03/if-80-percent-of-people-wont-change-why.html.

[4] Elizabeth M. Nagel, Elaine Park, and Mary Pat Healy, Workbook for Lectors, Gospel Readers, and Proclaimers of the Word: 2020, Year A (Chicago: Liturgical Training Publications, 2020), 256.

[5] Ibid.

[6] C. S. Lewis, Mere Christianity (San Francisco, HarperCollins Publishers, Inc, 2001), 159.

[7] Fulton J. Sheen, Go to Heaven (San Francisco, Ignatius Press, 1960), 184.

[8] Monsignor Charles Pope.

[9] Becker.