Listen to Him! - Homily for the Second Sunday of Lent, Year B

 

          If you had asked me 30 years ago what I’d be doing today, I would’ve told you that I’d be President of the United States. Politics was my passion and my lifelong dream up to that point. But over time, I realized that I’m not cut out for politics. I don’t have the stomach for it, and that realization led to one of the most anxious and depressing times of my life. Politics was my goal, my purpose, a calling that gave meaning to my life. Then it was gone, and I found myself untethered, adrift, and confronted by those vexing questions that haunt human existence: Why am I here? What’s my purpose? What does God have planned for me? I struggled with those questions for a couple of years, but, in my restlessness, I also discovered a valuable skill: I learned to pay attention to God’s movements in my life. I learned to listen to him, which sounds a lot like the message from today’s readings.

          The story of Abraham and Isaac is undoubtedly a story about “heroic fidelity to God’s will.”[1] Heroic, yes, faithful, sure, but let’s face it, it’s bizarre and hardly the model of parental responsibility. The same God “that had said, ‘Your wife Sarah shall bear you a son, and you shall name him Isaac,’ also said, ‘Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering.’”[2] As outrageous as God’s edict seems, what strikes me most about this text is Abraham’s silence. He never protests or complains. He never begs God to rescind that dreadful mandate, like we’d expect any good parent to do. Why not? Well, I think he’s silent because he’s listening. He’s waiting for God’s next instruction.

Why do I think that? Two reasons: First, the lawyer in me can’t help but point out the loophole: God never tells Abraham to kill his son; he tells Abraham to offer Isaac as a holocaust. I think Abraham understands that, so he’s listening for God to invoke the loophole. I base my second reason on a line from the middle of the story that we don’t hear in this morning’s passage. Isaac asks Abraham where the sheep is for the sacrifice, and Abraham answers, “God will provide the sheep for the burnt offering” (Gen. 22:8). Abraham trusts that God will provide a sheep in Isaac’s place.

Why is Abraham so trusting of God? Well, he’s spent a good part of his life listening to God, and things worked out pretty well for him. The God who commands has filled Abraham’s life with blessings, so Abraham understands that God has his best interests at heart. Abraham has learned to trust God,[3] and his demeanor shows it. Any parent told to offer up her child as a sacrifice would be utterly distraught at the mere suggestion. Yet, Abraham displays a calm, quiet confidence that can only be explained by unflinching faith that God will keep his promises and that God will provide. He developed that faith by listening.

Our reading from Genesis teaches us that listening to God helps us learn to trust God and leads us to the blessings that God promises. Scripture assures us that God always delivers on his promises, and our Psalmist and Saint Paul unabashedly testify to the all-conquering power of God’s love for us that stops at nothing. But sometimes it’s hard to understand what God’s doing and why. We humans like clarity and certainty. We’re hard-wired to try to make sense of the world, to find meaning in it,[4] and when we can’t, we get anxious and even depressed. Fortunately for us, God has filled creation with meaning. We find that meaning in Jesus Christ.

Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. In Jesus, we find the meaning of life and our meaning in life. That’s why God tells us to listen to him in our Gospel. Jesus tells us that we’re meant to be reconciled with God, and he shows us how. Jesus tells us that we’re meant to love God and our neighbor, and he shows us how. Jesus tells us that we’re meant to take up our crosses and follow him so we, too, can be transfigured in divine glory, and he shows us how. Listening to Jesus doesn’t spare us from suffering here on earth—there’s no Easter Sunday without a Good Friday—but it does help us find meaning in our lives, meaning “that is profound, and ultimate, and stable no matter what may happen.”[5]

I think we can agree that it’s hard to make sense of a global pandemic and the unprecedented isolation that comes with it. We’re cut off from the very people and activities that give meaning to our lives, and we’re suffering for it. A survey last May shows that 28 percent of adults are experiencing anxiety, while 24 percent are showing signs of depression.^[6] We’re facing a mental health crisis that has reached our parish, as well. So, first and foremost, let me say that if you’re suffering from anxiety or depression, please seek professional help. Then, remember that Christianity has something to offer, too—Jesus Christ.

God sent his beloved Son as a balm to soothe the anguish of anxiety and a light to shine through the darkness of depression. It’s easy to think of Jesus only in terms of his heavenly glory, but God is really present on the cross, too,[7] where Jesus’ transfigured glory is joined eternally to human suffering. Listening to Jesus joins our suffering to his; it reveals God’s comforting presence among us; and it anchors us to the eternal glory that awaits us.

We need to listen to him, and, believe it or not, this second Lent during a pandemic offers unique opportunities to do so. Our isolation, though difficult, gives us time and space to slow down and listen for God’s still, small voice. The Lenten disciplines of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving help us empty ourselves of self so we can be filled with the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. Jesus speaks to each of us all the time in Scripture, prayer, the Sacraments, and every corner of creation. If we listen to him, we will find meaning in our lives and the calming, trustworthy assurance that God keeps his promises, even in a global pandemic.

That’s what happened with me. Once I let go of the political career I knew I’d never have, I became open to new possibilities. I reflected on Scripture; I read great books; and I took long walks along quiet, wooded trails, rosary in hand, just to listen for whatever God might say. The more I listened, the more I realized that the same God-given qualities that I thought were leading me into politics would be useful in ministry, too. After a lot of listening, I heard God’s call to the diaconate, and what a blessing it’s been—most of the time. Listening to Jesus has worked out pretty well for me, too. It brings me great joy, helps me bear my crosses, and leads me to the good that only God can bring out of every evil. Most importantly, listening to Jesus helps me find meaning in my life that’s profound and ultimate and stable. So trust me when I say, “Listen to him.”

Readings: Lectionary 26: Genesis 22:1-2, 9a, 10-13, 15-18; Psalm 116:10, 15, 16-17, 18-19; Romans 8:31b-34; Mark 9:2-10

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[1] Jeffrey Cole, ed., The Didache Bible (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2014), 27n. 

 [2] Barbara Brown Taylor, When God Is Silent (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc., 1998), 60-61.

[3] Terence E. Fretheim, “The Book of Genesis,” in The New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. 1, General and Old Testament Articles, Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, ed. Bruce C. Birch et al. (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1994), 495.

 [4] Eric Klinger, “The Search for Meaning in Evolutionary Goal-Theory Perspective and Its Clinical Implications,” in The Human Quest for Meaning, ed. Paul T. P. Wong (New York: Routledge, 2012), 31.

 [5] Charles Hefling, Why Doctrines, 2nd ed. (Chestnut Hill, MA: The Lonergan Institute, 2000), 20.

 [6] National Center for Health Statistics, Early Release of Selected Mental Health Estimates Based on Data from the January-June 2019 National Health Interview Survey, May 2020, https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/data/nhis/earlyrelease/ERmentalhealth-508.pdf.

 [7] Pheme Perkins, “The Gospel of Mark,” in The New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. 8, New Testament Articles, Matthew, Mark, ed. Marion L. Soards et al. (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1994), 632.

 

Designer Ashes - Homily for Ash Wednesday 2021

  

        There’s an amusing meme floating around Facebook called the “Catholic Guide to Ashes.” It shows pictures of different “designs” of ashes that have been administered on the foreheads of the faithful and assigns a fitting name to each. For example:

The Load Toner – The name says it all—a very light cross. This design is most often the result of not having dipped the thumb hard enough into the ashes. However, it can also be found on women who wear too much foundation and on nervous people who stop to receive their ashes just beyond arm’s reach.

The Blob – A nondescript blotch, this design typically lands on the over-enthusiastic, who come charging at us with such force that our thumbs are planted into their foreheads, rendering us unable to make the sign of the cross. Charismatics and elementary school child typically sport the Blob. 

The Harry Potter – Imagine a lightning bolt. This design is typically administered by the priest or deacon who rushed the application, like when you ask for a blessing and instead of getting a distinct cross, you get a lightning bolt.

Father’s Revenge – My favorite, this is the enormous, pitch black cross that spans the width and height of the forehead. There are three groups of people that tempt the Father’s Revenge: 1) Nasty people, which can include troublesome children - It gives them something to think about on Ash Wednesday. 2) The highly devout – Let’s face it, that’s what they really want anyway. 3) Bald men - I’m sorry, but the canvas is just too big to let it go to waste. 

The Franciscan – This design is named after the T-shaped cross that’s a symbol of the Franciscan Order. As a product of a Jesuit education, I’m not inspired by this one. Truth be told, if I were going to impose a letter on someone’s forehead it would be Hester Prynne’s scarlet “A”, an “L” (you figure it out), or my initials.

          As you may have heard, we won’t be using any designer ashes on your foreheads this year. Due to COVID restrictions, we’ve received instructions from Rome that we’re to impose ashes by sprinkling a tiny amount on top of your head. Lest ye be concerned, this method is totally legit, and just as effective. In fact, it’s the method traditionally used in Rome every year. Yes, we like sporting around our ashes on Ash Wednesday, declaring our Christianity to world, as we explain it’s meaning to the many kind people who take the time to tell us that we have dirt on our foreheads. But that’s not the reason we wear ashes. Ashes aren’t intended to be an instrument of evangelization; they’re a mark of humility. Ashes remind us that we are dust and to dust we shall return. They’re a memento mori, a reminder that someday we will die and that we will be judged.

          These reminders may come across as morbid, but they’re quite the opposite. They’re a reminder to live! They remind us that through Jesus Christ we’re all invited to be “reconciled to God” (2 Cor. 5: 20) so that we may have eternal life. That’s why God begs us through the Prophet Joel in our first reading to return to him “with fasting, and weeping, and mourning” (Joel 2:12). The first step toward reconciling ourselves with God is acknowledging our sins and making amends for them. The Lenten disciplines of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving that we take up today and the Sacrament of Reconciliation are great ways to do this. But they require humility—the very humility Jesus talks about in our Gospel.

          When we give alms, we’re to do so quietly, without seeking fanfare or praise. When we pray, Jesus teaches us not to stand out in public for all the world to see how holy we are, but to pray in private instead. Likewise, when we fast, we shouldn’t look gloomy and seek sympathy. Jesus teaches us to keep our fasting hidden. In short, Jesus teaches us humility.

          And so it is with ashes. I do think there’s spiritual value in marking our foreheads with ashes, but I’m happy that we’re sprinkling this year for several reasons. First, it protects the public health. Second, it protects our spiritual health, too, by keeping us humble. The fact that we received ashes will be known to us and to God alone this year, and that’s enough. Finally, sprinkling this year gives me 365 days to come up with new designer ashes for your foreheads next year!

Readings: Joel 2:12-18; Psalm 51; 2 Corinthians 5:20-6:2; Matthew 6:1-6. 16-18

Repent, and Believe - Homily for the Third Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year B

           I have a confession to make. When I first looked at the readings for today’s Mass, I wasn’t happy. Repent, and believe? Really? We hear this Gospel three times between January 11^th and the First Sunday of Lent on February 21^st. Isn’t this Gospel a bit overplayed? Truth be told, I really needed to preach a meatier Gospel today. As you can see from the video set up here, I’m being recorded for school where 13 classmates and two professors are just waiting to tear into my homily like a present in the hands of a sugared-up five-year old on Christmas morning. I was hoping for a reading that would let me strut my stuff. Give me a moving miracle, like the hemorrhagic woman who claws her way through a crowd just to touch the tassel of Jesus’ cloak. We all would’ve been reaching for the tissues after that homily. Or maybe an exhilarating exorcism, like the Gerasene demoniac— “My name is Legion.” Pigs jumping off cliffs. That’s a text I can work with. But what do I get? “Repent, and believe.”

           This nagging text won’t leave us alone. It nips at our heals like a poorly socialized Chihuahua. It stabs a scolding finger in our faces as it cries out with a dire and foreboding sense of urgency: “Repent, and believe!” And confronted by the text, we recoil, bothered, bewildered, and kind of offended. What have we done? What have we failed to do? Tell us! But we’re not even given the courtesy of an explanation. The Hound of Heaven just howls hauntingly: “Repent, and believe.” The din of this Gospel is so relentless that we beg for an answer, “What does it mean?” What’s so important about this text that we need to hear it over and over again? I guess we just have to see what we can figure out for ourselves.

 Let’s start with “repent.” We all know, from many a Lenten homily, that the English word repent isn’t the best translation for what Jesus is saying in our Gospel. The original Greek word, metanoiete (μετανοεῖτε) demands “a profound conversion of heart.”[1] While being sorry and making amends for our failures can be part of it, this word commands something more like a major change of attitude that leads to a major change of life. One commentator even posed Jesus’ meaning as “Let your mind be blown away by unimagined possibilities!”[2] Now that’s intriguing, but let’s sit with that for a moment while we consider what Jesus means by “believe.”

 “Believe” is a decent translation for the Greek word that Jesus uses here, pisteuete (πιστεύετε), but like most Greek words, pisteuete conveys a deeper meaning than its English counterpart. In the Bible, this verb “generally suggests not simply intellectual conviction but also trust and personal commitment.”[3] There’s a relational component to the word that invites our engagement. So this exhortation to believe in the gospel is more like an invitation into an active, personal relationship with Jesus Christ, who is the good news.

 Taken together, then, the words “Repent, and believe” command even more than their annoying English translations suggest. Jesus is challenging us to turn around, to radically shift the direction of our lives, to look, listen, and give our full attention and personal commitment to a new way of living with God through Jesus.[4] Add to it the fact that the word Jesus uses for “time” when he says, “This is the time of fulfillment,” means more than just chronological time. It’s the same word that Saint Paul uses in our second reading when he says, “the time is running out.” It’s the Greek word kairos (καιρός), which is better understood as the “opportune time,” the “right time,” the “strike-while-the-iron-is-hot time.” And the Apostles understand that, as we see from their response.   

 Each of the four Apostles mentioned in today’s Gospel drop everything, leave their livelihoods and their families behind, and follow Jesus without question or hesitation. Why would they do that? Well, as Saint Jerome explains, “There must have been something divinely compelling in the face of the Savior. Otherwise, they [wouldn’t] have acted so irrationally as to follow a man whom [they’d] never seen before.”[5] So, whether we like it or not, there must be something divinely compelling in this message for us, too, something urging us not just to repent and believe, but to do it right now.  But what?

 One of the most frustrating aspects of this Gospel for me is that Jesus doesn’t tell us what we need to do. When it comes to the specifics of these supposedly salvific words, our text is silent. Yet, the menacing message persists nonetheless: “Repent, and believe.” The same thing happens in our first reading. Jonah never tells the Ninevites what their problem is. He just sets the clock for Nineveh to be overturned and lets them figure out how to respond. Interestingly, Jonah also never claims divine authority for his ambiguous message, but the Ninevites make the theological connection anyway.[6] Somehow, they understand Jonah’s words as God’s words. They believe. They figure out where they went wrong, and they repent right away.

 So, how do we figure out what this text means for us? How do we discern where we’ve gone wrong so we can repent, too? We do what the Ninevites and Jesus’ followers did: we rely on the tools God gives us to discern his will. We have Scripture and the teachings and traditions of the Church; we have Jesus as our perfect example; and we have the gift of God’s Advocate, the Holy Spirit, working in and around us, inspiring us, and teaching us God’s ways. If we summon our Psalmist’s confidence that God is always teaching us his ways, and the faith of the Apostles, who hear Christ’s voice, drop everything, and follow him, maybe we’ll figure out for ourselves what God is asking us to do.

  At about this point in a homily I normally give you examples and posit clever analogies that relate this Gospel message to our lives today. Examples seem especially appropriate in light of these very trying times of global pandemic, pervasive discrimination, and civil unrest. But if Jonah didn’t tell the Ninevites what to do, and Jesus didn’t tell his followers, the message of our readings may well be that each of us needs to figure it out for ourselves. Who am I to tell you what needs to change in your life? Not that I wouldn’t have a few suggestions, but I stand confronted by this text just like you. As difficult and frustrating as it may be, each of us needs to let this text confront us, bother us, bewilder us, and even offend us a little in the hope that it will help us discern the movements of the Holy Spirit in our lives and figure out what these words mean for us right now. So, at the risk of receiving demerits from my classmates for not providing examples, I offer none. I simply leave you with those three annoying, saving words: “Repent, and believe.”

Readings: Lectionary 68, Jonah 3:1-5, 10; Psalm 25: 4-9; 1 Corinthians 7:29-31; Mark 1:14-20

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[1] Jeffrey Cole, ed., The Didache Bible (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2014), 1316n.

[2] Mary M. McGlone, “Mind Blowing Metanoia,” National Catholic Reporter 57, no. 7 (January 8-21, 2021), 19.

[3] Daniel J. Harrington, ed., The Gospel of Mark, Sacra Pagina 2 (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2002), 71.

[4] Lamar Williamson Jr., Mark, Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 42.

[5] Thomas C. Oden and Christopher A. Hall, eds., Mark, Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture: New Testament 2 (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2005), 19.

[6] Phyllis Trible, “The Book of Jonah,” The New Interpreter’s Bible, 12 (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1996), 513.