Pray Without Ceasing

                Earlier this week, I was asked to speak with a little girl who had been offering her daily prayers for a young woman who was suffering from cancer.  It seemed that the young woman was not doing well, and the girl’s parents were concerned that she would lose faith in the power of prayer if the young woman died.  Explaining the benefits of prayer in seemingly hopeless situations is tough enough, but explaining it to a child is even more difficult.  Kids go right to the toughest questions:  “Didn't you say that God is all powerful?”  “Doesn't God love us?”  “Why does God let bad things happen to good people?”  I do my best to answer the questions, (“yes, “absolutely,” and “I don’t know),” but my conversations about prayer always seem to end the same way:  “Keep praying.  Pray without ceasing.”

                Prayer is the elevation of the mind and heart to God.  In prayer we place our deepest longings, our profound gratitude, our darkest fears and our greatest hopes before God, trusting that in his divine providence, “All will be well, and all will be well and every kind of thing shall be well.”[1]  But sometimes all isn't well, or at least it doesn't seem to be.  We don’t always get what we want in prayer, and sometimes we get exactly what we didn't want.  And yet, Saint Paul still tells us to “pray without ceasing.”  (1 Thess. 5:17)  The cynic in me wonders if this advice just increases the odds of getting what I want, but I know better.

                This challenge of prayer is one of perspective.  We may think we know what’s best for us or for others, but we may not.  We’re simply creatures living within our creator’s vast plan to make all well.  From our lowly vantage point, we can’t see the whole plan.  Think of it this way:  when you search for a destination on Google Maps, you get a pin-point location on a zoomed in map.  That’s our perspective.  If you want to know how to get there or what it’s near, you have to zoom out.  That’s God’s perspective.  God sees the whole picture – the whole plan – and knows the best way to get to the final destination.  God’s in the driver’s seat.  We have to sit back and trust that God loves us; that he always wants what's best for us. 

                If it’s all in God’s hands, why bother praying?  Well, prayer is an act of love.  Saint Paul might just as well have said, “Love without ceasing.”  Praying to God is loving God.  Praying for others is loving our neighbors.  Loving our neighbors is wanting what’s best for them, even when it may not be what we want or what we think is best for them.  Every time we pray for people, God receives our prayer as a selfless act of love.  Sometimes the specific words of our petitions may not fit perfectly into God’s plan, but God receives each prayer as a building block in his Kingdom of Love.  And the opportunity to live in the peace, and the happiness and the love of God’s Kingdom is the best outcome we could ever pray for.

                A little while ago, I learned that the young woman I mentioned at the beginning of this post has died.  I had been praying for her recovery.  On the surface, I didn't get what I prayed for.  Part of me wants to pack up my beads and leave the pray-ground.  But I know deep down that I really wanted something more for her:  I wanted whatever was best for her, from God’s perspective.  And because I truly believe that all is well, that that young woman now lives perfectly happy and healthy in the peace of God’s loving embrace, I know that my prayer was answered.  So I’ll keep on praying.  I’ll pray for that young woman’s family and friends; I’ll pray for my wife, my daughters, my family and friends; I’ll pray for my aunt and my friends who have cancer; I’ll pray for all who are hurting; I’ll pray for my friends’ new baby boy; I’ll pray for life; I’ll pray for peace.  I’ll pray without ceasing.

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[1] Julian of Norwich, The Showings.

No Deal! Deal? - Homily for the First Sunday of Lent, March 9, 2014

Temptation of Christ by Vasily Surikov

            Faust; The Devil and Daniel Webster; The Picture of Dorian Gray; Damn Yankees; and my favorite:  The Devil Went Down to Georgia – making a deal with the devil has been a popular theme in the arts for hundreds of years.  The story line is basically the same.  Some poor soul wants something beyond his reach.  Whether it’s the height of happiness; perpetual youth; a Major League Pennant; or a shiny fiddle made of gold, the protagonist becomes so desperate for the object of his desire that he willingly sells his soul to the devil to get it.  Sometimes the devil wins; sometimes he’s outsmarted – but there’s one common thread in every story:  someone succumbs to temptation and makes a deal with the devil.  Today’s Gospel tells a different story – Jesus stands up to temptation and tells Satan, “No deal!”  Through his example and the disciplines of Lent, we can too.

 

          It may be comforting to know that even Jesus faced temptation from the devil.  In today’s Gospel, Satan comes to him when he’s most vulnerable – when he’s hungry and weak from 40 days of fasting.   And in his vulnerability, Satan tries to convince Jesus to be something other than what he really is – the Beloved Son of God.  He tries to “seduce Jesus into thinking that what it means to be God’s Son is to be physically full, physically safe, and politically powerful.”[1]  As we heard in our first reading, that’s exactly what Satan did to Adam and Eve – he convinced them that by eating the fruit of the forbidden tree, by disobeying God, they could be like God.  Well, they couldn't, and we all know how that worked out for them.  They fell prey to temptation, they made a deal with the devil and were driven from Paradise forever.  Jesus, on the other hand, knows who he really is; he knows what it means to be the Beloved Son of God, and he accepts that it doesn't always mean that he’ll have an abundance of food, that he’ll be safe from physical harm, or that he’ll be politically powerful.  So he stands strong against the temptation to sin and refuses to deal with the devil.

          Sin is a strange thing.  In fact, it’s so strange that the Church refers to it as a mystery to “acknowledge its irrational character and its intoxicating allure, even when we rationally know better.  Sin draws us away from God and directs us to nothingness.”[2]  But we sin anyway.  Why is that?  Well, we’re afraid.  We’re afraid that we won’t have enough to survive, so we hoard our belongings.  We’re afraid that we’ll be hurt, so we lash out at others under the guise that a good offense is the best defense.  We’re afraid that the good things of life will never come to us, so we take advantage of others in order to get them.  The strangest thing about sin is that every time we succumb to temptation, we lose an opportunity to experience the only joy that will ever fulfill us – the self-giving love of God.  We miss the opportunity to love God by loving our neighbor, by sharing what we have; by treating people with compassion; and by respecting human dignity.  Through sin, we lose the opportunity to be who we really are:  Beloved Sons and Daughters of God.

          Just like Jesus, the devil approaches us when we’re most vulnerable – when we’re sick, when we’re lonely, when we’re afraid.  In our weakest moments, we can count on Satan to try his level best to tempt us.  And he’s good at it too.  “The devil doesn't come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns.  He comes as everything [we've] ever wished for”[3] that’s beyond our grasp.  The most dangerous temptations to sin appeal to our “fantasy selves,” to the person we think we want to be, not to the person we really are.  Our vulnerability lies in not understanding what it means to be a Beloved Son or Daughter of God, in not believing with every ounce of our conviction that God loves us and that, because of God’s love, all will be well in the end no matter what this world throws at us.  “When we do not know who we are, we enter into temptation.  When we do know who we are, we can reach for the resources to resist it.”[4]  So the secret to avoiding the temptation to sin lies in knowing that we really are Beloved Sons and Daughters of God, in believing in God’s promise of eternal life through Jesus Christ, and in trusting that God never welches on a deal. 

          So what resources are available to us to resist temptation?  Well, how about the disciplines of Lent – prayer, fasting and almsgiving?  Let’s start with prayer.  “The best way to say no is to be in touch with a stronger yes.”[5]  That yes, of course, is God, and the best way to be in touch with God is through prayer.  In prayer we speak directly and intimately with God, sharing our hopes and our fears, our joys and our sorrows with him.  Through prayer, we hear God’s voice calling us to love and helping us discern between right and wrong.  With prayer, we bear the mantle of the Beloved Sons and Daughters of God, a shield that can deflect Satan’s strongest temptations.  

          Fasting – I hate fasting, which, of course, suggests that I need it most of all.  Fasting helps us empty ourselves of what we think we need so that we can be who we really are:  Beloved Sons and Daughters of God who are “filled to the brim with divine life.”[6]  When we’re full of divine life – God’s self-giving love – we can’t hold it in, and that leads us right to almsgiving.  There’s no surer way to love God than to love our neighbor, and Satan knows it.  Some of the most egregious sins we can commit involve harming or taking advantage of another person.  But when we love one another, when we feed the hungry, clothe the naked, shelter the homeless, visit the imprisoned, we love God and really tick off Satan.

So I've got a deal for you.  Together, this Lent, let's tick off Satan.  Let’s commit ourselves to tackle at least one temptation that Satan keeps throwing at us by dedicating ourselves to prayer, fasting and almsgiving.  What’s in it for us?  Well, we’ll ground ourselves in our true identity as Sons and Daughters of God; we’ll be filled to the brim with God’s self-giving love; and we’ll strengthen ourselves in our resolve to sin no more, so we can say to Satan in no uncertain terms, “No Deal!”  What do you think?  Deal?

Today's readings:  Genesis 2: 7-9; 3:1-7; Romans 5: 12-19; Matthew 4: 1-11

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[1] 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) at 105.

[2] John W. Martens, “Away with Sin,” America, vol. 210, no. 7 (March 3, 2014) at 38.

[3] Tucker Max, Assholes Finish First (New York, Gallery Books, 2011).

[4] Shea at 107.

[5] Id.

[6] Father Robert Barron, “Lent Day 4 – Mother Teresa’s secret to Joy,” Lent Reflections with Father Robert Barron, March 8, 2014.

It's All About You!

          One of the first rules of homiletics is to avoid using the word “you” in homilies as much as possible.  The reasons are pretty simple and maybe even obvious:  the word “you” can come across as accusatory; and Scripture speaks to everyone – preacher included – so the word “we” is preferred.  Well, it seems like someone forgot to tell Jesus about the first rule of homiletics; he uses the words “you” and “your” five times in the seven short sentences of today’s Gospel passage.  I guess that’s because today’s Gospel is all about you.

          There’s no escaping it; Jesus is talking to you in today’s Gospel.  In fact, for you grammar aficionados out there, the original ancient Greek text makes clear that Jesus is using the second person, plural form of the subjective and possessive pronouns in this passage.  For you normal people out there, that means he’s talking to you, all of you (including me).  Well, now that he has our attention, what’s he telling us?  [I’m sorry, I can’t help switching back to the first person – I feel naughty saying “you”].  Jesus is telling us that we are the salt of the earth and the light of the world.  He’s not telling us what we’re going to become or what we need to become.  He’s telling us what we already are – salt and light – because that’s what disciples are.

          In baptism, we became Disciples of Christ, and with baptism we take on a mission – we’re called to bring Christ to the nations by feeding the hungry, giving shelter to the homeless and clothing the naked, just like our first reading from Isaiah tells us.  “Jesus’ followers are challenged to active engagement in their ‘good works.’  The goal of their works is that other people might come to praise God.”[1]

So why salt and light?  Well, as the Latin proverb goes, “Nothing is more useful than sun and salt.”[2]  Salt purifies; it preserves; it enhances flavor.  If you've ever been on a low sodium diet, or if you have an icy driveway, you know just how important salt is.  And light?  Light leads us through darkness; it calms our fears; it brings us life.  I don’t think I need to remind you how you felt during the Irene or Sandy blackouts?  So “[w]hen Jesus compares his followers to salt, he says that they improve the quality of human existence and preserve it from destruction.  When Jesus calls his disciples the light of the world, he says that our actions serve as a beacon of light in a dark world.”[3]  That may seem like a tall order, but we’re not alone.  We’re called as disciples to let our light shine to all, but we “do not generate the light any more than salt generates its own saltiness.” [4]  Our light is kindled by God, our salt is mined by God.  We’re called as disciples to use these gifts to bring people to the loving God who gave them to us.

Now that brings me back to you.  When I tap someone on the shoulder to join a ministry, the most common response I get is, “I can’t.”  It usually follows a litany of self-proclaimed weaknesses like “I’m not good at that;” “I have no talent;” or my personal favorite, “I’m not holy enough.”  To be honest, these excuses just don’t cut it.  As a great theologian once said, “To flee into invisibility is to deny the call”[5] of discipleship.  For better or for worse, “the material [that] God has found apt for knowing, loving and serving him is human nature:  blood, flesh, bone, salt, water, will, intellect.”[6]  It’s you!  And if you still can’t get over your weaknesses, take a look at Saint Paul.  “From the perspective of worldly standards, Paul’s mission should be a failure. . . .  He is plagued by illness, his appearance is unimpressive, his personal delivery is weak.”[7]  He talks about his weaknesses all the time, including in our second reading this morning from First Corinthians.  But his weaknesses don’t stop him from being what he truly is, what we all are – the salt of the earth and the light of the world.  St. Paul’s weaknesses don’t stop him because he lets God’s Spirit and power work through him and his weaknesses.  It’s the same for you.  It’s all about you.  Will you let God’s Spirit and power work through you and your weaknesses, or will you set your lamp under a bushel basket; will you let your salt become insipid?

In my experience, the people who say “I can’t” can’t see the good they do every day, the good that made me tap them on the shoulder in the first place.  I’ll bet that most of you here don’t give yourself credit for the positive impact you have on the world.  Think about it for a minute:

-         You feed the hungry with more than 5,000 food items and more than 3,000 full meals each year.  You are the salt of the earth;

-         You've sheltered the homeless by providing 24 Haitian families with homes of their own;  You are the light of the world;

-         You've clothed the naked with 24,778 diapers collected in just one month.  You are a city set on a hill (made out of diaper boxes, no doubt) ;

Please, please don’t hide your talents; share them.  Let your light shine before others so that you and they and we can give glory to God.

          Well, by my count, I've violated the no “you” policy 35 times in this homily, and there are a few more to come.  Please don’t write the Bishop.  I hope you don’t feel that I’m being accusatory – that’s not my intention or desire.  And I hope you don’t think that I’m excluding myself from the reach of today’s Gospel.  I definitely am not.  But if you think I’m speaking to you in today’s homily, well, actually, Jesus is.  You can’t escape it, because his Gospel is all about you.

Click here for the readings for the Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time, February 9, 2014

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[1] Daniel J. Harrington, “The Gospel of Matthew,” Sacra Pagina, vol. 1 (Collegeville, Liturgical Press, 2007) at 80.

[2] “Nil sole et sale utilius.”

[3] Daniel J. Harrington, “Matthew,” The Collegeville Bible Commentary, New Testament, Robert J. Karris, ed. (Collegeville, Liturgical Press, 1992) at 870.

[4] M. Eugene Boring, “The Gospel of Matthew,” The New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. VIII (Nashville, Abingdon Press, 1994) at 182.

[5] Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Discipleship, Barbara Green and Reinhard Krauss, trans. (Minneapolis, Fortress, 2001) at 113.

[6] Caryll Houselander, “Accepting the Prophet.”

[7] Harrington, “Matthew,” at 870.

Hooked

A lot of people ask me what my calling to the diaconate was like.  Well, it went something like this: 

          God: Michael

          Me: Huh?

          God: Michael!

          Me: Who’s there?

          God: MICHAEL!

          Me: WHAT!

          God: It’s me, God.

          Me: Riiight.

          God: I want you to become a deacon.

          Me: Riiight. What’s a deacon?

          God: A deacon is an ordained minister of the Church who exercises the three munera of word, liturgy and charity.

          Me: What’s a munera?

          God: Munera is the plural form of the word munus, which means . . . . Oh, never mind. Deacons are the servants of the Church who teach, assist at liturgy and perform charitable works.

          Me: You want me to be a servant?

          God: Yes.

          Me:  Riiight.[1]

OK, my call to the diaconate wasn't anything like that at all.  I wish it had been; it would've been a lot easier to figure out.  But once I did figure it out, I knew it was right.  I was hooked.

          I attended a men’s retreat this past weekend where the theme was “Fishers of Men,” referring to the calling of the Apostles in the Gospel reading from Mass this morning.  So I've been doing a lot of thinking over the past few days about my call to the diaconate.  What was it like?  How did I know?  Well, I never heard a voice from heaven calling my name; I wasn't struck blind and interrogated by the Lord; I wasn't even visited by an angel in my sleep.  It was very subtle and it happened over a long period of time.  It was a silent nudge.  It was gradual awareness.  It was a growing conviction.

          The silent nudge – As I reached my mid-thirties, I began to experience a growing sense that I needed to give something back.  I felt that I had to do something positive with my abilities as pay back for the many blessings I had received.  Up to that point, I expected that I would enter public service.  I’d prepared for it for much of my college, graduate school and early professional career.  I loved politics.  There had been no question since my high school years of how I would give back.  But after I was married and had two children, I slowly came to realize that I wasn't really cut out for politics.  I was too thin-skinned; I avoided confrontation.  My shortcomings blew in my face like a cold north wind forcing me to take a different tack.  This was a painful discovery for me.  I felt lost.  I no longer had plan, but that nudge was still there, and it was getting stronger and stronger.

 

          Gradual awareness – Around the same time, we moved from Northern Virginia to New Jersey.  Although I knew basically what deacons were, and I even knew one deacon – a friend’s uncle, I had never been in a parish that had a deacon.  I never saw a deacon in action on a regular basis.  My new parish, though, had one deacon, and I slowly began to see, through his wonderful example, what the ministry of deacon was all about.  I cast my net wide for information about deacons.  I searched the internet.  I read books about deacons.  I began to ask questions.  I gradually became aware, over a period of about two years, that the same abilities that I thought were leading me into politics, might serve well in diaconal ministry.

          Growing conviction – As my interest in the diaconate grew, I started talking about it with my wife, my family and friends and colleagues at work.  Most didn't know what a deacon was (the conversations were a lot like the fictional conversation between me and God, above).  But after I explained what deacons do, everyone, without exception, told me that I’d make a great deacon.  [NB:  I just got choked up as I wrote that last sentence.]  The support was incredible.  It was powerful.  I’m absolutely convinced that the Holy Spirit was speaking to me through all of these people.  But I still questioned this calling all the time, even during formation.  Diaconal training takes a lot of time (five years from start to finish); it involves interviews, psychological testing (yes, I passed), background checks, classes, homework, papers, exams and a lot of Church bureaucracy.  I’m often asked, “How did you know that you were called to be a Deacon?”  The answer is that I didn't really know until the Bishop laid his hands on my head at ordination, but whenever I questioned the calling, the answer always came back “yes.”

 

          We’re all called by God to be “Fishers of Men,” to spread the Good News of a God who loves us unconditionally and more than we can ever imagine.  There are countless ways to fulfill this calling, and it’s up to each of us to decide which way or ways are best for us.  God didn't make me be a deacon, and he wouldn't have been upset if I had chosen not to follow that particular calling.  God gives us the gift of free will, so he gives us choices, all of them good.  It’s up to us to choose.  Finding what’s right for us may take time, and it may be difficult.  But I can assure you from my own experience that when you find your calling, you’ll know it’s right.  You’ll dive right into it.  You’ll be hooked.

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[1] A tip of the hat to Bill Cosby’s Conversation Between God and Noah, found here on YouTube.

Two Sides to Every Story

I’m not much of a sports fan (OK, I’m not a sports fan at all), so I confess that when I woke to the news of Richard Sherman’s purportedly unsportsmanlike conduct after the Seattle-San Francisco game last night, I had no idea who Richard Sherman was.  [My college roommate, a die-hard sports fan, is cringing right now].  I also admit that I really wasn't interested in finding out until I was greeted with a slew of Facebook postings denouncing Sherman’s comments and pledging support for the Broncos in the Super Bowl because of those comments.  Now the story seemed more interesting to me.  So I went to the videotape to see for myself what happened.  Well, Sherman’s unfortunate rant against Michael Crabtree (I didn't know who he was either) was pretty clear.  Then I saw a replay of the last play of the game.  Did I just see Richard Sherman extend a handshake to Michael Crabtree?  Did Michael Crabtree just grab Sherman’s helmet (with Sherman’s head still in it) and shove him away?  Did I just unfairly judge Richard Sherman?  It seems like there may be two sides to this story.

There always are.  One of the first things we learned in law school was that there are two sides to every story, and the truth lies somewhere in between.  That’s why lawyers ask lots of questions.  That’s why parents do too.  You learn pretty quickly as a parent that when one child comes to complain about a sibling’s offenses against God and man, the complainant typically has no right to cast the first stone.  So I avoid taking sides in squabbles that don’t involve me.  When friends have a disagreement, I try to just listen to what they have to say and tell them that I am Switzerland.  When my daughters are at each other’s throats (figuratively), I try to let them work it out unless it becomes “literally.”

 

This approach really ticks people off.  I've been told that I’m not supportive; I've been called disloyal; and I've heard that my failure to side with one combatant weakened his argument against the other.  Go figure.  But none of these comments bother me much because I see them for what they really are:  attempts to guilt me into taking sides.  I've used them myself for that very reason.  We all want justice; we all want vindication; we all want the world to acknowledge that we’re right and the other is wrong.  But the truth of the matter is, there are two sides to every story, and accepting that fact isn't easy.  Accepting that there are two sides to every story means that we occasionally might have to admit that we’re in the wrong (even if only a little bit); we might have to acknowledge that the one who wronged us deserves our mercy (heaven forfend!); and we might see justice meted out in ways that aren't wholly satisfying to us.

 

Justice means giving a person his due.  So justice will rarely be served by a categorical determination of who’s right and who’s wrong.  Justice is bigger than that.  Would Richard Sherman’s post-game rant merit unreserved condemnation if it were preceded by a helmet shove by Michael Crabtree?  A helmet shove doesn't justify Sherman’s on-air invective, and it doesn't free Sherman’s behavior from judgment and possible punishment.  But it does put Sherman’s comments in context, and it does suggest that Sherman is not the only one in the wrong.  It even suggests that Sherman might be due a little mercy.  It seems like there’s been some spat between Sherman and Crabtree for some time.  To be honest, it doesn't interest me enough to look into it any further.  But I can’t deny that I rushed to judgment against Richard Sherman when I first saw the videotape, and that was wrong.  If I’m going to judge, I need to make sure that justice is served – that every person is given his due.  So before I judge, I have to remember that there are two sides to every story.

Who Am I?

          Victor Hugo’s Jean Valjean faced a moral dilemma.[1]  He’d been a fugitive from justice for eight years when he learned that another man named Champmathieu had been mistakenly identified as him.  Champmathieu was Valjean’s ticket to freedom.  If he were, in fact, judged to be Jean Valjean, Champmathieu would serve the rest of his life in prison, and Valjean would no longer live in fear being captured.  Valjean wrestled with what to do.  Should he turn himself in, lose everything he had and spend the rest of his life in jail, or should he remain silent and let an innocent man go to judgment in his place?  His choice would turn upon who Valjean really was.  So he asked himself, “Who am I?  Many of us, no doubt, have asked ourselves the same question in difficult times.  Returning to our baptism is a great way to find the answer.

          Today we mark the end of the Christmas season with the Solemnity of the Baptism of the Lord – when Jesus was made manifest to us as God’s beloved Son.  In our first reading, Isaiah prophesizes that God will send his servant who will “bring forth justice to the nations.”  And Saint Peter confirms in our second reading that this is exactly what Jesus did after his baptism.  “He went about doing good.”  So Jesus’ baptism, then, is “a manifestation of Jesus’ true identity as God’s Son and God’s faithful servant who  . . . will move inexorably toward his destiny” of doing good.”[2]  That’s what our Baptism is too.

          In our Baptism, we identify ourselves with Christ and his mission.  Just this past Wednesday, Pope Francis spoke about Baptism in his weekly catechesis.  He said that Baptism is the Sacrament that grafts us to Christ and his Church as living members . . . .  [It] aligns us with the Lord and makes us into a living sign of his presence and love.”[3]  And while I’m quoting Popes, I’ll add that Pope Benedict XVI taught that Baptism “is meant to be the concrete enactment of a conversion that gives the whole of life a new direction forever.”  So Baptism isn't just a ritualized pool party; it’s not just an occasion to declare that Jesus is our Savior.  Baptism touches the depth of our very being.  It changes us.  It identifies us with Christ and his mission forever.  It defines who we are.

Now any good moral theologian will tell you, perhaps at a cocktail party, that “who we are” directly affects “what we do,” and “what we do” affects “who we are.”  Well then, as Christians, we should “see ourselves as God’s anointed servants, filled with the Holy Spirit and equipped with every good gift in order to do God’s work.”[4]  In other words, through Christian baptism, we identify ourselves with doing good.  But we all know that there are some pretty bad Christians out there and sometimes they’re us.  Well, that’s because we still have free will.  Conforming our behavior to our Christian identity is a choice.  We’re faced with good and bad choices every day, and our choices say a lot about who we are – whether we’re true Christians, or Christians in name only.

 

These choices aren't always black or white either.  There’s a lot of grey out there, so it can be hard to discern between right and wrong.  Valjean had become a wealthy man, and he used that wealth to do good, sharing his prosperity with the poor.  If he turned himself in, he’d set one man free, but would abandon many others to poverty.  Facing tough choices like these, can be pretty miserable.  That’s when we need to remember our Baptism.  We need to remember that in Baptism we were claimed by Christ our Savior by the sign of his cross; we were strengthened with the oil of salvation; we received the gift of new life by water and the Holy Spirit; and we became children of the light.  In Baptism, we became identified with the Light of the World.  And in his light, we see who we really are - beloved children of God and God’s faithful servants.  In his light and with the help of his grace, we’ll choose to be a living sign of Christ’s presence and love; we’ll choose to be a light to those who live in darkness; we’ll choose to do good.  The choices we face won’t always be easy, but if we return to our baptism, we’ll “remember whose we are and how we conduct ourselves so that our true identity as believers inspires and directs all we are and all we do.”[5]

          That’s what happened with Jean Valjean.  He remembered who he was.  For as much as he wanted to continue his wonderful new life, he knew that he had a higher calling.  For as much as others saw him as a criminal, he knew that he’d made the choice long ago to do good.  He identified himself with Christ, so he had to speak up; he had to free the innocent man even though it might cost him his own freedom.  Like Valjean, with every difficult choice we face, we need to ask ourselves, “Who am I?”  Then we need to return to our Baptism for the answer.

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[1] Victor Hugo, “”The Champmathieu Affair,” Les Misérables, vol. I, Book VII (Norwalk, The Easton Press, 2004) at 211-291.

[2] Graziano Marcheschi and Nancy Seitz Marcheschi, Workbook for Lectors, Gospel Readers, and Proclaimers of the Word, 2014, Year A (Chicago, Liturgy Training Publications, 2013) at 49.

[3] Pope Francis, First General Audience of 2014, Vatican City, January 8, 2014.

[4] Patricia Datchuck Sánchez, “Remembering Whose We Are,” National Catholic Reporter, vol. 50, no. 5 (December 20, 2013-January 2, 2014) at 32.

[5] Id.

A New Beginning

Everyone knows that January 1^st is New Year’s Day, but did you know that it’s also the Octave Day of the Nativity of the Lord:  The Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God?  That sure is a mouthful, but what does it all mean?  Well, following ancient tradition, we celebrate Christmas Day for eight days (we do the same for Easter).  While most people may be done with Christmas by the 26^th, the Church isn't.   Christmas Day is celebrated for eight days, and the season of Christmas doesn't end until the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord (January 12, this year).  These eight days of Christmas are known as the Octave of Christmas.  Why eight days?  Christians believe that Jesus rose from the dead on Easter Sunday.  That’s why we gather together every Sunday to celebrate the resurrection of the Lord.  While Sunday is, of course, the first day of the week, for Christians it’s also the spiritual eighth day of the week – a day that stands outside of time in eternity.  This eighth day represents the new creation of the world resulting from Christ’s resurrection from the dead.  The eighth day signifies a new beginning. 

How fitting, then, that on this day we also celebrate the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God and the beginning of a New Year.  Through her “yes” to God, Mary gave God human form, allowing him to carry out his redemptive mission of reuniting us with the Father for all eternity.  That’s why we call Mary the “New Eve.”  Just as our mothers gave us life, Mary gives us new life.  She gives us a new beginning.

What a tremendous Christmas gift we’ve been given:  a second chance; a new beginning.  That’s sure worth celebrating for eight days!  And this gift is just sitting there waiting for whenever we’re ready to tear off the wrapping paper and open it up.  All we have to do is accept it.  We accept this gift by inviting the Christ child into our lives, by making some room in our inn so he can transform us with his grace.  And by the grace of God, we can do anything:  we can repair broken relationships and make good ones even better; we can free ourselves from the snares of our addictions and develop healthy, virtuous habits; we can even forgive the unforgivable and love the unlovable. 

          New Year’s Day is a time when many of us make resolutions for the coming year.  Maybe I’ll write the book I’ve been thinking about; maybe I’ll take drawing lessons; maybe I’ll train for a marathon (ok, that’s not happening).  All of these resolutions would be enjoyable for me in one way or another (except the marathon), but none would be as fulfilling and transformative as resolving to invite the Christ child into my life.  So I turn to Mary as a role model and inspiration to help me say “yes” to God, to help me welcome the Christ child into my life, just as she did on that first Christmas Day.  I turn to Mary to help me accept the wonderful gift of a new beginning.