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.

It’s A Wonderful Life!

          I spent Christmas with my family in the hospital . . . and it was wonderful!  A slew of voicemails and texts alerted me to a sudden change in our Christmas plans when I picked up my cellphone after the 4:00 Mass last night.  Unfortunately, my nephew Brian was being admitted to the hospital – the fifth time in as many months.  My heart sank.  No child should be in the hospital on Christmas.  Brian, my sister Cindy, my brother-in-law Dan and my nephew Jack must be crushed, I thought.  I was really upset, so I gave God a piece of my mind:  “How am I supposed to preach ‘the Good News’ for you when the news never seems to be very good?”  “How many times can I say, ‘I’m praying for you’ without it sounding like a hollow platitude that I’m reaching for when I have nothing better to say?”

          By the time I made it home from Mass, I learned from my sister Kerry that the plan to have Christmas brunch at Cindy’s house had changed.  Same time, different place.  “Bring what you were assigned to bring – we’re having Christmas at the hospital.”  And so we did – all 20 of us!  When we arrived at the hospital, the doctors hadn't yet figured out what was going on with Brian, so Brian was confined to his room.  We set up the food in the children’s play area down the hall and took turns rotating between the play room and Brian’s room.  Whenever we entered Brian’s room, everyone had to scrub up to our elbows and don hospital gowns, masks and gloves.  Everyone, that is, except for Brian and his immediate family (apparently, Brian had already been exposed to enough of their cooties).  They seemed to take unusual delight in watching the rest us struggle to distinguish a head hole from a sleeve in the less-than-hospitable hospital gowns.  I don’t think I've ever been so clean and well-wrapped in my life.  I felt like an Egyptian Pharaoh being prepared for the afterlife.

          Did I mention that it was wonderful?  Brian had a smile on his face all afternoon as he played Legos and iPod games with his brother and cousins.   Brian chuckled at his favorite Uncle Mike, who tried to convince him that he had saved his life by plugging in the IV pump when the low battery light went on (he’ll appreciate my quick thinking under pressure when he’s older).  We mingled; we ate; we told stories; and we laughed, especially at Mom's reaction to seeing What Does the Fox Say? on YouTube for the first time. We were warmly welcomed by the Santa hat-adorned Goryeb Children’s Hospital staff, who thanked us effusively for sharing our Christmas feast with them.  We learned that Santa was waiting for Brian in the Emergency Room when he was admitted last night, and that he woke to find two huge bags of gifts donated by Santa’s most generous hospital elves.  Brian was surrounded by a lot of loving and caring people, and it was wonderful. 

          Then it hit me. This is what Christmas is all about – being there for each other.  On Christmas, we celebrate the Incarnation of the Lord, the day that God humbled himself to share in our humanity.  God became man to be with us.   In our sickness, in our health, in our sorrow, in our joy, in our mourning and in our laughing, God is with us, with everyone, everywhere, all the time.  And God invites us to share in his divine life by being there for each other – visiting the sick, the imprisoned and the lonely; comforting those who mourn.  God calls on us to be with each other physically and spiritually through the ministry of presence and the ministry of prayer.  Our presence and our prayer coupled with the power of God can help make a wonderful, life-affirming experience out of any bad situation.  Now that’s something I can preach about.

          This past year has been tough on our family and friends.  Too many have been sick; too many have suffered loss.  I prayed to the Christ child for all of them today.  I prayed that they may know that through the Incarnation, God understands and shares in their suffering.  I prayed that they’ll know that God is always with them; and I prayed that they’ll know that I'm with them too.

          I attach, below, what may well be my favorite family Christmas picture of all time.  It’s my favorite not only because my brother Chris’s face is covered, but because this is what Christmas is all about. Underneath those masks are a lot of toothy, ear-to-ear smiles – we’re happy to be together; we’re happy to be there. I’m blessed with a family who gets the Good News, even when the news is not always very good.  Dan apologized for not being able to host Christmas in a better place, but there was no place I would've rather been.  I spent Christmas with my family in the hospital . . . and it was wonderful!

Christmas 2013

THE PROCLAMATION OF THE BIRTH OF CHRIST

Today, the twenty–fifth day of December, 
unknown ages from the time when God created the heavens and the earth 
 and then formed man and woman in his own image. 

Several thousand years after the flood, 
when God made the rainbow shine forth 
 as a sign of the covenant. 

Twenty–one centuries from the time of Abraham and Sarah; 
thirteen centuries after Moses led the people of Israel 
 out of Egypt. 
Eleven hundred years from the time of Ruth and the Judges; 
one thousand years from the anointing of David as king; 
in the sixty–fifth week according to the prophecy of Daniel. 

In the one hundred and ninety–fourth Olympiad; 
the seven hundred and fifty–second year from the foundation 
 of the city of Rome. 

The forty–second year of the reign of Octavian Augustus; 
the whole world being at peace, 
Jesus Christ, eternal God and Son of the eternal Father, 
desiring to sanctify the world by his most merciful coming, 
being conceived by the Holy Spirit, 
and nine months having passed since his conception, 
was born in Bethlehem of Judea of the Virgin Mary. 

Today is the nativity of our Lord Jesus Christ according to the flesh.