What’s So Good About That? - Homily for the 33rd Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C

          I’m sure we’ve all heard that the word “gospel” is derived from the Old English word for “good news.” So let me get this straight. In today’s “good news,” Jesus tells us to expect wars, insurrections, earthquakes, famines, and plagues, that we’ll be handed over by parents, brothers, relatives, and friends, we’ll face persecution and imprisonment, we’ll be hated by all, and some of us will be put to death. What’s so good about that? Perhaps a deeper dive into our readings will help us find out.    

         

Today’s first reading from Malachi and our Gospel from Luke are examples of apocalyptic literature. The word “apocalypse” simply means “revelation” or “unveiling.” In fact, the name of the Book of Revelation in its original Greek is Apocalypsis (Ἀποκάλυψις). Apocalyptic passages in Scripture speak of the end times—the time when the world as we know it will come to an end, and the Kingdom of God will reign forever. Unfortunately, the word apocalypse has gotten a bad rap. We’ve lost its broader meaning as a result of fundamentalist interpretations of Scripture, movies like Apocalypse Now, and TV shows like Good Omens. The word invokes in our mind’s eye only tumultuous, violent, end-of-the-world scenarios that we’d rather not think about and not the happy ending that Scripture promises. We’ve forgotten that the apocalyptic passages in the Bible tell us that at the end of time, God will conquer all evil and save the righteous. As our first reading tells us, “God’s fire can both destroy and heal.”[1] So we have nothing to be afraid of, as long as we’re on the right side.

For sure, today’s readings present hard truths spoken with conviction. We have to take them seriously. Yet, “the most important element of apocalyptic literature is that the present evil age is coming to an end through a powerful intervention from God.”[2] Christians believe that the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus is that intervention. That’s why it’s been the longstanding tradition of the Church to end the liturgical year with apocalyptic readings, not to scare us to death, but to point us to Jesus Christ, whose first and second comings we anticipate in Advent. The Church wants to remind us to get on Jesus’ side. Jesus’ side is the right side. Jesus is our happy ending. Jesus is the good news!

So why all this talk about wars, famines, persecutions, and death? Jesus was a realist. He saw the world as it really is. He wants us to know that these things are the consequences of evil, that they will continue, and that “disciples are not exempt from suffering”[3] The forces of evil won’t go down without a good fight. But he also wants us to know that he suffered with us and for us. Just look at his life as reported in the Gospels. Jesus experienced temptation, fear, sadness, agony, false accusation, gossip, mocking, mourning, pain, humiliation, and death, just like we do. “The passion of Jesus is not over; it continues in those who follow him. [But] suffering is not the whole of it. Resurrection is the deeper and more abiding truth.”[4] How we face these challenges is our choice. Will we sit around waiting for the end to come while accomplishing nothing, like the Thessalonians in our second reading? Will we wring our hands in fear, wondering if we’ll end up on the wrong side? Or will we pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and get on the right side?

Jesus calls us to face these challenges as he did—as faithful witnesses to the good news of a loving God who offers us eternal life. “We are in a time of witnessing in the face of suffering and death.” [5] If anyone doubts that we live in a period of Christian witness, consider the roll call of the imprisoned and martyred Saints we celebrate this month and the countless persecuted Christians around the world still today. “There has never been a time in human history when wars, earthquakes, famines, and plagues have not been part of the picture.”[6] It’s in times like these that we must turn to the examples of our “courageous and prophetic visionaries who devoted themselves completely to Jesus’ call to create community, oppose injustice, work for peace, and make a place for the excluded.”[7] Jesus assures us that by our endurance, we will gain our lives (Luke 21:19), so we need to use whatever time we may have on this planet wisely and well:

-         If we want an end to war, we need to get on Jesus’ side and witness to the Gospel.

-         If we want an end to terrorist attacks and shootings, we need to get on Jesus’s side and witness to the Gospel.  

-         If we want the naked clothed, the hungry fed, the homeless sheltered, and the sick and dying comforted, we need to get on Jesus’ side and witness to the Gospel.

If we want to make sure we end up on the right side, we need to live like the saints we’re intended to be. We need to work for justice, fight for equality, and lift up the lowly, all the while proclaiming the victory of our God, resounding with the sea, clapping with the rivers, and shouting with the mountains like our psalmist (Psalm 98: 7,8). Jesus invites every one of us to sainthood in every moment of our lives. Living like a saint means accepting the challenges of life as moments of grace and opportunities to give witness to the Gospel.

Apocalyptic writings present hard truths that we can’t ignore, but they also paint a beautiful picture of “the tenacity of faith and hope among the people of God.”[8] How so? Because today’s readings and every apocalyptic passage in the Bible make clear that those who witness to the Gospel have nothing to worry about at the end of time. No matter how our lives may end, not a hair on our heads will be destroyed. That’s what’s so good about the good news.

  

Readings: Malachi 3:19-20a; Psalm 98; 2 Thessalonians 3:7-12; Luke 21:5-19

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[1] Elaine Park, Konrad Schaeffer, Douglas Leal, Workbook for Lectors, Gospel Readers, and Proclaimers of the Word: 2019 Year C (Chicago: Liturgy Training Publications, 2018), 287.

[2] Jude Winkler, New St. Joseph Handbook for Proclaimers of the Word: Liturgical Year C 2019 (New Jersey: Catholic Book Publishing Corp, 2018), 392.

[3] Fred B. Craddock, Luke: Interpretation, A Bible Commentary for Preaching and Teaching (Louisville, John Knox Press, 2009), 245.

[4] John Shea, The Spiritual Wisdom of the Gospels for Christian Preachers and Teachers: The Relentless Widow, Year C (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2006), 316.

[5] Craddock.

[6] Michael F. Patella, “The Gospel According to Luke,” in New Collegeville Bible Commentary: New Testament, ed. Daniel Durken (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2009), 296.

[7] R. Alan Culpepper, “The Gospel of Luke,” in The New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. IX, ed. Leander E. Keck (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995), 402.

[8] Craddock 243.

Pray Always! - Homily for the Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C

            I was blessed to grow up with my Grandma Gallo living with our family. Her married name notwithstanding, Gram was an Irish lass through and through—she laughed easily, worked hard, and relaxed best with a cold beer in hand. I remember Gram catching turtles for us at a nearby golf course, tending to her beloved roses in the garden, and faking a scream, to her grandchildren’s delight, at the sight of a worm. Gram was a lot of fun—then Alzheimer’s disease stole her away from us. Well-after she lost her memories and the ability to engage in meaningful conversation, it amazed me that Gram still prayed the Mass like a pro. Eighty-some years of faithful Mass attendance no doubt etched those prayers into nooks and crannies of her mind so deep that even Alzheimer’s had trouble finding them. Grandma Gallo prayed always. She was a great example of persistent prayer, the kind of prayer we’re called to in today’s readings.

I struggle with Jesus’ call to “pray always.” We pray after senseless shootings, terrorist attacks, and natural disasters, but nothing seems to change. Right here, in our own community, we’re losing our young people to drug addiction and mental illness, we watch helplessly as our loved ones fade before our eyes in the grips insidious illnesses like cancer, Parkinson’s disease, and dementia, and our friends are dying much too suddenly and much too young. We pray always—we offer intercessory prayers at Mass, we form prayer chains, and we add names upon names, known and unknown, to our daily prayer lists, but our cries all too often seem to be met with silence. We lift up our eyes toward the mountains and wonder, “Who will help us?”  We grow weary, frustrated, even angry, and we lose faith.

Yet, persistence in faith and prayer is the consistent message of today’s readings. When Moses prays over the Israelite army, they prevail in battle; when he grows weary, they falter. In prayer, our psalmist finds help in the Lord who made heaven and earth. Saint Paul encourages Timothy to remain faithful, whether it’s convenient or inconvenient. And Luke’s introduction to our Gospel “leaves no doubt regarding the point of the parable: the disciples’ need to ‘pray always and not lose heart.’”[1] The message is so strong that we have to ask, “What’s so important about prayer?” 

 

Prayer is the elevation of the mind and heart to God.[2]  In prayer, we place our deepest longings, our profound gratitude, our darkest fears, and our highest hopes before God, trusting that, in his divine providence, “All will be well.”[3] But 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 don’t want. And yet, Jesus still tells us to “pray always.”  

            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 creatures living within our Creator’s vast plan to make all well. From our lowly vantage point, we can’t see the whole plan, but God can. Think of it this way: when we search for a destination on Google Maps, we get a pin-point location on a zoomed-in map. That’s the human perspective. If we want to know the mountains and plains, the hills and valleys we need to cross to get there, we have to zoom out. That’s God’s perspective. God sees the whole picture—the whole plan. Only God knows the best way to our final destination, so Jesus’ call to pray always is also a call to trust God always. God’s in the driver’s seat. We have to trust that God loves us, that God wants only what’s best for us, and that God knows the way.  

            So if it’s all in God’s hands, why bother praying at all? Our prayers don’t change God’s mind. God’s mind doesn’t need changing. The divine plan was perfect from the get-go. We pray because in prayer, we grow in communion with God, and “in the course of growing in communion with God, we become more closely aligned with [God].”[4] Prayer builds our trust in God by reminding us that we rely on God for everything that matters. Prayer helps us see that “God can squeeze a blessing out of even the worst of injustices.”[5] Prayer gives us the calm assurance that “in every moment of our lives, from the most blessed to the most excruciating, God remains with us as a loving presence.”[6] Most of all, prayer helps us know in the depths of our hearts that God loves us - so much, that he sent his only Son to live with us, to pray with us, to weep and mourn with us, and to suffer and die for us so that we may share eternal life in him with the Father. 

Prayer, then, is an act of love. Jesus might just as well have said, “Love always without growing weary.” Praying to God is loving God.  Praying for others is loving our neighbors. Loving our neighbors is wanting whatever God knows is best for them, even when it may not be what we think is best for them. Every time we pray in earnest, God receives our prayer as a selfless act of love. Sometimes the specific words of our petitions may not express God’s plan perfectly, but our loving intent does. Each prayer builds God’s Kingdom here on earth, and the opportunity to experience the peace, happiness, and love of God’s Kingdom, even for a moment, is reason enough to pray always.

In her final months, Grandma Gallo was completely unresponsive. My mother’s visits consisted of little more than a prayer whispered in Gram’s ear and holding her hand. On March 3, 1990, the nursing home called Mom and told her that it was time to accompany Gram on her final journey. Gram’s breathing was labored, but she otherwise lay motionless in bed, as she had done for the past several months. Suddenly, Gram opened her eyes and stared intently toward my Uncle Bob, who stood at the foot of her bed. At first, they thought she recognized him, but as he moved closer alongside the bed, her gaze didn’t follow him. Her eyes were fixed on a vision unseen by earth-veiled eyes. Then she smiled—a big, bright smile that reignited the twinkle in her Irish eyes. She closed her eyes and breathed her last. You may interpret that moment any way you wish, but my family knows exactly what it was. It was God’s loving answer to all our prayers. Pray always! 

Readings:  Exodus 17: 8-13; Psalm 121: 1-8; 2 Timothy 3: 14-4: 2; Luke 18: 1-8 

 

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[1] M. Dennis Hamm, “Luke,” in The Paulist Biblical Commentary, ed. José Enrique Aguilar Chiu et al. (New York: Paulist Press, 2018), 1082.

[2] Catechism of the Catholic Church, 2nd ed. (Washington, DC: United States Catholic Conference, 2000), 2559.

[3] Julian of Norwich, Showings, trans. Edmund College and James Walsh (Mahwah: Paulist Press, 1978), 225.

[4] Jeffrey Cole, ed., The Didache Bible (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2014), 1391n.

[5] Henry H. Mitchell, Celebration & Experience in Preaching (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2008), chap. 8, Kindle.

[6] Chris Koellhoffer, “Beside us Always,” in Living Faith: Daily Catholic Devotions, ed. Terence Hegarty, vol. 35, no. 3, October 20, 2019.