You're So Vain

Twenty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time
    When it comes to ironic songs, certainly one of the top ten is “You’re So Vain,” by Carly Simon.  She spends an entire song talking about a particular person, only to repeat in the refrain time and time again, “You’re so vain / You probably think this song is about you.”  While Carly has revealed to a select few whom the song was written about, there is still widespread speculation about the person who’s so vain.
    When it comes to the virtue of humility, if you think the readings are about you and how to grow in humility, they probably are.  In the end, we all need to grow in the virtue of humility.  Pride is the one sin that we probably will all need to work on until we die, though maybe we have others as well.  
    And, ironically, the virtue of humility helps us to realize that life is not, in the end, about us.  Pride seeks to replace God with our own ego, our own self.  St. Thomas Aquinas teaches us that the original sin consisted of pride: “man’s first sin consisted in coveting some spiritual good above his measure: and this pertains to pride.”  We know the story about the serpent testing Eve, and convincing her that if she ate of the fruit, she would be like God, which enticed her to disobey God’s command not to eat of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.  Adam followed suit, probably with Eve telling Adam exactly what the serpent told him.  
    Pride can be so insidious because we do have legitimate personal needs upon which we should focus.  It’s legitimate to focus on our need for food and drink; clothing; housing; friendship.  Yet we can twist all those things so that our desire for them becomes inordinate as we convince ourselves that, because of how important we are, we only eat and drink the best.  Or because of our status we cannot shop for clothing at regular stores, but have to only wear Banana Republic or Burberry.  Or if we don’t have a big enough house, the neighbors won’t recognize how well we’re doing.  Or that everyone should like me because, well, what’s not to like?  
    Humility consists, the Angelic Doctor says, in tempering and restraining the mind from focusing on high things immoderately against right reason.  It does not seek after honors or things beyond the greatness to which God calls us as His children.  It allows God to be God, rather than trying to take His place and control all things according to our desires.  

St. Benedict 

    St. Benedict, the great Patriarch of Western Monasticism and founded of the Benedictine Order, lists twelve degrees of humility.  Don’t worry, there’s not a test on memorizing them, but they will be available at my blog, which has all my homilies, and which you can access at the parish website.
    The twelve degrees are, in descending order: “that a man fear God and bear all his commandments in mind”; “by not following one’s own will”; regulating one’s will according to the judgement of a superior; not begin deterred from good actions because of difficulties and hardships; acknowledging one’s own shortcomings; “deeming oneself incapable of great things”; putting others before oneself; “that in one’s work one should not depart from the ordinary way”; not being in a hurry to speak; not overly laughing or being too cheerful; not being “immoderate in speech”; and “restraining haughty [or arrogant] looks.  Again, it might be good to go back to this homily, or simply do a Google search for St. Benedict and the Twelve Degrees of Humility to help us in examining our conscience.  Honestly, as I read through that list, I could probably check off mostly all of them as ways that I need to grow in humility.
    The great thing is that humility allows God to exalt us in a more perfect way.  If we really desire to be great, then we need to serve greatly and humble ourselves, because, as our Lord tells us, “every one who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.”  And to be clear, Jesus is not telling us to act humble so that God can exalt us, but truly to be humble.

Bl. Solanus Casey

    We see this in the lives of the saints.  First and foremost, in the life of the Blessed Virgin Mary, who sought after no special privileges, but became the Mother of God.  Or St. André Bessette, who was a simple porter, or doorman, at a religious house in Quebec, but became knows as the Miracle Man of Montreal.  Or our own Bl. Solanus Casey, who was only ordained a priest simplex, meaning he could not preach or hear confessions, but whose fame because widespread across the US for the miracles worked through his intercession, even while alive.  None of these sought after fame or miraculous powers, but simply sought to be the person God wanted them to be, and because of that focus on God and doing His will, God elevated them.
    I can tell you that if you don’t think you need to grow in humility, then this homily is about you.  And if you know you need to grow in humility, then you at least recognize the insidious nature of pride.  Through the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary, St. André Bessette, and Bl. Solanus Casey, may be put God first in our lives and work for His exaltation, rather than our own.  In all things, may God be glorified!

Charity and Knowledge

Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost

    In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.  Though not celebrated today since it falls on a Sunday, today is the birthday of the Blessed Virgin Mary.  After Mass today, as part of your thanksgiving, maybe add a few Marian prayers like the Hail Mary, Memorare, Hail, Holy Queen, or even the Litany of Loretto to wish a happy birthday to our Blessed Mother, reigning in heaven alongside her Son.
    Our Blessed Mother is the perfect example of being rooted in charity and knowing the charity of Christ, as St. Paul wrote in our epistle today.  And St. Paul compares charity, divine love, with knowledge, saying that charity surpasses knowledge.  St. Paul says in his first epistle to the Corinthians that, “knowledge inflates with pride, but love builds up.”  
    As someone who loves learning, these words can be a challenge.  And, indeed, many have rightly put an emphasis on learning the truths of the faith, so that they can be shared.  God has given us the gift of reason to understand what He has revealed through His Church, both in the Scriptures and through Sacred Tradition.  To the extent that we can understand, and then share, those truths, we can.
    But entrance into heaven does not come from having a degree in theology.  Indeed, just because we know something about God doesn’t mean that we will get to heaven.  The pharisees in today’s Gospel knew God’s law very well, at least in its external practice.  But they didn’t understand the love which undergirded that law.  Satan, for his part, knows the truths of the faith, probably better than many of us.  St. James, in his epistle, writes, “You believe that God is one.  You do well.  Even the demons believe that and tremble.”  So, as helpful as knowledge is, it cannot substitute for love.
    For those who may not be so intellectually gifted, this should be a consolation.  Not everyone can study theology, but everyone can go to heaven.  One can love God deeply without being able to explain precisely the relationships between the Divine Persons of the Blessed Trinity.  And, as St. John of the Cross says, at the end of our life we will be judged, not on knowledge, but on our loves.

    Think about the Annunciation.  The Archangel Gabriel brought incredible news, that is, news that was hard to believe, that she would become the Mother of God.  First of all, Mary, though of the family of King David, had no royal training.  She was not part of palace life.  She was a young, humble virgin in a backwater town in a backwater province of the Roman Empire.  Further, and even more incredible, she was not married, so how could she conceive?  If the Virgin Mary had relied solely on her knowledge, she would have never said yes.  In fact, Zechariah, the husband of Mary’s cousin, Elizabeth, seems to have only relied on this knowledge when the same Archangel Gabriel appeared to him some six months earlier, and told him and that he and his wife, Elizabeth, would conceive a great prophet who would prepare people for God “in the spirit and power of Elijah.”  But Zechariah responded from his knowledge, saying, “‘How shall I know this?  For I am an old man and my wife is advanced in years.’”  For his lack of acceptance, his lack of love of God, Zechariah was struck mute until he affirmed Gabriel’s message that his son should be named John.
    The love of the Blessed Mother for God and her trust in His love for her allowed her not to doubt, but to wholeheartedly respond to the plan of God, “‘May it be done to me according to your word.’”  Love filled in the gap where knowledge left off.  
    Now, love is not contrary to reason, but sometimes flies above reason.  Think of a mother whose child is threatened.  While the mother may not be the strongest woman in the world, God help the person who comes between a mother and her child!  Her love gives her a reason beyond simple knowledge that can preserve life when reason would give up in the face of such danger and such odds.  
    And, as in the Gospel, love informs the law.  Yes, God gave the Sabbath as a day of rest, where no work could be done.  But even the rabbis had known that sometimes you have to respond to special situations that cannot wait beyond the Sabbath, so they allowed people to pull out their farm animals from harm, even on the day of rest.  But, because they did not love, the Pharisees could not see how healing the man fulfilled what God intended for the Sabbath: rest, freedom, and wholeness in God.  So healing a man on the Sabbath did not violate God’s commandment, but, in love fulfilled it.  The healing was not contrary to our understanding of the Sabbath rest, but flew beyond the mere outward expression of not doing work.
    This can even apply to some laws of the Church.  Perhaps the easiest example is Friday as a day of penance.  We should, all things being equal, do some sort of penitential act on every Friday.  Traditionally, this has meant that Catholics don’t eat meat.  But let’s say a friend had a dinner and did not observe abstinence from meat.  While our understanding of the law might suggest that we simply eat nothing and be a rude guest, love understands that, from time to time, on special occasions, we might not do as much penance as usual for legitimate reasons.  Friday weddings can often be times where we set aside our penitential practices for one meal, in order to rejoice in a new sacrament of God’s love.
    We cannot simply ignore the law and claim that we don’t have to follow it because of love.  Love often undergirds just laws.  But knowledge of the law, and our understanding of the faith, has to be supported by love, or else it is a clanging gong or a crashing symbol.  Today, through the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God, may we grow in love of God and neighbor, and so be prepared for the eternal contemplation of love in heaven, where our Lord reigns, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, for ever and ever.  Amen. 

Doing It On Our Own?

 Twenty-Third Sunday in Ordinary Time

    A year or so I bought a grill for a young couple with whom I am friends who had expressed some interest in getting a combination grill/smoker.  I did some shopping, found what I wanted at a Lowe's in Brighton, and bought the grill.  When it came time to load it into my Jeep, I realized it was going to be a bit of a struggle, as it was much heavier than I expected.  Luckily, an off-duty State Trooper I know just happened to be coming into the Lowe's when I about ready to load it in, so he was able to help me.  This should have been my first clue that putting this grill together was going to require more than one person, given that even simply loading it into my vehicle required two of us.
    I got home, and, when I had a day off, I decided I was going to put it together.  I quickly learned that it was meant to be a two- to three-person job, because some of the parts were supposed to be held as bolts were tightened.  But, stubborn as I am, I found a way, somehow, to put it together.  With the help of another friend, I delivered it, only to notice that some of the screws I had tightened were a bit loose, due, no doubt, to the fact that I tried to assemble the grill/smoker myself.
    When it comes to salvation, we might take the same approach: I can do it myself.  And maybe even today’s Gospel seems to back us up.  After all, Jesus says, “‘Which of you wishing to construct a tower doe snot first sit down and calculate the cost to see if there is enough for its completion?’”  In other words, we may interpret Jesus to be saying, “Do you have enough to follow me?”  
    But, the fact is, we cannot follow Jesus without Jesus.  That may seem quite obvious when stated that way.  But how many times do we attempt to be our own savior, only to get frustrated when it doesn’t work?  We figure that we simply have to muscle through being a disciple, and then God will be pleased with us and we’ll go to heaven.  When we meet failure (as we most certainly will at some point), it then forces a decision: do we try to muscle through even harder (we failed because we weren’t trying hard enough)?  Or do we just give up because following Jesus is too hard?
    Of course, the better option is to allow Jesus to work within us, rather than trying to save ourselves.  If humanity could save itself, then Jesus and the Incarnation is altogether unnecessary.  If humanity could save itself, then certainly Abraham, or Moses, or David, or one of the prophets would have figured it out.  But, of course, they didn’t.  Not one of the patriarchs, kings, or prophets, no matter how good they attempted to be, could save themselves and follow God perfectly.  They all needed help from above.
    And we cannot follow Jesus without Him.  In fact, He does most of the work, and our job is to cooperate with that work and not get in the way.  When we do fail, it’s usually because we have gotten in the way.  “But Fr. Anthony,” you may say, “Jesus today said that if we do not carry our own cross and follow Him, we cannot be His disciple.”  That is what Jesus said.  But we are not meant to carry our cross by ourselves.  Jesus Himself received the assistance, albeit coerced by the Romans, of Simon of Cyrene to carry the Cross that brought us salvation.  So if even the Master receives assistance in carrying His literal cross, then why do we think that we can do it without any assistance?
    Trying to be our own savior and carrying our cross without Jesus can look very similar to someone who is allowing Jesus to be the savior and allowing Jesus to help carry our cross.  From the externals, it may be exactly the same: we pray, we make time for God, we talk to others about Jesus, we do works of charity for others, etc.  But what is different is the interior disposition.  The person who wants to save him or herself; the person who decides to carry the cross on his or her own, prays, but only because it is required.  That person makes time for God, but only out of fear that if we don’t give God some minimal amount of time, then He won’t let us into heaven.  That person talks about God, but only to increase the size of the parish by adding another member or two.  That person gives money to the poor or to organizations because it’s a nice tax write-off, or he or she likes seeing the name in a donor list.
    On the other hand, the person who allows Jesus to be the savior and help carry our cross prays because it is a chance to spend time with the Beloved, who wants to hear what is going on in our life, and wants to communicate a path forward.  That person makes time for God because that is the number one priority, and the other priorities fall into place after Him.  That person speaks to others about Jesus as a friend or spouse talks about their beloved, and wants others to know that same joy and love.  That person sees Jesus in the poor and the suffering and so does what he or she can to alleviate that suffering in the least of the brothers and sisters of Jesus.  The acts might be the same, but the motivation is totally different.
    You cannot save yourself.  You cannot carry your cross alone.  You cannot earn heaven by anything you could ever do, even in a million years.  Allow Christ to be your Savior.  Let Him work in you, and cooperate with that work, not trying to earn the love of God, but responding to it.  When we do respond to God’s love because of the love He has first shown us, then we will be the disciples that God calls us to be.

Adjusting Our Seating Chart

 Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost

  In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.  I saw a meme on Facebook that said something to the effect of: When I was 18, my father didn’t know anything.  When I turned 30, I was surprised to see how much he had learned in twelve years.  I later learned that this was based upon a quote by Mark Twain, who said: “When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around.  But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.”  No matter how you say it, they are both very clear examples of the hubris of youth.
    Today our Lord talks about humility in the Gospel.  He teaches us that everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and everyone who humbles himself will be exalted, using the example of a seating chart at a wedding.  Pride is one of the most ancient sins.  In fact, St. Thomas Aquinas says that Original Sin is truly a sin of pride, since Eve (and then Adam) seek to take the place of God and have what God told them they did not need.
    And how familiar is it that we feel we know everything when we are young!?  I remember in college seminary feeling like my classmates and I had the answers to all the Church’s problems.  I think I still felt that way in Major Seminary, and probably even in the first year or so of my priesthood.  The passage of time, the (hopeful) gaining of wisdom, and the increased responsibilities of being a pastor have tempered my own youthful hubris.  
    But pride does not necessarily cease as one takes more and more trips around the sun.  Pride is the temptation lurking like a roaring lion in the grass throughout our life, against which we need to be on guard.  
    Pride is the elevation of our self above others, up to and including God.  We end up making ourselves a false god, the one who determines all things, or around whom the universe needs to rotate.  Again, going back to Adam and Eve, they wanted to know good and evil even though God had told them they did not need to.  St. Thomas Aquinas calls this a coveting of a spiritual good above measure.  Satan’s own words tells Eve that she will be as God.  And into this temptation first Eve, and then Adam, fall.  
    In the parable of the wedding, the person is seeking the higher place, the place of greater honor, which is exactly the sin of pride.  The person, and how many times does this apply to us, thinks he is better than he truly is.  In response to this, our Lord invites the person to take the lower seat, so that, should that person be worthy of higher honors, another will recognize it.  Now, this isn’t some backwards way of achieving the goal of looking better than everyone else.  If we treat it that way, then we’re still falling into pride.
    Instead, our Lord invites us to humility, to think not that we are better or more worthy of honors than others.  Humility is not undervaluing ourselves, but valuing ourselves rightly.  We talk about false humility when we talk about not recognizing gifts or talents that we have.  Indeed, Christ condemns not using our talents and investing them in another parable.  But humility gives an estimation which is accurate, not inflated or deflated.  
    It is so easy to overvalue ourselves, or even to undervalue ourselves.  But if we had to choose the most likely, it is probably overvaluing ourselves.  We live in a world where the ego rules supreme.  I am always right.  My wishes and desires are the most important.  You need to agree with me.  We see this in our inability to dialogue with others, whether on a local or even a national and international scale.  If someone questions our point of view (whether it be our opinion or based upon facts we know), we immediately write that person off and no longer have anything to do with them.  We see it in school systems which no longer provide a wide-education of many disciplines (what we have called liberal arts), but where we only teach one thing to people, and that’s what they want to do.  Unfortunately, so many feel that if they are experts in one area of life, then they are experts in many or even all areas of life.  
    I have seen this happen first hand in the parishes in which I have served.  Every city where I have served as been the home to a university of college.  And there are people who are much smarter than I am when it comes to non-theological disciplines.  But those same people sometimes think that they are experts in the faith, when they haven’t actually studied the faith beyond a few articles from their favorite religious magazine each month.  
    And I can even struggle to avoid those same temptations from seminary days, to think that I know best how to run things on a diocesan, national, or even worldwide level.  Certainly, I have studied the faith.  And even as someone who has been pastor I have gained some very practical experience.  But I am not qualified to second-guess decisions that include information to which I am not privileged, nor do I have the charism to lead a local, national, or international church that is given to bishops at their ordination.  Does this mean that bishops always make the best decisions?  No, and good bishops, like our own, will admit that they make decisions based upon their own experience and the information that they have at the time.  We can certainly dialogue (either externally or internally) about whether or not we think that decision was wise and/or prudent.  But how often do we immediately jump to the conclusion that we know best and Bishop So-and-so or the Pope is automatically wrong?  We’re taking the head of the table at the wedding party, and it’s very likely that we’re going to get moved back a seat or 5.  We are exalting ourself, and so we will be humbled.  

Bishop Carl Mengeling

    Bishop Mengeling, our bishop emeritus, has said a few times that humility is a virtue that often requires others to help us.  Those are our humiliators (in a good way).  They remind us that we are not always right, and that we are not God or the best at everything we do.  They are the equivalent of the slave riding in the chariot of the great Roman general in his triumph through the streets of Rome whispering, “Memento mori,” “Remember you will die.”  Generally, we do need to go looking for our humiliators; they usually make themselves known.  In case you’re wondering, I have mine, and I’m pretty sure I don’t need any more, though I know I always have people ready to step in in case I short a humiliator or two.  
    But we shouldn’t be afraid of being humbled, as it helps us grow in holiness.  And as we are humbled, God looks upon us in love, and exalts us in His way, which, more often than not, is not the way we would be exalted.  Still, stay humble; don’t seek the place of honor or to put yourselves above others.  Humble yourself, that God the Father may raise you on high, where with the Son and the Holy Spirit, He reigns for ever and ever.  Amen. 

What We Make Time For

 Second Sunday after Pentecost

    In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.  One of the areas that I have been blessed to be able to participate in throughout my past 5 years in Flint has been extra-curricular activities for Powers Catholic High School.  I love football Friday nights, I played and still love soccer, and I was active in drama and band when I was in high school, so part of attending is just having fun.
    But part of what I’m doing is more than enjoying a good game or a beautiful performance.  I decided early on as a priest that, as I can, it’s important for me to be involved in the lives of young people in their hobbies and extra-curricular, and to show up as much as I can.  Not infrequently, other parish responsibilities will lessen my availability, but when I can, it’s nice to be able to support the young men and women.
    It’s also sending a message that I, and, by extension, God, care about what they do in life.  So often, people only see a priest at confession or Mass, and it can lead to this skewed vision that the priest only cares when I’m repenting of my sins or going to Mass.  By meeting them at their joys, the activities that make them feel alive, I’m showing them that God loves not just their religious practices, but their entire life, and wants to be a part of it.
    We make time for what we love.  We show, by our attendance, what is important to us.  Part of the struggle in the Catholic Church right now is Mass attendance, and not simply because of COVID (but certainly exacerbated by it).  Young people, present couple excluded, do not attend Mass regularly, even monthly.  Why not?  Among other reasons, because their parents didn’t go, and/or didn’t make them go.  And kids are very quick to pick-up that if something is important, you will be there.  In my own life, going to Mass was never a question of “if,” it was always a question of “when.”  Even if I had a Boy Scout lock-in Saturday night, which meant that I was up until about 2 or 3 a.m., we were going to be at Mass, and I can remember where I still had to be ready for 9 a.m. Mass on Sunday morning (I may have slept through the homily).
    In the parable our Lord gives us today, we are presented with a great feast, for which no one has time.  The excuses aren’t all that bad, either.  If you had just bought a farm and needed to see what needed to be planted, what weeds need to be cleared, a feast might not sound like something important.  Or if you just got married, you probably want to spend time with your wife.  In fact, in the Old Testament, one could be released from military service if a marriage had just occurred.  Maybe inspecting the five oxen wasn’t such a good excuse, but they would have been worth a precious sum.  And yet, the man giving the feast is angered because no one will come!  
    The man considers the great banquet the most important thing, which no one should miss.  He values it above property, above livestock, even above marriage.  But no one values it as much as he.  So the man throwing the feast tells his servants to gather all those whom society has rejected–the poor, feeble, blind, and lame–and invite them in.  And there is still room, so the servants are sent to beat the bushes to drum up more people so that the house is filled for the feast.  
    It’s easy to tell the face-value message of this parable.  Jesus is letting the Pharisees know that they have been invited to His great feast, but they are finding excuses for not attending.  They are showing their lack of love for God by rejecting the one He has sent.  So others are being invited in whom the Pharisees would’ve rejected.  But how easy it is to notice the splinter in the Pharisees’ eyes, but not notice the plank in our own.  Isn’t it the sign of a troubled conscience that we so quickly try to put the spotlight away from our own souls and on to another.
    Now, obviously, you are here for the Mass, the wedding feast of the Lamb.  But what about in your daily life?  Are there times when the Lord is inviting us to spend time with Him in private prayer, in works of charity, in simply silence, and we find excuses and things that we would rather do?  St. John tells us in the epistle that we are called not to love in word or speech, “but in deed and truth.”  
    How do we spend our time?  How do we betray what we truly love by the time and attention that we give to it?  What witness are we providing about what is most important in our life?  The world may mock us, as St. John also reminds us, for putting our Lord, our Church, our family first.  But we are still called to give witness to the importance of those first things.  
    And as our best example, we have Jesus, who showed His love for us in laying down His life for us.  That’s how we know the love of God.  God not only showed up, but gave His all for our eternal salvation.  May we make time for God, not only here at Mass, but also in our daily lives, so that the world and God may see the importance we place on our relationship with the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.  Amen. 

How Much to be a Disciple?

Twenty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time
    How much?  We’ve probably all asked that question, usually buying something.  How much?  Maybe we’ve asked it when we were ready to start haggling over the price, whether listed on the product or told us.  How much?
    So it might seem weird for Jesus to talk about the “cost” of discipleship.  He invites us to ask ourselves if we have enough to be His disciple, using the image of a builder about to construct a tower, or even a king about to attack another kingdom with his army.  In both cases, the individual has to ask: do I have enough? 
    I would hazard a guess that the questions, “How much?” and “Do I have enough?” are probably not questions we readily associate with discipleship.  After all, we can all come to Jesus as we are, right?  How do those questions make any sense?
    And that’s exactly what Jesus wants, and what Jesus deserves.  God gave us everything.  Everything we have in life comes as a gift.  Even that for which we toil is indirectly a gift, as our ability to work is itself a gift from God.  So what does the One who gave us everything deserve back?  Everything. 
    That may seem like a lot, but there are probably some people in our life to whom we wouldn’t mind giving our all.  While married couples may not give their all perfectly, they certainly try to give their spouse anything he or she needs.  Parents, even if misdirected to things of lesser importance, sacrifice just about everything for their children.  Sometimes even simply good friends are the ones from whom we would sacrifice anything: time, effort, money. 
    Think about how foolish it would be to barter when it came to a person we loved.  Imagine a husband saying to a wife, “I’ll give you everything that I am, but you’re going to have to let me keep my weird habit of (fill in the blank).”  If he loves her, and she says that he has to give up whatever for her, he will do it.  The same could be said vis versa.  And if we’re not willing to give that whatever up, then it’s safe to say that we don’t fully love that person.  Of course, a person who truly loves us won’t make us give up anything which is good for us.  But a person who truly loves us does insist that we give up things which cause us harm.
    So, now think of Jesus.  How often do we say, “Jesus, I love you, but if you make me give up (fill in the blank), then I’m going to leave you”?  We may not say it directly, but it’s what’s in our mind at times.  For young people, it’s often the Church’s teaching on sexual morality.  For some families it’s the Church’s insistence that we gather each Sunday and Holyday to worship God at Mass.  I think for others, it has to do with our convenience.
    Right now there’s a committee with representation from across the Diocese looking at how many priests we’re going to have retiring and being ordained in the next 5-10 years, and what that will mean for parishes.  I’ve mentioned this before, but over the next four years, we have around 20-25 priests who will be eligible for retirement, but will only be ordaining around 5 priests.  That’s a net loss of 15-20 priests.  So expecting that each parish will have the same amount of Masses in the same number of places is simply unrealistic.  I’m not clairvoyant when I say that some churches will likely close, others will merge, and Mass times will be different.  And, I know that when Mass times change, people leave; that happened here.  And while for some people, Mass at a particular time is not possible because of a work schedule, and for others it’s not practical due to getting children ready, there are no small amount of cases where I’ve heard and been told that if it’s not the time that person wants, he’s leaving.  Which is to say, “Jesus, I’ll only give you everything if it’s not too inconvenient.” 
    This is also a great reminder for us to pray for vocations.  Sometimes parents are open to having priests, as long as it doesn’t come from their family.  But all young men should be open to a vocation to priesthood.  Maybe that’s how a young man is to give his all to Jesus.
    I’m have no plans to change our Mass schedule.  But if we, in the future, went down to one Mass, would you stop going altogether?  What’s most important is not so much where we go, but that we go.  Changes to parish structures all across the Diocese of Lansing are bound to happen.  Will we stick with Jesus no matter what the configuration is?  No matter what the future holds, are we willing to give Jesus everything?  Are we willing to take up our cross, and give our all to Jesus?

Jesus doesn’t do “gotchas.”  He lets us know that following him has a cost, and that cost is everything.  That’s what He means when He says that we have to “hate” family, and even our own life, and have to take up our cross and follow Him.  On the cross, a person lost everything.  You were separated from family, not being able to join them, but being fastened to the wood of the cross.  You were separated from any dignity, not only because you were killed as a criminal, but, as most scholars say, you were naked as the day you were born.  And of course, you were separated from life, as you slowly asphyxiated, where your lungs filled with fluid and your breaths became more and more shallow until you could breathe no more.  Being on the cross meant giving your all.

The Old Rugged Cross

Twenty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time

            Sometimes, in writing a homily, an idea just pops into your head by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, and He makes a theme known.  As I read over the readings for today on this past Monday, in preparation for writing the homily, there were so many things that I could preach on: from the first reading I saw the theme of the wisdom of God as opposed to the wisdom of the world; from the second reading I saw the theme of the fraternity of Christianity which excludes no one, not even, from St. Paul’s times, slaves who were considered property; from the Gospel I saw them theme of the cost of discipleship and whether one is strong enough to follow Jesus.  So I was wondering in which direction the Holy Spirit wanted me to go.

Then, on Wednesday, as I was driving in my car, I was listening to my iTunes, and I just felt drawn to listen to songs from an album called “How Great Thou Art: Gospel Favorites Live from the Grand Ole Opry.”  And I was driving a song came on which focused my attention for this week.  And that song was “The Old Rugged Cross.”  To me it became clear that the Holy Spirit wanted me to preach about the cross.

We don’t often think of the cross as beautiful.  It was the worst punishment that the Romans had devised to torture prisoners and foreigners.  It was so harsh that it was only applied to those who were not citizens of Rome.  And yet, Jesus says today, “‘Whoever does not carry his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple.’”  Whoever does not carry his own ignominious symbol of defeat, cannot be a follower of Jesus.  That’s not the sort of thing you do to gain a large following.  No one wants to daydream about hanging, naked as the day you were born, in front of soldiers who are jeering at you, while your arms and legs are attached to the cross by nails.  No one wants to aim for being suspended on a rough piece of wood, the weight of your own body causing your lungs to slowly fill with fluid until you can no longer even breath.  And yet, as Christians, that is what we are called to do.

In the song, “The Old Rugged Cross,” the second half of the refrain goes, “I will cling to the old rugged cross and exchange it someday for a crown.”  It so easy to try to forget the cross part, and go straight for the crown.  Who doesn’t want to share in glory?!?  Who doesn’t want the reward?!?  And yet, the only way to do that is through the old, rugged cross.  St. Rose of Lima, the first canonized saint of the Americas, whose memorial we celebrated on 23 August adeptly related an experience of the Lord, who said to her, “‘Let all men know that grace comes after tribulation.  Let them know that without the burden of afflictions it is impossible to reach the height of grace…This is the only true stairway to paradise, and without the cross they can find no road to climb to heaven.’”  If we wish to go to heaven, then we must not only know the cross, but embrace and cling to it.  It may seem harsh, but it was the only way that our Master showed us, who only gained the resurrection after his crucifixion.

It’s also very easy to give the cross lip service.  We’ve become so used to it that we think we can utter beautiful platitudes about carrying our cross.  But when the cross comes into our lives, do we cling to it, embrace it?  Some crosses are big.  I think of the families in our parish who have miscarried, or who have lost a child shortly after birth.  What a cross.  Those families have certainly experienced the dying of Jesus in their lives, and, as much as they have united it to Jesus, will also experience the resurrection of Jesus.  Some crosses are small.  I think of those who talk about co-workers who get on their nerves; family members who always seem to be in trouble or looking for help; drivers who cut you off; the plans that fell through; the professor with whom you don’t see eye to eye; and the list goes on.  Those are also crosses, and more often than not I don’t think we embrace them.  We tend not to thank God for annoying co-workers, bad drivers, ruined plans.  And yet, that is the cross the Lord is presenting to us to carry.  That is what we should embrace.  St. Thérèse of Lisieux is a perfect example of this.  There were a few sisters in her convent who annoyed her to no end (I’m sure Sr. Dorothy and Sr. Liz have never experienced this): one with the sounds she made during prayer; another with her attitude.  What did she do?  She willed to love them and smile to them.  There was food that was prepared that she could not stand, but she smiled every time it was placed in front of her, because she saw in it the cross that the Lord had given her.  And, she smiled so much at that cross, that while she was dying with Tuberculosis, the sisters made some especially for her, thinking that it was her favorite!

To embrace the cross seems foolish.  St. Paul himself says, “but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those who are called, Jews and Greeks alike, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God.  For the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom.”  Isn’t that what our first reading is all about: the wisdom of God? God gave us His counsel, His wisdom, in Jesus, who teaches us to take up our cross and follow Him, so that we who share in Jesus’ suffering and death might also share in His resurrection.  May our words and our very lives be the second half of that refrain from “The Old Rugged Cross”: “I will cling to the old rugged cross, and exchange it someday for a crown.”

"Father, Mass is boring..."

Twenty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time

            There are few things more disappointing to a priest than the words, “Father, I think Mass is boring.  I prefer going to my friend’s church because it’s more exciting and they have better music.”  These words generally come out of the mouths of teens, because they generally speak their mind, whether you like it or not.  But, if I had to guess, I would say that many adults feel this way too, they just have become familiar enough with the rules of decorum not to say it, at least, not to the priest’s face.

            Saying that Mass is boring betrays that one does not know what’s really going on at Mass.  Many of us come because we have always come.  Many come because we don’t want to commit a mortal sin of missing Mass on a Sunday or Holyday.  If you’re a minor, you may come simply because it’s one of the expectations for those who are provided with free room and board by mom and dad.  But do we know what we are doing when we come here?  Do we know the privilege we have?

            In our second reading from the Letter to the Hebrews, the author tells us that we

have approached Mount Zion and the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and countless angels in festal gathering, and the assembly of the firstborn enrolled in heaven, and God the judge of all, and the spirits of the just made perfect, and Jesus, the mediator of the new covenant, and the sprinkled blood which speaks more eloquently than that of Abel.

He is talking about the worship of the Church, and contrasting it with the ways the Israelites worshipped at Mount Sinai, when God revealed Himself, and it was so terrible (causing terror)—with a mountain that could not be touched, blazing fire, gloomy darkness, storm, trumpet blast, and a voice speaking from the clouds—that they begged the Lord not to reveal Himself to them in such a way, but to speak through Moses from that point on.

            As we gather here, in this Church, to celebrate Mass, we are being drawn up to heaven.  The stained glass, the high ceilings, the occasional incense, the candles, the bells, the gold, the special vestments, the occasional sprinkling rite—all of this is meant to tell our senses that we have left earth and have entered into a new reality.  We, at this Mass, have entered into the halfway point between   With angels bowing down in worship, with the saints, our Catholic brothers and sisters who have shown us in countless ways what it means to be a faithful disciple of Jesus, we hear God’s Word proclaimed to us, the Word that brings life, the Word that saves us from sin, the Word that tells us how to live so as to not stay in the halfway point, but to truly enter in to what was promised to us in Baptism: the Kingdom of Heaven.  We are able to see the miraculous, as Bread and Wine become, not as a corporate game of imagination, but in reality, the Body and Blood, soul and divinity of Jesus Christ.  What the angels do not even dare to gaze upon, we hold in our hands or receive on our tongues and Christ becomes one with us.  Our God so loves us that He will not remain separate but pierces the veil between heaven and earth and draws us up to Himself so that we can have communion—union with—Him.  And because of that, our music is different, our words are different.  This is no common place, this is not just another building.  This is sacred space, dedicated to God, and where we are drawn up in anticipation of what heaven will be like, when we are all worshipping God in love before the throne and the Lamb, as the Book of Revelation tells us.

earth and heaven.

            And how do I know that at least some do not understand?  I can tell because, if this Sunday is like other Sundays, or weddings, or funerals, some here are probably chewing gum as I speak.  Some here probably brought in coffee to the Church, or have not observed the fast for one hour before the reception of Holy Communion.  Some here were probably reading the bulletin during the proclamation of the Word of God.  And because some here in coming weeks will just drop the kids off for religious ed and your children will only rejoin you more than halfway through Mass, and they will never fulfill their Sunday obligation.  And that’s just those who are here.  There are so many, including even parents who sacrifice to send their children to our parish school, who won’t even come on Sundays.  This betrays the fact that there is ignorance about what’s going on.  “Father, you don’t know me.  You don’t know my circumstances.  You can’t judge me!”  I certainly cannot judge your soul; that is only for God to do.  I cannot judge your culpability: perhaps you’ve never heard this before; perhaps you have forgotten; perhaps we priests have not done all we can to form you in understanding what the Mass is.  But I can call all of us together, as the Body of Christ, to feel shame for the fact that we have the most precious gift here, and at times we treat it like going to a movie theater, or a play, or a concert.  We treat it just like another weekly event on our calendar that we need to attend for whatever reason.

            Right now in Egypt there are families who are risking their lives, in no exaggeration of that phrase, to go to Mass, because it is likely that radicals could blow up or try to set fire to their church.  Right now in China there are groups of Catholics that gather in secret locations for Mass because if the government finds out that they are more faithful to the Pope than to the Communist government they could go to jail, be tortured, or just “disappear.”  Right now there are many places in the US that see a priest once every month, or even once every few months, and that is the only time they are able to receive Holy Communion.

Our first reading and our Gospel both remind us to be humble.  Let us be humble enough to recognize that we somtimes don’t understand what we are doing, or don’t show the proper appreciation for the great gift that we have in being able to gather each Sunday as the People of God and join in the worship of the angels and saints in heaven as we hear the Word of God and receive that same Word of God, Jesus, in the Eucharist.  And then let us work at being formed to be receptive to the Mass through the many great books that are out there on the Mass, through adult formation sessions, and more, rather than asking the Mass to be formed according to our desires.  Because, brothers and sisters, right now, at this moment, we are participating in the halfway point between heaven and earth.  We are worshipping God and the Lamb, as angels bow down in adoration around this altar as Christ is made present.  We are surrounded by the saints who are filling this room to capacity, joining with us in our worship of God.  We are preparing to receive “Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, and the sprinkled blood that speaks more eloquently than that of Abel.”

Cabrera and the Cross

Twenty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time

            As of late, I haven’t had time to watch the Detroit Tigers play baseball much.  And, after the All-Star Break, I haven’t missed much.  But, one of the interesting things to see, especially if you have really good seats, or are watching Fox Sports Network, is to look at the Latino athletes.  As they get up to bat, the first thing they do is to sign themselves, at least once, with the sign of the cross.  While some may claim it’s superstitious, I prefer to hope that they realize that prayer is an important part of life and any job, including playing major league baseball, and that they are praying each time before they bat to do their best, and hopefully be successful.

A mosaic of the nailing of Christ to the Cross
in the Basilica of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem

            It is interesting to think that the cross, in Roman times the most horrible way to die, and the sign that there was no dignity left in you, has become the sign of our faith.  The cross was used for non-Roman citizens, and crucifixion had been perfected so as to induce the most pain for the longest period of time.  The person who died by crucifixion actually asphyxiated.  The nails were only to hold him in place, and to increase the agony when the person tried to push up so as to allow his lungs, which were filling with fluid, to operate.  Add to this the ignominy of hanging there naked, and you get the idea of what a horrible death this was.

            And yet, in today’s Gospel, Jesus says that we cannot be His disciples unless we carry our own cross and follow Him.  We have become so used to this phrase that it does not strike us as it struck the Jews then.  But this was no easy saying for the Jews and Greeks to accept then, and the reality of the saying even today does not made it any easier.

            We see the cross from the resurrection side of things.  Even with the crucifix, which reminds us of the horrible death that Jesus underwent, so much did He love us, and so obedient was He to the Father’s will, we know how it ends.  It’s like reading the end of a book first, and then reading the rest afterwards.  But often, when our own crosses come to us, we are not so hopefully and cheerful.

            We don’t have to look far for suffering.  It finds us.  But Jesus reminds us that, if we are to be His disciple, then we must be sure that we are ready for that suffering, that it is a battle we can win and a price we can pay lest the enemy overwhelm us or others laugh at our inability to follow through and pay the price.  Suffering is part of what it means to be a Catholic.  If they mocked, scourged, and put to the death the Master, the servants, that is, we, should not be surprised to be treated any differently.

            And yet, many of us are not scourged for believing in Jesus, nor are we asked to witness to our faith with the ultimate price of our blood.  But, if we are faithful to the teachings of Christ, which are found in their fullness is the teachings of the Church, then we likely have been already, or will be mocked in the future. 

            But even if we are not mocked, we still have our crosses to carry.  And the way we carry, or avoid them, tells a lot about who we are as disciples.  It’s easy to say, “Yes, Lord, I’ll carry my cross with you.”  But when our teacher or professor gives us a lot of homework, and we can’t have fun with friends as much as we want, we seem to avoid that cross.  Or when the kids are on a sugar high, there was a bad day at work, and now we’re too exhausted to cook dinner, we don’t want to deal with that cross.  Or when mom or dad are not doing so well, and we have to try and work around their schedule to visit them at the nursing home on a regular basis, when we barely have time for ourselves, we turn and walk away from that cross.

            The life of a disciple sometimes involves the big crosses like suffering for our faith from verbal and sometimes even physical assaults.  It sometimes means doing great things for Jesus in very visible ways.  But more often than not, being a disciple means accepting the little crosses that present themselves daily to us, and uniting them to Christ.  It means doing our homework rather than going to the party, because God has called us at this time in our lives to be students.  It means giving to the kids even when we feel we have nothing left.  It means caring for family members even when we are constantly giving for them and are receiving nothing in return.  Because in those moments, when we have to die to our own wills and do the will of the Father, we are imitating Jesus, who had to allow Himself to be nailed to a cross, even though He is the King of Kings and Lord of Lords.

            Some people do think that baseball players like Cabrera or Ordoñez are superstitious when they make the sign of the cross.  But, as all our little crosses come our way and call us to make a sacrifice, it’s not a bad idea to make the sign of the cross over ourselves, reminding us that this is what Jesus meant when He said, “‘Whoever does not carry his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple.’”  May we, by the little and big ways we suffer, fill up what is lacking in the Body of Christ, and, because we have suffered with Christ, be found worthy to share the same reward in heaven with Him.

"The Lord" and Humility

Twenty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time

            One of my favorite spiritual books is The Lord by Romano Guardini, a German monsignor who was born in 1885 and died in 1968.  The Lord is his meditation on Scriptures, and is a very rich and deep reflection on the life of Jesus Christ.  I would encourage all those here in high school or older to read it.

            One of the chapters in the book is on humility, the virtue that we hear about in our readings today.  Humility is a very misunderstood virtue, and Guardini first seeks to clarify the word.  He writes, “We use it to describe someone who bows to the grandeur of another; or who esteems a talent that surpasses his own; or who appreciates without envy another’s merit.  That is not humility but honesty.  […] When St. Francis knelt at the throne of the Pope it was not an act of humility (since he believed in the papal dignity) but only of verity; he was humble when he bowed to the poor.  Not as one who condescends to help them, or whose humanitarian instinct sees in every beggar a remnant of human dignity, but as one whose heart has been instructed by God flings himself to the ground before the mystery of the paltriness as before that of majesty.”  Humility is the virtue, the secured habit, whereby we lower ourselves with whatever greatness we might have, to another person’s need and want and baseness.

            We might think of humility when we assist the poor: when we who have such great resources spend time and donate food, money, clothing, or other goods to those who do not have such great resources.  Certainly this parish community in East Lansing is known for its generosity to the poor.  But why do this?  We can fall into the traps that Romano Guardini mentioned: condescension, whereby we pretend to debase ourselves and do the poor a favor by spending time with them or giving them something; or simply a humanitarian instinct, whereby we realize that we are all human beings, with dignity because we are created in the image and likeness of God, and therefore we should help each other. 

            While it is true that we all do share a common dignity through our being created in the image and likeness of God, this is not the virtue of humility.  That would be more of the virtue of solidarity.  No, humility seeks to lower ourselves without losing any of the greatness which is ours: both actually lived out, and that greatness that we only have in potential.

            We see the virtue of humility most perfectly in Jesus Christ.  When the Second Person of the Blessed Trinity became a man, he did not condescend to us, in the sense that He pretended to be nothing more than one of us.  Rather, He comes down to us to dwell with us without losing any of His divine greatness.  He humbles Himself.  And so, in our Gospel, when Jesus talks about going to the lowest place at the table, He is simply telling us what He has done.  He is the guest at the table of God the Father, and Jesus goes to the lowest place, to earth, and even to the very abode of the dead in His passion, but brings His greatness even there.  As St. Paul tells us in his letter to the Philippians, “Jesus did not deem equality with God something to be grasped at.  Rather, He emptied Himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in the likeness of man.”  Jesus did not abandon His divinity when He became incarnate, but neither did He claim any privileges while on earth because of it.  He, of all persons, had the right to claim the highest place and remain there.  But, He humbled Himself, and allowed God the Father to call Him up to the head of the table, at the right hand of the Father.

            And so, when the author of the book of Sirach, Jesus, son of Eleazar, son of Sirach, tells us to “conduct your affairs with humility, and you will be loved more than a giver of gifts.  Humble yourself the more, the greater you are, and you will find favor with God,” we listen to his words because we see them practiced in a most perfect way by Jesus, Son of God and Son of Man.  God favors humility because God is the source of humility and the summit of humility. 

But His humility is not limited to the Incarnation.  Jesus, from all eternity, was pouring Himself out to the Father, giving all that He is, with the exception of His identity as the Son.  And so the Incarnation was simply a continuation of that. 

But the Incarnation is not the end of Jesus’ humility.  Even now, as He sits at the right hand of the Father in heaven, Jesus continues to humble Himself, by allowing bread and wine to be changed into His body and blood at this altar, and letting Himself, the infinite God, be received into us, mere finite humans.  To paraphrase our second reading today, “We have approached Mount Zion, and the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and countless angels in festal fathering, and the assembly of the firstborn enrolled in heaven, and God the judge of all, and the spirits of the just made perfect, and Jesus, the mediator of the new covenant, and the sprinkled blood that speaks more eloquently than that of Abel.” 

In this Eucharist, we are allowed to come to the antechamber of heaven.  While what we can see seems earthly, the reality we approach is the Wedding Feast of the Lamb from the Book of Revelation, where all the angels and saints are present, adoring the Lord, the judge of all.  We have come to the sacrifice where the Lord of All humbles Himself to be received by us.  So then, let us approach with honesty, mindful of the greatness that God brings down to us sinners.  And as we serve the poor, let us not do so because it simply provides physical needs for others, but in imitation of Jesus Christ who gave us of His greatness and riches, so that we, who were poor because we were separated from God, could become rich and be called to a higher place.  As long as we simply give because “it’s the right thing to do,” then we are no different from those who do not know Christ.  But, if we give because we are trying to live out in our lives the great humility of Jesus, then we will be witnesses of true humility first shown to us by Jesus.