Small Sacrificies Yield Large Results

Thirty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time

    From time to time I see ads on TV and on the internet for ways to have a chiseled body, with well defined muscles.  I’m sure that some of the ads were photoshopped a bit, but even so, I often thought about what it would be like to have better muscle definition, stronger muscles, and a stronger appearance.  But to truly get into that shape, I would have to give up a lot of foods that I enjoy eating, and actually go to a gym on a regular basis and lift weights, neither of which sounds that appealing to me.  And looking at me, you can see which path I choose!
    Each in our own way, we probably all have things that we want, but for which we’re not really willing to work.  We have a desire for something, but we’re not really willing to do the things to make that desire an achieved reality.  That can even be the case when it comes to our faith.
    In today’s first reading we hear about a mother and her children who are being tortured and killed because they’re not willing to break God’s law, even though the local government is telling them to.  The back story is that the Greeks had taken over the Holy Land, and wanted everyone to live in the Greek manner of life: they placed idols in the temple, forbade parents to have their sons circumcised, and forced the Jews to eat pork, all as ways of rejecting the Jewish religion.  The part we hear in today’s passage highlights a heroic sacrifice that they make, simply because they would rather obey God and be tortured and killed than disobey God and enjoy prosperity. 
    But this heroic action probably did not start the moment they were arrested and brought before the king.  They likely had made smaller sacrifices to be faithful to God throughout their lives, maybe not even perfectly, but still, doing their best to say yes to God in their choices in small ways, which helped them to say yes to God when it was a major decision with drastic consequences.
    I think we can sometimes be as clueless as the Sadducees in today’s Gospel when it comes to the Resurrection.  We desire to be raised, to reign with Jesus in heaven.  But when it comes to the daily ways that we show that we want to accept this gift of eternal life, we’re not quite there, and we don’t want it that much.  We want the end result without wanting the daily effort it takes to obtain that result.
    Being welcomed into heaven is all about putting behind us the fallen parts of our nature by God’s grace, and accepting God’s grace to choose things which do not always seem to desirable, but which help us to say yes to God and say no to our fallen nature.  St. Paul talks about it as putting to death the old man (Adam, who said no to God), and living the life of the new man (Jesus, who said yes to God).  It’s easy to want to do that in major ways, and praise God when that happens, when we’re able to recognize a major temptation as something leading us away from God, and reject it.  But it’s much harder, but more efficacious, to say yes to God in small ways, which, over time, make us more like Christ.
    I would suggest two small ways that we can live more for Christ, and bring us closer to the desire to be welcomed into heaven.  The first you’re already doing today.  And that’s attending Mass every Sunday and Holyday, unless you're sick or homebound, or necessary work prevents you from attending.  Attending Mass might not seem like much, but that sacrifice to set aside your own desires on how to use your time, and then to drive to Mass to worship God, builds up our spiritual muscles.  You may not see it making a difference, but if we could see the difference it makes in our souls, we would be amazed.  Those who go to Mass still have temptations, but it’s much easier to reject temptation and sin when we’re filled with the grace of the Body and Blood of Christ, received in a state of grace.  Even if we still sin even though we attend weekly Mass, imagine the other sins you may have fallen into without attending Mass.  And daily Mass is even better, still!
    A second small way is abstaining from meat every Friday, not just the Fridays of Lent, unless it’s a solemnity, like on All Saints Day.  We might think that it’s not a big deal, and it’s not, especially if we like fish.  But saying no to our desire to eat whatever we want to is a great small sacrifice that prepares us to be faithful in bigger sacrifices that may come our way.  Sometimes, if visiting family or friends, that may not be possible, so maybe try fasting from lunch, or doing an extra work of charity on that day.  I try to abstain from meat on all Fridays, and I have seen the difference it makes in my own spiritual life.
    When I hear the story of the great martyrs, I am inspired by how they suffered for Christ in such major ways!  Some of the pain I think I could suffer through.  Some, like getting boiling water poured on me or having my fingernails pulled out, do not seem so easy to endure.  But in reality, if I’m not doing the smaller, daily sacrifices, whatever they might be, then I’m not going to be successful in the larger sacrifices if and when they ever come my way.  If we truly want to be in that number when the saints go marching in, to be as faithful as the mother and her children in not rejecting God even when it meant coercion, torture, and death by the government, then let us follow the advice of St. Paul to die to our fallen nature by little daily or weekly sacrifices, and live in the new life of the risen Christ.

The Grand Tour

Thirty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time

    George Jones, or as those of us who listen to classic country music know him, the Possum, had a number of hits with his unique and melancholic voice.  One of those hits, with a piano jingle you can’t miss, was “The Grand Tour.”  In the song, George takes you on a tour of a house where his wife used to live (before she left him), and all the things that are connected to memories of when they were together.  He sings about the chair where she used to bring him the paper and tell him she loved him; about the bed where they slept; about the closet where she hung her clothes; about the nursery where their baby slept.  In all of these places, the Possum wants you to see it all so that he can share the pain he’s feeling at his wife leaving him.
    Today in the Gospel, Jesus invites Himself to Zacchaeus’ house, where there is a dinner.  The locals in Jericho are not too pleased, because Zaccaheus is a tax collector, and tax collectors often increased the amount of money you owed, so that they could earn a living.  But Zacchaeus promises to give half of what he owns to the poor, and if he has extorted anything, he promises to repay it fourfold.  Zacchaeus received the Lord into his home, and was transformed by the presence of Jesus.
    Are we so welcoming to Jesus?  In the Book of Revelation, Jesus says, “‘“‘Behold, I stand at the door and knock.  If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will enter his house and dine with him, and he with me.’”’”  Jesus wants to be present with us, in our home, and place of comfort and security.  He wants fellowship with us, so that we can have fellowship with the Father.  But do we welcome Him in like Zacchaeus?
    If you house is anything like mine was when I was growing up, whenever we had guests over there were certain rooms the guests didn’t get to see, which happened to be the places where we’d put all of the stuff that we didn’t make time to put away before the guests came over.  Usually the guests didn’t mind missing out on that one room during the nickel and dime tour of the house.  But Jesus is not like other guests.  He wants to see us all.
    When Adam and Eve sinned, after they clothed themselves to hide themselves from each other, they also tried to hide from God.  They went to a part of the Garden of Eden in which they thought they could get away from God.  How often are there parts of our lives into which we don’t want God to look.  We hide them from God, or close the door of our hearts to God, thinking that if the rest of the house is clean, then we don’t have to worry about those messes that we have put away in a different room.
    In fact, God wants to enter every part of our house.  There is nothing in our life to which God does not want access.  But God is not a robber.  He will not break into the parts of our lives that we don’t want to hand over to Him.  That may seem like good news, but in reality, the rooms where we hide all our junk are exactly the rooms that keep us separated from God, that don’t allow us to experience the full joy of a relationship with Him, because a true relationship with God means giving Him our all, not just the parts we want Him to have.
    This makes perfect sense when we think about it like a marital relationship.  Imagine owning a house with your spouse, but there’s one room where he or she won’t let you go.  Because we not omniscient, the curiosity would probably eat away at us.  It would create a barrier between you and your spouse, which, if not resolved, could easily lead to the break-up of the marriage. 
    Or imagine after ten years of marriage with your spouse, a young adult comes to your front door and knocks.  And when you ask who the person is, he tells you that he’s your spouse’s child from 20 years ago.  I would imagine you would be confused, hurt, angry, and a whole range of other emotions.  You would feel like you had a right to know, even if your spouse thought it was going to be too embarrassing.  And not having that full disclosure would eat away at your relationship, making you wonder what other secrets your spouse might be keeping from you.
    In reality, God knows what’s in that one room that we don’t want Him to enter.  God knows all the secrets of our life.  But, because He loves us, and love never forces itself on the other, He will never force us to reveal what’s behind the door, or what’s in our past.  Still, while it’s not an obstacle to God, because His love for us is everlasting, it is an obstacle for us, because in order to have the full joy of a relationship with God, He has to receive everything from us, not just the parts that we want to share.
    Today, here at Mass and when you go home, enjoying the rest of the Christian Sabbath, invite God to take the grand tour of the house of your heart and soul.  Open up every door for Him.  Show him the clean rooms and the rooms where there’s a mess.  Invite Jesus: “Step right up, come on in.”

The sycamore tree in Jericho that Zacchaeus climbed to see Jesus

Our Prayer Before God

Thirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time

    In days gone by, some Catholic churches used to have a pew tax.  You would pay money to get a particular pew, or part of a pew, and it was your seat.  The most expensive pews were always the ones up front, closest to the Communion Rail, so that you could see as much as you could.  I think if we instituted a pew tax these days, the most expensive pews would be the ones in the back of the church, which people would pay more for so that they could get out earlier!
    The tax collector in today’s Gospel was at the back of the temple, but not because he wanted to get out earlier.  He chose the back because he didn’t feel worthy to approach God, because he was a sinner.  The Pharisee, on the other hand, is very confident that he is doing just fine, and, in fact, feels like he is doing much better than the tax collector. 
    As we approach November, the month in which we traditionally pray for the dead, we think of our loved ones who have died.  There’s a strange phenomenon that has taken hold in the church over the past 50 or years, and that’s making a funeral into a canonization.  You hear it in Words of Remembrance at the funeral home, and priests are sometimes the ones who perpetuate this practice in the homily: John Doe lived a good life and is in heaven now.  He did good things for the Church, loved his family, and worked hard.  He’s no longer in pain.
    To be clear, we should all hope that everyone who dies is in heaven.  We hope for the resurrection.  But what’s a bit odd is if we look toward those who are canonized saints, those whom the Church acknowledges are in heaven, they had a much different view of themselves.  The canonized saints were the first to say during their life, “I’m a sinner.  I have offended God.  My sins are an offense to God’s goodness, and I rely on His mercy.”  The people who are canonized saints were the first to tell people not to canonize them at their funeral, while those who maybe didn’t live such a heroically virtuous life are the first ones we talk about being in heaven.
    Again, our hope is that all God’s children are in heaven.  But is our attitude that of the Pharisee or the tax collector?  It was the Pharisee who said, “I go to church (temple), I pray often, I work hard, I donate to the church (temple), and I love my family.  I’m not a sinner like those other people!”  It was the tax collector who didn’t think he was worthy of the presence of God, and acknowledged how much he sinned.  Maybe the Pharisee didn’t do that many bad things; they weren’t known for big sins.  The tax collector, on the other hand, was seen as a traitor for collecting taxes for a foreign government.  And yet, the tax collector went home justified–in right relationship with God–whereas the Pharisee did not.
    I loved my grandmothers, now deceased, very much, and I had experienced a lot of love from them over my thirty-odd years of life.  Rarely, if ever, had I heard my grandmothers say a cross word; they lived a good life; they went to church.  But I still pray for them to be in heaven.  I have Masses said for them each year.  I hope that they’re in heaven, but I also know that, as much as I experienced perfection from them, they weren’t perfect, and in case they’re not in heaven, I want to do everything I can to help them to get there.  Do I think they’re in hell?  No.  But might they be in purgatory and in need of my prayers?  That could easily be the case, but even that is good, because the purification of purgatory only leads to heaven; it’s a one-way trip up.  And if they’re already in heaven, which I hope for, then I’m sure they’re sharing my prayers with someone else who needs it. 
    When there’s a tough goal, the temptation is to lower the bar so it’s more accessible.  But the great witness of the saints is that they were just like us, in so many ways, and yet they did live a saintly life; so it’s possible for each of us, we don’t have to lower the bar.  But even in their sanctity, they were acutely aware of their sins.  They didn’t paint over them, but acknowledged them and threw themselves on the mercy of God.  The temptation for us who maybe don’t live that heroically virtuous life is to pretend like we’re not sinners, we’re not that bad, because we’re not “greedy, dishonest, [or] adulterous” as the Pharisee said.  But if we aren’t living like a saint in the daily choices we make, at least we can do penance like a saint, and plead for the mercy of God.
    You already know this, maybe more acutely than others, but I’m not a saint.  I try to be, but I fail often, and often in the same ways.  I’m aiming for heaven, but I know that I don’t regularly hit the mark.  So even when I die, I’ll be buried in a purple vestment, as a way of saying that I need your prayers if I’m going to be welcomed into heaven.  I don’t have to make-up sins when I go to confession.  In my examination of conscience, they’re quite clear before my soul.  And so I try to go to confession every couple of weeks.  And every time I say Mass, in the silence after receiving Holy Communion, I make my own the prayer of the tax collector: “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner.” 
    As we stand before God today at Mass, what is our prayer?  “God, I’m not that bad, I’m not a big sinner?”  Or “O God, be merciful to me a sinner”?

Praying to Win?

Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time

    There is a story I heard once (and as the Irish say, don’t let the facts get in the way of a good story), that a Boston College coach approached Lou Holtz before a game and said, “Well, Lou, since we’re both Catholic Schools, at least we know that God doesn’t care who wins,” to which Lou Holtz responded, “But His Mother does.” 
    And this first reading is probably the perfect reading as we welcome back our Powers Catholic Varsity Soccer team to St. Pius X, after they became District Champions by beating Unionville-Sebewaing, and as they prepare for the Regional games.  I can just see Brent Zloto and Luke Mattar holding up my arms during the entire game!!  That’s definitely one reading of the passage from Exodus: as long as we do the right thing, or have the right spiritual leader  praying for us on the sidelines (holding hands up is the posture of prayer), then we’re going to win every game!  Granted, so far, it has worked that way for Districts.  But I can also remember a couple of games where I was cheering you on from the sidelines, and maybe the end result wasn’t exactly as we wanted. 
    So what’s the deal?!?  Jesus tells us to pray in our Gospel, and we have this example from the Book of Exodus of the power of prayer of the Israelites demolishing Amalek and his army when Moses prayed for them.  Shouldn’t this mean that if we just pray hard enough, then we’ll get what we want?
    I think we all know, deep in our hearts, that God doesn’t work this way.  We may think that if we pray, we will change God’s mind or alter His plan, but then if we think about it, and we think about all the bad things that happen around the world, does that mean that those people weren’t praying enough, or in the right way?
    In fact, prayer does not change God, but it does change us.  And prayer is very different from superstition.  Superstition is trying to use supernatural stuff to get our way, and as Catholics it’s easy to fall into superstition.  But superstition is forbidden by the first commandment, that tells us to not have any gods besides the one, true God.  And superstition is where we try to make ourselves God and determine nature according to our will.
    Prayer, on the other hand, yes, asks God to do something particular, but comes from the advantage that we do not always know what should happen.  In fact, we rarely know what is best even for ourselves.  Prayer always asks God to do what is best for us, which He does, as St. Paul says: all things work for the good of those who love God.  Prayer does not so much change God’s heart, as it does open our hearts up to the wider possibilities of good that God desires for us.
    So why does Jesus tell us to “pray always without becoming weary”?  Because sometimes we don’t know what is best for us, and often we need to continue to ask God in order to know God’s will for us.  Prayer is also an act of faith, and our persistence in prayer is a demonstration of our faith.  Look again at the Gospels: Jesus never heals anyone without their faith in Him.  And in some cities, it even says that Jesus did not work many miracles because of their lack of faith.  When we keep praying, as you are today, Chargers, it is a demonstration of your faith in God who wants what is best for you.  It is a way of saying, “God, I know that you love me and you want what is best for me, and I entrust my desires into your hands.” 
    So, do I pray for our sports teams in general, and right now for our varsity soccer team?  You bet I do!  I pray that you use your gifts and talents that God gave you; I pray for your health and safety; I pray that how you play glorifies God and honors Powers Catholic High School; and yes, I pray that we win.  Is that God’s will?  I hope so, but I entrust it to Him.  And I know that whatever God has planned for each of you will make your life the best that it can be, full of joy, peace, and love, even if that comes, as it always does, with challenges, frustration, sacrifice, and pain. 
    St. Paul advises St. Timothy and us today, to “be persistent whether it is convenient or inconvenient.”  To all of us, and especially our Powers Catholic Varsity Soccer team, with whom I am honored, truly honored, to stand on the sidelines with you and pray for you, have faith in God’s will for you.  Pray with faith that God will give you every good gift that you need.  Practice and pray with that confidence in the love and wisdom of God.

The Mass and Gratitude

Twenty-eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time
   One of the cartoons I would watch growing up was “Scooby Doo.”  For those who aren’t very familiar with the series, it follows a group of friends along with a dog, Scooby Doo, who solves mysteries, especially when aided by Scooby snacks.  While I haven’t watched the show in some time, I seem to remember that there was always some twist at the end, where one of the people they encountered earlier in the episode ended up being dressed up as a monster or a ghost, trying to scare and intimidate someone for some reason.
    Today’s first reading and Gospel accounts would have seemed like such a twist to those who heard the story.  For the Jews hearing about Elisha, they would have been shocked that Naaman, a pagan, would have been healed by God, and then really shocked that he wanted land so that he could worship the true God, rather than his pagan gods, on the soil of the Promised Land.  And for the Jewish Christians hearing about how the ten lepers were healed, but only the Samaritan, the non-Jew, returned to thank Jesus, the shock would have likely been similar.  In neither of those cases was the result expected: pagans were not often considered as likely for conversion, and Samaritans were supposed to be a heretical mix of Judaism and paganism, so they weren’t thought of highly, either.
    And yet, that’s what happened.  When Naaman encountered God through the prophet Elisha and the healing that Elisha performed, Naaman tried to reward Elisha, but then asked simply to be able to worship the true God.  And when the Samaritan, whom Jesus healed of leprosy, realized what had been done, he returned to thank God, while the others simply went about their business. 
    Gratitude happens most easily when we encounter someone who offers us something that we want or need, and we realize the value of that which we received.  When a friend calls or texts to help us out in difficult times, we are grateful.  When we receive a gift for which we asked, or maybe even we didn’t ask for it, but wanted it and received it, we are grateful.  When a neighbor, colleague, or even a stranger does something that makes our life a little easier, even if it’s something as simple as holding a door or raking the leaves up in our yard, we are grateful. 
    But gratitude is a virtue, which means it is a practiced piece of our character, a disposition to act in a particular way based upon many occasions of acting that way.  Virtues take practice for them to become second-nature; they don’t start off that way in most cases.  And so you display gratitude even when you get underwear for Christmas, or when your birthday gift isn’t exactly that item you wanted, or even when the execution of assistance ends up making life more difficult.  In order to be thankful people, to have that virtue of gratitude, we have to give thanks.
    Throughout the month of October, our diocese has each parish count the number of people who attend Mass.  Since 2012, our average attendance at Mass as dropped from 876 people, to 395 people in 2018.  That’s a decrease of 55%.  There are certainly a lot of factors that go into it, but part of that decrease goes to why people go to Mass.  I hear it from both youth and adults: Mass is boring; I don’t like the music; I don’t like the preaching; it’s too long.  The common thread in all of those answers, and even more that I’m not mentioning, is that the self is the center of importance.  There is something about the Mass that doesn’t appeal to me, whatever it is. 
    But the Mass is an act of gratitude.  In fact, the word Eucharist comes from two Greek words which mean to give thanks well.  The Mass is our sacrifice of praise, offered to God, for what He has done for us in the past week.  It is our sacrifice, and yet is acceptable because we unite it to Christ’s perfect and acceptable sacrifice of praise that He offered on the cross.  The Mass is our opportunity to practice the virtue of gratitude, even when it’s difficult, which means that we’re growing in virtue.
    And the key to gratitude is that it’s not about me.  Being grateful is precisely about the other and what he or she has done.  Maybe we did get underwear for Christmas that we didn’t really want or need.  But we say thank you because the other person wanted to express their affection for us, and we want to acknowledge that goodness in the other person.  Maybe someone helped us out when we were having a rough day, or week, or month, or year, and we want to acknowledge the time they took out of their own schedule to focus on us.  Gratitude, if true, does not care about what I get out of it.  Its only concern is that the other is affirmed in the gift they gave.
    Why do fewer people go to Mass?  Because we’re ungrateful.  When we don’t acknowledge the gifts that God gives us throughout every moment of our life, of course we don’t care to take time to say thank you to God at Mass.  When, instead, we live in an awareness of just how much God gives us, then we should desire to say thank you to God.  And even when maybe we feel that urge to stay home, or watch a game, and skip Mass because it takes effort, we realize that we want to express to God just how grateful we are for what He has given us.
    It was certainly a plot twist, a surprise, when the two pagans were the ones who gave thanks to God after encountering His gift.  What is more surprising is when those who claim to follow Jesus don’t return each week to thank Him for the many gifts He has given us.  Don’t be ungrateful to God.  Give thanks to the Lord for the gifts He has given us in this sacrifice of thanksgiving of the Mass.
 

Where Do I Find God?

Twenty-Seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time
    Where do you find God?  A lot of people will talk about finding God in nature.  Maybe you find God in the lyrics of a song that, as the young people say, hits you right in the feels (that means it gave you an emotional response).  Hopefully, you find God in reading Scripture, and in the Mass and the Sacraments.  But there’s another unlikely place where we can find God.
    Maybe it’s strange to say, but can we find God in suffering?  Can we find God in pain and sorrow?  Can we find God in the down times of life?  Because on earth there is no place we can go where God is not.  And that includes even in the darkest times in life.
    Habakkuk the prophet is speaking for God not long before the Babylonian Exile in 587 BC.  Things are not going well for Judah.  Ever since King Solomon, most of the kings had been pretty bad, with a few shining exceptions.  Judah is on a downward trajectory away from the Lord.  And Habakkuk is crying for help, but God does not seem to be listening.  But God tells Habakkuk to be patient, and speak what God tells him, “For the vision still has its time, presses on to fulfillment, and will not disappoint.”  God promises something better for Habakkuk in the future, but He also reminds Habakkuk (in the sections we didn’t hear today) that He is in the midst of whatever happens, even if it seems dark and dismal.
    St. Paul in our second reading corresponds with St. Timothy for a second time, and reminds St. Timothy to hold fast to the gift of God that St. Timothy received in ordination when St. Paul laid hands St. Timothy.  St. Paul alludes to the fact that he is a prisoner.  He had been arrested and taken to Rome after the Jews tried to condemn St. Paul on trumped-up charges.  But because St. Paul was a Roman citizen, he could appeal to the emperor.  While the judgement was being decided (and we know that St. Paul was eventually beheaded by the Emperor Nero, so it didn’t turn out well).  But in the midst of that, and even the trial that Paul’s situation must have been for Timothy, St. Paul says not to give up, but “bear your share of hardship for the gospel with the strength that comes from God.”
    I think we often like to pretend that following God means an easy life.  We may tell ourselves that if we’re living like saints, then trouble won’t find us.  But that’s not the case.  Many people who have followed God have suffered.  Think of the myriad army of martyrs who suffered simply because they followed Jesus, starting with St. Stephen, all the way to the martyrs of the 20th and now 21st centuries.  Think of Mary, who never sinned at all.  And yet, in September we remember Our Lady of Sorrows and the seven sorrows of Mary, culminating in watching her Son and God die on the cross.
    But Jesus dying on the cross is exactly the good news that the world needs.  It doesn’t sound like good news, but when we go beyond the surface, we realize what a great thing the crucifixion is.  In Christianity, we profess God who entered into everything that is truly human.  And that includes suffering.  God loves us so much, that He even experience in Jesus the sorrow, pain, and darkness of human suffering.  He was abandoned, misunderstood, and experienced the death of his friends.  He was betrayed, unjustly incarcerated, and unjustly put to death in the most shameful way possible.  Jesus went to the darkest part of human existence, and redeemed it.  He didn’t take it away on earth, but met us there so that we would not be alone when we suffer. 
    That is truly news that does not disappoint, the vision that presses on to fulfillment.  No matter what pain and sorrow we are going through–from a hang nail, to a broken heart from a break-up, to a hospitalization, and even to the loss of a friend or family member through death–Jesus is there, and He does not leave us alone.
    In the midst of our sorrows and pain, we need to stir into flame the gift of faith that we received in baptism, that gift of trust in Jesus that He will never abandon us.  Life may not be a rose garden, but if we unite it to Jesus, then there’s no better place to be than with him.   
 

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Solemnity of the Anniversary of the Dedication of St. Pius X Church
    Most of you are old enough (even I’m old enough!) to know the TV show that goes with these lyrics: “Making your way in the world today / Takes everything you got. / Taking a break from all your worries / It sure would help a lot. / Wouldn’t you like to get away? // Sometimes you want to go / Where everybody knows your name / And they’re always glad you came. / You want to be where you can see / The troubles are all the same. / You want to be where everybody knows your name.”  Of course, that TV show was “Cheers” (and now you’ll probably have that theme song stuck in your head).     
     But as we celebrate the Anniversary of the Dedication of this church, we celebrate not only the building, but what the building signifies, what it stands for, what it represents.  So many people find St. Pius X to be a kind, welcoming community, small enough where, at least at the Mass you go to, everybody does know your name, and generally they’re glad you came (we all have off days, right?).  St. Pius X is a smaller community, but it does encourage that sense of belonging and knowing the people at least who come to the same Mass, or join Bible studies, or volunteer together.
    And this building is celebrated because it is a foretaste of heaven.  In heaven, we are known better than we could ever be known here on earth.  Heaven is the place where God wants us to be, where He rejoices in our presence because He made us for heaven.  Heaven is that place where we take a perpetual break from our worries and troubles, basking in the love of the Trinity that brought all things into being, and sustains all things in being.  And this church is meant to remind us of that reality, and also to prepare us for that reality. 
    But sometimes we can get complacent about who is here.  We get so used to having the same people every week, that we can forget that, as people who are configured to Jesus in baptism, our mission is the same as Jesus’: to bring as many people as we can into the joy of heaven, the place where we are known and loved beyond all measure.  And before we know it, because we content with the people we have here, those people start to leave, as generations do, through changing jobs, or moving to be closer to family, or even death, until we’re a shell of the community we used to be.
    The way we used to keep parishes, the communities that gave us a foretaste of heaven, going was simply through baptism.  We conceived and birthed new members of our biological family that we also introduced into the family of God through baptism.  We lived the faith ourselves and shared it with our children, and that faith was also supported by the community.  But we no longer live in a world that supports faith, and we cannot rely on the osmosis of grace simply to do the work for us when we have children. 
    What Pope St. John Paul II, and Pope Benedict XVI, and Pope Francis have all encouraged us to do in the past forty years; what Bishop Boyea and our Diocesan Assemblies have encouraged us to do for the past ten years is not only to keep passing on the faith through baptism of our children, but also to bring in new people to the faith through our words and deeds.  Not pulling other Catholics into our parish from another Catholic parish, but reaching out to fallen-away Catholics, and reaching out to those who have no faith, and inviting them into this relationship with Jesus Christ where their name is known and people are glad they came. 
    Brothers and sisters, this doesn’t happen on accident.  This doesn’t happen by osmosis.  Sharing our faith only happens when we are purposefully doing it.  And if we’re not, we have to ask ourselves, why don’t I want someone to be in this community?  Why don’t I want to share with others a relationship with Jesus?  Are we afraid that it will make this place less of a home?  Are we afraid that Jesus cannot love other people without lessening His love for us?  If this is such a great community, which I know it to be, then why not invite others into that greatness? 
    St. Pius X church was consecrated on 23 September 1956, 63 years ago.  Priests, religious, and parishioners have worked hard to have this place be like “Cheers,” a place where you are known and loved, a place where you can offer your worries to God and be transformed by His grace, a place that anticipates that joy and peace and love of heaven.  Are we willing to invite others into this community?  Are we willing to invite others to the goodness that we have found here?  Do we really want others to have this foretaste of heaven?  Only you can answer that question, and the answer will be manifest in what you do.

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.

Seeing the Colosseum Daily

Twenty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time

    When I was a junior in college seminary, I had the chance to do a study abroad in Rome for the Fall Semester.  My studies were at the Angelicum, not that far from the Colosseum.  In fact, in one of our classes, if you looked out the window, you could see the Colosseum.  The first time I saw the Colosseum, it was amazing.  The tenth time I saw the Colosseum it was pretty cool.  The twentieth time I saw the Colosseum it was ok.  After seeing it daily, sometimes multiple times in a day, it honestly lost a lot of its charm.  But when my parents and sisters came to visit at Christmas, they were so excited to see the Colosseum, and were in awe of it when I took them there.
    What we experience on a regular basis can become pretty boring because we are so used to it.  There’s that phrase that we hear from time-to-time: familiarity breeds contempt.  It can happen with places, even places like the Colosseum.  It can happen with people; how many times do we take for granted those who are closest to us?  It can happen with the Mass.
    Now, this is the point where some of you are about to turn off your hearing aids or your attention, because it’s another Fr. Anthony homily on the Mass.  Contrary to what the Letter to the Hebrews says, Mass might be better attended if it had “blazing fire and gloomy darkness, and storm and a trumpet blast and a voice speaking words…” from the clouds.  And yet, the author states that it’s not that, and implies that it’s something better.
    In Mass we approach:

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 a new covenant, and the sprinkled blood that speaks more eloquently than that of Abel.

But we’re used to it.  We’ve been coming, hopefully every week, and it’s like the Colosseum; maybe it was awe-inspiring at one point, or maybe it still is at different points in our life.  But generally, it’s mundane.  The homilies don’t always grab me; the music doesn’t always move me; the readings don’t always seem to apply to me. 
    This is much different from the description of the ambassadors of King Vladimir of Russia in the late tenth century, who, upon attending a Divine Liturgy (think Eastern Rites) at the Hagia Sophia in Constantinople, said, “We knew not whether we were in heaven or on earth, for surely there is no such splendor or beauty anywhere upon earth.”  They probably meant the building.  And, truthfully, St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome never got old for me like the Colosseum did.  St. Peter’s always inspired awe, even as I became familiar with the ins and outs of the building. 
    But what we have here is much greater than a building.  And maybe I’m not the best messenger, but Bishop Barron certainly did a great job in his series on the Mass.  I know the parishioners who attended that DVD series told me how much it changed their appreciation of what happens at Mass.  At each Mass, we do enter the narthex, as it were, to heaven, to the city of God, and countless angels worship with us, with their eyes veiled to what we humans are allowed to receive: Jesus, the Body and Blood of Christ, which does not cry out to God for vengeance, as did Abel’s blood, but pleads for our forgiveness.  And united with us, worshipping God the Father through Christ the Son in the power of the Holy Spirit are all the saints, including the Blessed Virgin Mary, the Mother of God, St. Joseph, St. Pius X, Sts. Ambrose, Athanasius, Augustine, and John Chrysostom, your patron saints, and the whole multitude of heaven.  That’s a pretty impressive thing.
    To be honest, I sometimes forget this, so it’s not as if you’re alone in this temptation.  But when I take a minute to sit back and think about it, I remember just what is going on, and I wonder at the great mystery in which I am able to participate.  After all, what we come to is not a what, but a Who, God, who communicates His life through His Word, through the signs, and especially through the Sacrament of the Body and Blood of Jesus.  All those things I said earlier may still be true: the homily may not grab you, the music may not move you, and the readings may not seem to apply to you.  But you get to spend time with Jesus, who loves you more deeply than anyone else could, who died for you because He loves you, and can think of no other place better to be than right here with you.
    There are so many places in the world where this simple joy, the joy of coming to Mass, is not possible on a weekly, let alone a daily, basis; where coming to Mass means walking miles, sometimes as many as some of you ran or walked in the Crim; where coming to receive Jesus who shed His Precious Blood for you means you may shed your blood in witness to Him.  Let’s do what we can–preparing for Mass throughout the week; pre-reading the readings before Mass begins; thinking of all the people who need prayers and all the good and bad things that we want to offer with the bread and the wine–to make sure that coming to Mass does not become as routine as seeing the Colosseum every day in Rome.

Currahee!

Twenty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time
    Why such difficulty to enter heaven?  Jesus says that the way to heaven is narrow, and many are not strong enough to enter.  Certainly, the easy answer is that our fallen human nature tends towards things that it should not want.  We call this concupiscence.  But I think that there’s a larger point that Jesus was making, and it didn’t really occur to me until around midday this/Saturday morning.
    For those of you who don’t know, I had been training to run the Crim, and had signed up to do the full 10-mile race.  I had never run 10 miles in my life (and this may be the only time I do so).  I knew I had to train, and in May asked one of the Powers graduates who ran cross country, Ethan Hamilton, for advice.  He suggested that I try to run 5 miles 3-4 times per week, and 7.5 miles once per week.  Because of my parish and State Police responsibilities, and especially never knowing when I would be needed for an emergency, I ran around the edge of the parking lot.  So you’re aware, the edge of our parking lot is about four-tenths of a mile, so I was running a little bit more than 12 laps for 5 miles, and around 18 laps for 7.5.  It was not the most entertaining path to run.  I trained pretty well in May, really well in June, and then in July things started to taper off a bit as my resolve wavered, and in the past few weeks, I did not run as much as I should, and I had only done one 7.5 mile run in probably 2 months. 
    So, I trained, and yesterday morning, I ran the CRIM.  I was nervous (I don't know why; it’s only running and I didn’t have a goal for time, I simply wanted to finish and try not to walk any of it).  One of our parish families helped me navigate getting to parking and getting around before the race began.  And then the race started.  My parents had come (they have both run marathons, including Boston) to support me, as well.  As I ran the race, there were people lining the streets, cheering everyone on.  But what I noticed is that, when I saw parishioners, or when I saw Troops from our Flint Post who were working traffic, I got an extra boost. 
    I had been warned about the dreaded Bradley Hills, the steep inclines on Bradley Street that occur around miles 5-6.  Honestly, and I don’t say this to brag, but they weren’t that bad for me.  And part of the reason was a word that I said when running up them (and all the hills): Currahee.  I learned the word from watching “Band of Brothers,” an HBO miniseries on Easy Company of the 2nd Battalion of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 101st Airborne Division of the Army in World War II.  Currahee was the name of a hill they had to run up and down at Camp Toccoa for training.  And the word Currahee is a Cherokee word which means, “We stand alone.”  That word connected me to the heroes who worked hard to be prepared so that, when they landed behind enemy lines the night of D-Day; when they were surrounded and short of ammo in the snowy forest of Bastogne in the Battle of the Bulge; as they ran up Eagle’s Nest in some of the last holdouts of Nazi Germany; they could conquer any force that came their way.    I mention the CRIM because I realized that I was able to accomplish what I did because of others.  If I would have tried the CRIM alone, and had no support from parishioners and Troopers, I hope I would have finished, but maybe I would have walked, and maybe it wouldn’t have happened at all. 

    Salvation is hard, getting to heaven is hard, because we so often try to go it alone.  If Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob couldn’t get to heaven on their own; if Moses and Elijah couldn’t get to heaven on their own, then we probably don’t have much of a chance either.  Heaven is only possible when we support each other.
    The most important support in salvation is, of course, Jesus, without whom salvation is impossible.  Without Jesus, we can do nothing that will get us to heaven, no matter how many “good deeds” we do.  But how often do we try to make it on our own good deeds and best behavior?  And how often do we not even live up the weak standards we set for our behavior?
    It’s also important to work with each other to get to heaven.  Again, without Jesus, no matter how many supporters we have, we can’t get there.  But maybe we need to focus more on helping each other get to heaven.  It’s the reason the Church exists: as a band of brothers (and sisters) who help each other get to heaven.  Coming for Mass is the chance to root each other on, as well as to partner up again with Jesus through worthy reception of Holy Communion.  Confession is saying sorry for the ways that we tried to make it on our own, and weren’t successful.  But we need each other.  It’s not simply me and Jesus.  Jesus has a Mystical Body, and that Mystical Body is the Church, where we are assembled to help each other on the way to salvation.  That’s my mission as your pastor: to help you get to heaven.  I hope your mission as parishioners is to help me get to heaven.
    St. Paul compares life to a race.  He says in his second letter to St. Timothy: “I have competed well; I have finished the race…From now on the crown of righteousness awaits me.”  In the CRIM today I was given strength by the parishioners and Troops who waved and cheered as I passed them by.  I was able to finish (my official time was 1:34:58; not bad for a first-timer) my race because of others.  Heaven is not necessarily hard because of the moral demands that Jesus makes on each one of us.  It’s hard, and many fail to enter, because they try without Jesus, and without their brothers and sisters in the Church.  Don’t run alone; you’ll never make it.  Run with Jesus; don’t simply focus on yourself; help others get to heaven.  It will make the race much easier.