Drawn to Christ and Changed

Epiphany of the Lord

    [In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen].  I remember my first time I traveled to Rome, when I was a seminarian in the fall of 2004.  My classmates and I had flown from St. Paul, Minnesota, and arrived in Rome in the morning.  We took a train to Termini (the main train station), and then took the Metro to a stop near the convent we had to stay at because our rooms were not ready yet at the study abroad house.  The convent was just on the other side of Bernini’s colonnade at the Basilica of St. Peter.  I remember walking up the Via della Conciliazione and being amazed at the magnitude and beauty of St. Peter’s.  I thought the US Congress building was large; St. Peter’s is so much larger!  And then I walked inside, and though so exhausted from jet lag that I would soon start falling asleep while standing during the Gospel at Mass inside St. Peter, its beauty forever changed me in recognizing just what man could do to honor God and the saints.
    In many ways the Solemnity of the Epiphany also follows a similar pattern, at least with the wise men.  They are drawn to a far-off land, perhaps a land they had never seen before.  But when they actually encounter the goal of their journey, the young King of the Jews, they are not the same.  The Gospel relates that an angel warned them not to return to their country by the same way because of King Herod, but encountering Christ also made them go back not just on a different road, but changed.  
    Hopefully this rings true for us as well.  Christ always draws us closer to Himself.  Whether we are baptized as an infant and grow up in the Catholic faith, or whether we joined the Church as an adult, Christ draws us to Himself.  He drew the Magi by a star, because that is how they would come.  When Christ calls us, He does it through means that, more often than not, appeal to our natural predispositions.  Maybe we’re hurting and we recognize in Christ a source of healing.  Maybe we’re looking for meaning and we recognize in Christ a way of life that will satisfy us.  Maybe we’re reaching out for something greater to whom we can pledge our life, and we recognize in Christ the God who is worthy of all our loyalty and dedication.  Whatever way it is, Christ calls us to Himself.  And He often does it through means that we can accept.
    But this draw also continues throughout our life.  Accepting Christ means a great deal, but it’s not a once-and-done encounter.  Each day, each week, each month, each year Christ wants to draw us closer.  Until we get to heaven, we can always grow closer to Christ.  And the closer we get, the easier and harder it is.  Easier, because we have a solid foundation and at least can intellectually know that God will truly satisfy every need in our life.  Harder, because we sometimes have to walk away from things that also delight us, however less, and sometimes it is hard to let go.  But no matter how much we accept, or how much we delay and hedge our bets, Christ always calls us closer to Himself.
    When we have encountered Christ, whether for the first time or for the myriad of times after that, the encounter should change us.  Change is easier to note when it comes to monumental moments in our life, like when we were baptized or confirmed.  Whether we felt it or not, the power of the sacrament changed us from a pagan to a Christian (baptism), or from a mere follower to a soldier of Christ and proclaimer of the Gospel (confirmation).  Ontologically, which means at the level our being, God changed us.
    But we don’t always experience that change in our day-to-day life.  Even when it comes to the Most Blessed Sacrament of the Eucharist, which we receive at Mass, we don’t always recognize the change it has in us.  That can either be because it’s hard to notice little changes day by day, or because of lack of fruitfulness, which means that, while the Eucharist wants to change us, we’re putting up some sort of block because of our sins or our will that does not allow the change that God wants to affect in us.  God never forces His grace on us, so if we don’t want to accept the change that He wants in us, it will not happen.  
    But we can also experience God through means other than the sacraments, like daily prayer, reading Scripture, serving the poor, etc.  And sometimes we notice the change, but sometimes we don’t.  Sometimes we notice the change after months of our sacramental or devotional practices, like a virtue exhibited when earlier we would have given in to vice.  Patience is not a virtue at which I always excel.  I have noticed some growth though, and can appreciate it when I notice that earlier I would have chewed someone’s head off for some stupid thing, but now I’m more understanding.  I’m still growing, and wouldn’t call myself a paragon of patience, but I have noticed growth that has happened since I started working on being more patient.  

    Like the Magi, God draws us closer to Himself, not just once, but each day.  Like the Magi, God doesn’t want us to return to the same sinful habits and patterns, or even simply the same way of life that we lived before drawing closer to Him.  God leads us down a different road, even when it’s within the same vocation.  Follow Christ, the Morning Star each day, and allow your encounter with Him to change you, so that the glory of the Lord can shine upon you[: the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.  Amen].

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.