Darkness and Light

First Sunday of Advent
    [In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.]  I don’t know about you, but during these winter days, I feel like it’s ten o’clock at night, based upon how dark it is outside, and then look at my watch and it’s only 7 p.m.  Others will mention how they long for the season when they don’t both go to work and return home in the dark.  

    Darkness is, however, a natural theme of Advent.  Not darkness for its own sake, but how the birth of Christ scattered the darkness.  We see it in the candles on our Advent wreath.  We will see it especially during our Rorate Coeli Mass on Saturday, which is held entirely in candlelight and with the growing light of the dawn.  Zechariah, the husband of St. Elizabeth and father of St. John the Baptist, notes in his canticle, that “the dawn from on high shall break upon us,” prophesying Christ as the light that makes the darkness flee away.
    And yet, our Lord’s words in the Gospel today may seem a bit dark.  He says that “on earth, nations will be in dismay….People will die of fright in anticipation of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.”  Talk about dark.  Just as the light of prophecy ceased some hundreds of years before Christ came as an infant at Bethlehem, so the preparation for His return in glory will be a dark time with much tribulation.  Perhaps, whether for us as individuals, or even the way the world seems to be going now, we can identify, maybe not with dying of fright, but with a darkness that seems to have swept over much of the world, and even, in some ways, into the Church itself.
    I don’t know when the end will come, but it is coming, and that is a large part of what the Church prepares us for in Advent.  Not just between nations, but even the entire trajectory of our human race seems to be in the midst of a great battle between good and evil, truth and lies, love and hate.  

    While I was in Alabama, I had a chance to read a Catholic novel called The Sabbatical by Michael O’Brien.  It’s about an Oxford professor who gets involved with a family whom other mysterious, evil forces seek to destroy.  I certainly don’t want to give away the book, and I encourage you to read it if you’re looking for good, Catholic literature.  Towards the end of the book, there is a dialogue between an elderly wise priest, Fr. Turner, and the protagonist, Professor Owen Whitfield:
 

[Father Turner said,] “You have come through a great stress–and sorrow.  You are very tired, and you are asking yourself if all the effort of your life is useless.”
[Owen responds] “At times I do feel that.  Of course, I know it’s not true.  But the battle seems interminable, and the gathering forces of darkness go from victory to victory…the captive minds of a generation and those who rule them are now beyond numbering.”
“Minds can be illuminated.  Providence is ever at work.  Love does not abandon us.  He never abandons us.”
“It certainly feels like abandonment, and looks very much like it too.”
“The enemy taunts you, Owen….He insinuates in your heart that he is winning this war, and you wonder whether he is right.”
[…]
“I do feel defeated,” Owen admitted.
“That is the enemy’s provocation.  If you leave your station in the battle line, you break the line of defense and weaken the lines behind you.  But if you stand firm, if you hold your position, even though you do not understand its purpose or usefulness, when it comes time for the King to tell you what to do, you will be ready for it and you will be effective.”

I’m sure my reading of this dialogue doesn’t do it justice, but you can see how it aligns with our readings today.  And I imagine it speaks to some, if not all, of you, at least at one point of your life or another.
    So, what do we do?  How do we keep our station in this battle between light and darkness?  A battle, I might add, that has already been won, but in which the “minor” skirmishes are still being fought on the field until the fullness of victory comes forth.  Owen’s monologue illumines this point.  He says to himself:
 

You do the duty of the tasks at hand….You keep faith with your responsibilities and your vocation, and you love the souls you’ve brought into the world and the souls God brings into your life.  You work and you pray.  You try to turn everything into prayer, and you practice hope.  You keep your eyes trained on the true horizon.

Because the dawn is coming, the dawn that shall break from on high, the rising Son who is not an orb of burning gas, but God Himself who took on our human nature.  He is coming, and the time is now to prepare for that return.  It is like Gandalf coming with Éomer to relieve the beleaguered forces at Helms Deep: “Look to my coming at first light….At dawn, look to the East.”  The Lord will return and will forever put to flight the forces of darkness by the rising of His Light, the Light from Light, who with the Father and the Holy Spirit live and reign for ever and ever.  Amen.  

The Last Gospel

Nativity of the Lord: Mass during the Day/Third Mass
    [In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen].  There are so many beautiful images that the Scriptures bring to our imaginations about the Nativity of the Lord.  Maybe we think of Joseph leading Mary on a donkey as she travels to Bethlehem while being nine months pregnant.  Or maybe we think of them going up to inns, trying to see if there’s room, but not finding anything.  Because of St. Francis of Assisi, we may think of them in a barn-like structure, though the older tradition is that our Lord was born in a cave.  We may think of the shepherds seeing the angels, hearing them sing the Gloria, and then going to find the Christ Child.  Based upon the Christmas carol, we might even think about a little boy with his snare drum playing for the Holy Family (which is probably not what a woman who has just given birth wants to hear).    So which of these accounts do we hear as we come to Mass today on Christmas morning/afternoon?  “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was God, and the Word was God….And the Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us, and we saw his glory, the glory as of the Father’s only Son, full of grace and truth.”  And yet, according to one scholar, John’s prologue was the traditional Gospel for Christmas Day from the time of the earliest lectionaries, or collections of readings for the Mass. 
    So why this Gospel?  Why this elevated reflection Christ as the Logos, the Word?  This prologue is really the Gospel writ small.  It precedes, in a sense, Genesis, and concludes, in a sense the Book of Revelation.  It starts at the beginning, but even before “In the beginning” from Genesis, because it speaks of the time when there was simply God, and nothing else.  It talks about the perennial back and forth between light and darkness, an unequal battle that entered humanity’s realm by the disobedience of Adam and Eve.  But it also talks about those who belong to God, are enabled to become His children, through this same Logos, this same Word, Jesus Christ.
    All of the stories with which we are familiar–Mary and Joseph, the inns, the stable or cave, the shepherds–John encapsulates in the pithy phrase, “And the Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.”  John, who wrote this Gospel around the year AD 90, already had the witness of Matthew and Luke giving their own infancy narratives.  But there is more to Christmas than just a baby.  There is also the aspect that this baby brought us the grace to be freed from the slavery to the law.  Christ gave us more than just a new law.  He gave us Himself: “From his fullness…grace in place of grace.”  And John, even in just this first part of the first chapter, is able to start to tease out the invisible realities which this visible baby brought forth.
    Other than today and on Holy Thursday, in the Extraordinary Form, this Gospel passage is read at the end of each Mass and is called the Last Gospel.  This practice began in England in what is called the Sarum Rite from the twelfth century.  Between the eleven hundreds and the fifteen hundreds, it was a private prayer for the priest to say after Mass.  Pope St. Pius V added it to every Mass (with few exceptions) in 1570.  It was eliminated in the post-Conciliar changes to the Missal in 1965.
    But the value is that, at the end of each Mass in the Extraordinary Form, priest and people are reminded of this overarching theme of salvation: God in Himself; God in the Incarnation; God’s grace and truth given to us to become children of God, a revelation only made possible by the Incarnation of the Eternal Word.  And the Eucharist, just received at the time of the Last Gospel, is precisely the same Word, who strengthens the individual Catholic in the Theo-drama of God’s victory of light over darkness and holiness over sin. 
    This focus on the divinity of Christ also reminds us of the power of Christmas over all the other ways that God communicated.  The Letter to the Hebrews adeptly reminds us that God has spoken to us in partial and various ways.  He walked with Adam and Eve in the cool of the evening.  He spoke to Noah and commanded him to build an ark to save the righteous.  He called Abraham out of Ur of the Chaldees.  He called Moses to free His people from bondage in Egypt to freedom in the Promised Land.  He anointed David to be the king and shepherd of His people, Israel.  He gave Solomon the plan for the Temple and dwelt there.  He sent prophets to remind the people of their commitment to follow God and the consequences if they did not.  And all of those were good.
    But at that first Christmas, God chose to speak for Himself.  An ambassador is a good communication of the wishes and expectations of a ruler.  But the ruler himself communicates in a way that far surpasses a spokesman.  A picture or a painting can capture some of the beauty of a landscape.  But to be in the presence of the reality far surpasses any representation of that beauty.  Our Lord is the ruler.  Our Lord is the beautiful landscape.  And in encountering Him, in the Incarnation, we have the chance to appreciate the reality beyond the shadows the prefigured it. 
    This may not be the Christmas Gospel we anticipate.  But it’s the Christmas Gospel that explains not just that day, but all of salvation history.  This Prologue reminds us that Christmas is not just about the baby that we see with our eyes, but the God that we see with our faith.  May our appreciation of the Word made Flesh, spur us on to live in the grace and truth that come from Jesus Christ, who with the Father and the Holy Spirit are one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.

Actions & Consequences and A Freely-Given Gift

 Fourth Sunday of Lent

    When I was growing up, if we were flirting with trouble (mostly my sisters, because I was a perfect angel, of course!), my parents would say things like: if I have to pull this car over…; don’t you even think about it…; or other such tried and true methods.  They were not cruel, it was just a very direct form of discipline.  As all of us kids turned our pretty well, I’d say it worked.  But my sister Amanda, the only one with kids right now, often uses the phrase, “Make good choices.”  I’d call that the softer approach, but my nieces are also pretty well-behaved (at least, as far as I know), so that approach apparently can work, too!
    One major aspect of raising children is to help them to understand the consequences of their actions.  If you draw on the wall with crayons, you get time-out.  If you touch the hot stove, you get burned.  If you don’t do your homework, you don’t get to play outside (nowadays it’s more likely play video games or play on your phone).  If you break curfew, you’re grounded.  These small lessons about actions and consequences are meant to help young people understand that if we make good choices, there are, generally, good consequences.  If we make bad choices, there are, generally, bad consequences.
    We see that in the first reading today, and even, to an extent, in our Gospel.  The Books of Chronicles of the Old Testament are the abridged versions of the Books of Kings, explaining the actions of the kings of Judah and Israel.  The lesson at the end of the Second Book of Kings, our first reading today, is that the people made bad choices.  They worshipped foreign gods, they mistreated the poor, they trusted earthly riches and powers more than God, they did not live as God’s Chosen People.  God sent them messengers to tell them to make better choices, but they never listened.  And what was the consequence?  The Temple, the great house of God, was destroyed, and the people were exiled into Babylon.  To echo Bishop Barron, there’s a sort of spiritual mathematics going on.  If you add sin upon sin, you get death, like 2 + 2 = 4.  Notice, that death doesn’t only come because of sin (we see that in other books of the Old Testament), just like 4 can be added to with a few different combinations.  But certain actions have certain consequences, or, to put it in St. Paul’s words, “The wages of sin is death.”  
    Jesus, too, and John the Evangelist, give us this same idea in the Gospel.  “Whoever believes in [Jesus] will not be condemned, but whoever does not believe has already been condemned.”  Again, the spiritual mathematics of the importance of believing in Jesus.  Or, later on, John continues that evil means darkness, whereas God means light.  If we do evil things, we envelope ourselves in darkness.  If we do good things, we are surrounded by light.  This is part of the push to the New Evangelization.  We who have received the light (which will be powerfully demonstrated at the Easter Vigil, as we enter into a dark church, at first only illumined by the Paschal Candle which represents Christ), have a responsibility to share it with others.  And we should not prefer darkness to light, because otherwise we’ll find condemnation.
    But this can tend us to the idea that, if we just check off the right boxes, then we’ll be good.  It makes us the author of our salvation, rather than God.  It pretends that we have what it takes to save ourselves.  If that were so, certainly Abraham, or Moses, or Isaiah would have been in heaven as soon as they died.  But they couldn’t be in heaven without Jesus' saving Death and Resurrection.  Even those just men and women of the Old Testament couldn’t get to heaven on their own.  They, and we, are saved by grace, by the gift of God; it is not earned.
    But Fr. Anthony, you may be saying, you just got done saying that good choices lead to good consequences.  Yes, I did.  But all the good choices in the world couldn’t open up heaven.  It was the consequence of the death of Jesus on the cross that allowed us to enter heaven.  His good choice led to our good consequences.  “God, who is rich in mercy,…” says St. Paul, “brought us to life with Christ….For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not from you; it is the gift of God.”  Try getting to heaven without Jesus; it’s impossible.  You might be able to get halfway there every day, but you’ll never get all the way there.  Jesus is the only one who makes salvation possible.  And He’s the only one who gives us what we need to accept that gift of salvation.  If those in other religions are saved, the Church says, it’s still only because of Jesus.  Moses does not save people (nor did he claim to).  Mohammed does not save people.  Buddha does not save people.  Only Jesus does.  And anyone who is saved, is saved only through the Passion, Death, Resurrection, and Ascension of Jesus.  
    God invites us to salvation.  He invites us to open the gift that He has prepared for us.  But, as with any gift, we can choose whether or not to accept it.  In that way, we’re back to actions and consequences.  If we accept God’s free gift of salvation, heaven is for us.  How do we know that we have accepted that gift?  By the way we live our life; by the good choices we make in response to that gift, because of our love for God.  We can’t earn it, but neither can we receive it without responding to it.  God did not come to condemn us; He sent Jesus to save us.  But the way that we can grab ahold of that salvation is to respond to the gift, to live as Jesus invites us; to make good choices when presented with the free gift of salvation.

Signs of Fall

Twenty-seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time

There are some tell-tale signs that we are in the Fall: Friday night high school football, college football Saturdays, less daylight each day, cooler evenings and mornings, young ladies are starting to break out their uggs and ordering pumpkin spice everything.  Fall is upon us!  And it can be tough with less darker mornings and evenings.  Even during the days, it seems like there is more and more dreariness.

It can also feel darker and darker sometimes in terms of our city.  As you might have guessed, when I told people I was going to Flint, most people quickly responded with, “Don’t drink the water.”  Our water crisis, though we have started to address it, rages on.  As of April 2015, the unemployment rate in Flint was still 9.7%; city-data.com still lists Flint as a high crime area.  It seems like there is little good news for us!

In spite of this, the Word of God gives us some encouragement.  The Book of the Prophet Habakkuk, written likely in the 7th century BC, is written shortly before the Babylonians sack Jerusalem and exile the Chosen People to modern-day Iraq.  There was not very much good news for them, either.  In fact, the prophet says, “How long, O Lord?  I cry for help but you do not listen!  […] Why do you let me see ruin; why must I look at misery?”  Perhaps this is our prayer as well.  But the Lord does not remain silent.  He responds, “the vision still has its time, presses on to fulfillment, and will not disappoint; if it delays, wait for it, it will surely come, it will not be late.”  God promises not to abandon his people, even if things look very dark.  What are the people to do in the meantime?  “The just one,” Habakkuk writes, “because of his faith, shall live.”  

Faith is hard, because, as the Letter to the Hebrews states, it is the “evidence of things not seen.”  We see darkness around us.  The light is not visible to our eyes.  It takes faith to trust that the dawn will break forth and scatter the darkness.  When our experience is negative, it’s hard to know there is any positive at all.  And we can sometimes rationalize not having faith by saying that we’re realists.  

But if we wish to see better times, then faith is necessary.  And we don’t need a large amount of faith, but only the size of a mustard seed, one of the smallest seeds around.  If we have faith that small, then we can command trees to move to their death, and they will do it.  Now, I’m pretty sure the Lord is not telling us to have faith that so we can landscape differently.  But he is saying that if we have a little bit of faith, anything can happen.

Having faith has made a difference in my life.  When I was a parochial vicar in East Lansing, there was a young man I knew who was attending Michigan State.  I had taught him a little at Lansing Catholic High School.  One day he contacted me and asked for prayers because his bike, which was locked on a bike rack, was stolen, and the police had very little hope of getting it back.  He relied on the bike to make it to class and to football practice.  I prayed, through the intercession of St. Anthony and St. Dominic, and had faith that God would answer my prayers according to His will.  I pleaded with God that this young man needed his bike to be a good student, and that getting his bike back would strengthen his faith.  A day after I prayed, the bike was found and returned to its owner.   This definitely did help to increase that young man’s faith.  This young man had been sure that he would never see his bike again.  The police were sure he was right.  Faith made the impossible happen.  

If we have faith, what we see is not what will always be.  That’s true for our spiritual lives: the struggles we have, if united to Jesus, can one day lead to glory in heaven.  It’s true for our city: I see signs of hope that Flint is coming back, and if we follow God’s will we can once more have a thriving city.  And I am excited to be a part of that renewal right here in our parish.  If we have faith in God’s will, and trust in God, we can be major contributors to the flourishing of Flint.  Things may still look bleak, but the Lord invites us to follow Him and trust in Him.  “For the vision still has its time, presses on to fulfillment, and will not disappoint; if it delays, wait for it, it will surely come, it will not be late.”  Trust that being obedient to God’s will will give us things that we never thought could be.  Have faith!

Country Club of Heaven

First Sunday of Advent

Ever since 24 June, the Solemnity of the Birth of John the Baptist, there has been less and less daylight in our part of the world.  That changes right around 25 December, the Solemnity of the Birth of Jesus Christ, the Light of the World.  But until we get there, it’s dark.  And with daylight saving’s time having ended, it gets dark pretty early.  Today the sunset around 5:05 p.m.  Even though 5 p.m. is not late at all, with the early darkness, it just seems gloomy, especially with the usual Michigan winter cloudiness.

In the midst of this gloom, we can long for the long, warm days of summer, when all was bright and the sun was out until 9 p.m. or even later!  But it can be hard to think that those days will ever be here again when its dark so early, and certainly not as warm (though it is a warm weekend!).  

We get a sense through our weather of what the Jews were going through as Jeremiah was prophesying.  At this point in the Book of the prophet Jeremiah, the city is under siege by the Babylonians, who are about to take Jerusalem.  This will be the beginning of the Babylonian Exile, which exiles most of the Jews from Judah and Jerusalem until 587 B.C.  Those days were certainly dark, and not because of daylight saving’s time!  

In the midst of that darkness, Jeremiah speaks for the Lord a word of hope: “I will raise up for David a just shoot;…In those days Judah shall be safe and Jerusalem shall dwell secure.”  God promises that the dark days will not last forever.  He will give them new life, and a new king from the line of David, the idyllic king, who will be just.  Judah and Jerusalem shall not be besieged, but shall be safe and secure.

Jesus’ words in the Gospel do not sound so calming and hopeful.  Jesus is speaking to His disciples just before His Passion, and is warning them about the end times.  They will be so horrible that people will die of fright simply anticipating what will happen.  “‘But,’” as Jesus says, “‘when these signs begin to happen, stand erect and raise your heads because your redemption is at hand.’”  For Jesus disciples, who are following Him and His will, the terror of the end is like the birth pangs which bring about new life.  So, maybe we can breathe a sigh of relief.  After all, we are Jesus’ disciples, and we have nothing to worry about.  We go to Mass each Sunday, so we’re good.  Right?

Well, Jesus’ next words should give us a little more trepidation.  Jesus warns His disciples not to become lax so that the end catches us off-guard.  And he tells His disciples to be vigilant “‘and pray that you have the strength to escape the tribulations that are imminent and to stand before the Son of Man.’”  

Being baptized and attending Mass each Sunday and Holyday is a big deal.  It shows at least a minimal attachment to Jesus and a desire to work at our relationship with Him.  But baptism is not a membership card in the Heavenly Country Club.  It’s not like if we sign up to join (baptism) and pay our weekly dues (going to Mass) that Jesus has to let us in.  Being a disciple of Jesus is not about going through the motions.  Being Catholic is not about the rules.  Being a Catholic and a disciple of Jesus is about growing in our friendship with Jesus and making our lives more like His.  That is the sign that we have accepted God’s friendship, which is offered to all, and that we are going in our friendship with Jesus.  We cannot rest on the laurels of our past good deeds.  We are never at a point in our relationship with Jesus where we can say, “I’ve done enough; I can just coast from here on out.”  Imagine if you treated your friends that way: “I’ve spent enough time with you for a while.  I’ll see you sometime in June.”  You probably wouldn’t be good friends.  Or imagine if you treated your spouse that way (so many saints and even Jesus talk about our relationship in marriage/wedding terms): “I spent every day with you so far in 2015; I’m going to live with someone else for December, but I’ll see you again in January.”  I’m sure that marriage wouldn’t last long.  

St. Paul encourages us to conduct ourselves in a particular way, as friends of Jesus.  We see that in the love that we share with others, but especially in the love we have for God, which overflows into our love for others.  As Pope Benedict said in his Encyclical, Deus caritas est: “Being Christian is not the result of an ethical choice or a lofty idea, but the encounter with an event, a person, which gives life a new horizon and a decisive direction.”  If we love God, then we don’t simply go through the motions of the sacramental life of the Church and weekly Mass attendance, but we allow those sacraments and the Mass to propel us in loving God and our neighbor in daily life, that is to say, in growing as friends of Jesus.  

Things may seem dark during this time of year.  Things may seem dark in our lives at other times.  But God has a vision of hope for us: the hope of new life in growing in our relationship with Jesus.  That relationship gives us the true Light, Jesus Christ, and prepares us for the unending Day of the Lord in heaven when Jesus returns.

"If you're going through hell, keep on going"

Twenty-seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time

            “Is anybody there?”  This is the question the Prophet Habakkuk asks God in the first reading.  He is frustrated by the evil that is all around him, how violence and wickedness seem to be everywhere.  And yet God, who is supposed to be the source of justice, the one who punishes the wicked, seems absent from the situation.  The wrongs are not being righted.  The oppressed are not being liberated.  The wicked are not being punished.  Where is God in this situation?

            “Is anybody there?”  This is probably a question that we have asked God from time to time.  “Don’t you care what’s going on in my life?  Don’t you care how bad things are?”  Maybe it’s not violence like the Prophet Habakkuk is frustrated by.  Maybe you’re a senior citizen and no one comes to visit you and you feel alone.  Maybe you’re married, yet the spark of love seems to have died, and all you seem to do is fight with your spouse.  Maybe you’re divorced and feel alienated.  Maybe you’re a college student and the pressure of midterms is weighing heavily upon you and you feel like you’re drowning in your classes.  Maybe you’re a child and nothing seems to be going right with friends, family, or school.  Maybe someone you love has just died and you don’t know how to live without him or her.  No matter what the scenario, many people have dark times in their life.  And what makes it particularly dark is when God doesn’t seem to care, and when the answer to prayer that we want, the thing we are sure will fix the whole situation, doesn’t come. 

            But in our first reading, God responds.  He does not leave Habakkuk in silence.  He says, “Write down the vision clearly upon the tablets…For the vision still has its time…if it delays, wait for it, it will surely come, it will not be late.”  In essence, God tells the prophet, “Just wait.  I am going to work things out in my own time.”  That’s probably not the answer we want to hear when we feel like everything is going wrong.  But God doesn’t answer our prayers exactly the way we want.  He loves us too much to give us only what we want.  He loves us so much, that He knows how and when to give us what we need.  But to persevere through the tough times takes trust and faith in God.

            It’s easy to say with St. Paul, “All things work for the good of those who love God,” when we’ve just won the lottery, when we feel on top of the world, when everything seems to be going well.  It is much harder to say that same phrase when loss and darkness seem to be the norm.  But the gift of faith gives us the strength to trust that all things are working for our good if we love God, and to say with Job, “The Lord gives and the Lord takes away.  Blessed be the name of the Lord!”  With faith, great things are possible.

            Certainly this is the point of what Jesus said to the apostles in today’s Gospel.  Jesus wasn’t talking about landscaping when he said you could move mulberry trees if you have faith.  In some sense, that’s quite easy.  How much harder is it to trust in God when everything seems to be working against us!  And how much more impressive is it to continue to remain faithful to God and persevere than just to move a tree!  In one sense, moving a tree with faith is easy.  Remaining faithful to God and continuing to trust in Him when your heart and your will tell you just to give up is much more of a miracle.  And that is possible if we have faith the size of a mustard seed.  That’s not a lot of faith.  Mustard seeds are not big.  If I were to hold a mustard seed between my finger and thumb, no one could see it, unless you’re Clark Kent.

           

But we were all given the gift of faith in Baptism.  All of us received that precious gift when we became an adopted son or daughter of God.  Sometimes people will say to me, “Father, I don’t have any faith!”  Well, if you were baptized, then you do, even if you don’t feel it.  St. Paul, speaking to St. Timothy in the second reading, reminds St. Timothy to stir into flame the gift of God that he received through the imposition of hands.  St. Paul is talking here about the ordination of St. Timothy, and stirring into flame that gift of the Sacrament of Holy Order.  But the same could be said for the gift of baptism.  We have to stir into flame that gift of the Sacrament of Baptism, the gift of faith, so that we do not fall into the spirit of cowardice or apathy or despair.  We have to exercise that gift of faith, especially when it is tough. 

            Think of a few, small, burning embers in a fire that was burning the night before.  All it takes is some paper and small twigs, some gentle breaths of oxygen, and that fire can start burning once again the next morning and can return to the greatness of the night before.  The same is true with our faith: even when we feel our faith is nothing but a small ember, a small remnant of what it was before, with the proper fuel, our faith can once again be a roaring fire.  How does this happen?  Through reading the Word of God, either alone or in a Bible Study; by sharing with others the little bit of faith we have through Small Faith Sharing Groups; by taking time for prayer, especially before the Blessed Sacrament in Adoration; by removing any obstacles to faith through the Sacrament of Penance.  In that way we nurture the mustard seed of faith, until it grows into a large tree that provides home and comfort for others.

            In a country song, Rodney Atkins sings, “If you’re going through hell, keep on going.”  By the gift of faith we can persevere through all the trials of life, even when we feel like it’s going through hell, knowing that God never abandons us, but sometimes asks us to wait to receive the best things that He has in store for us in the way and the time that He wants to give it.  “If it delays, wait for it, it will surely come, it will not be late.”