Homilies and Occasional Thoughts

Two Catholic Schools, Two Visitors, Two Other Blogs!

2012-02-12T08:13:00.000-08:00

No homily from me this Sunday! Father Sarmed Biloues, who ministers to Iraqi Catholics, will be preaching. He will help our parishioners prepare to receive the Iraqi refugee family that we are sponsoring to Canada. They are presently in some peril even in their refugee camp, since they are in Syria, so we pray they will arrive here soon.

We also have a visiting permanent deacon and his wife, Deacon Roy and Liz Harrington. The Harringtons came up from Seattle to talk with our aspirants and their spouses yesterday, and made a great impression. Deacon Harrington is the director for permanent deacons in the Archdiocese of Seattle. I hope they'll return when there's an opportunity for him to preach.

Instead of my homily this week, I encourage faithful readers to look at two of my favourite blogs. Archbishop Terrence Prendergast has a homily this week about the reasons Jesus sometimes asked for secrecy after he performed a miracle. If you visit his blog, The Journey of a Bishop, you can also see his photos of the skaters on the Rideau Canal.

My other favorite blogger is our youth minster, Jeremy Keong. He blogs much less faithfully than Archbishop Terry, but when he does post something it's an event! His current post is a very interesting opinion about people raising their hands when they pray. So check out The Road to Emmaus and let him challenge or inspire you, or both!

To complete this busy Sunday, we have students from our parish school participating as readers and gift-bearers at all Masses; high school students from St. Thomas Aquinas did the same last week, marking our annual Catholic Schools Week. We're proud of our two schools!

Homily at the Funeral of Patricia Douglas

2012-02-10T20:22:00.000-08:00

Before sharing some thoughts with you all, I must say a few words to Pat’s family. The first is a word of sympathy from Archbishop Michael Miller, who asked me to represent him today. Although Pat had long retired from her employment with the Archdiocese by the time Archbishop Miller arrived, he was very grateful for the volunteer service she offered for many years afterwards.

I also would like to convey to the family the condolences of another priest who worked closely with Pat, Msgr. Mark Hagemoen. He had hoped to be with us, but the timing of the funeral made it impossible.

Msgr. Hagemoen wrote "I remember Pat fondly, both in terms of her work at Catholic Family Services, and on the Advisory Council for the Archbishop. She certainly was a dedicated, wise, and generous member of the local church, and someone who helped a great many people in their various personal journeys."

And there is another person I need to mention: Pat's very dear friend, Sister Kathy Dunne, a Cenacle Sister from Louisiana. Sister Kathy called me this morning to say how much she wishes it were possible for her to be here with us. There is no doubt that she is united in prayer with our Eucharist this afternoon.

***

If you asked me for a single word to describe my friend Pat Douglas, the word would be healer. She joined a healing profession when she became a nurse. She embraced one of nursing's greatest therapeutic challenges when she specialized in psychiatric nursing. She devoted herself to emotional healing in her work as executive director of Catholic Family Services, our church counselling agency.

As a mother to her children, both in childhood and adulthood, she sought to be a healing presence.

In her service on the archdiocesan Advisory Council, she helped to heal those wounded by the Church and, indeed, helped to heal the Church itself.

And in later life, spiritual direction—the work of strengthening and healing wounded hearts—became her great interest. Our last conversation concerned her desire for further studies in this area.

By the way, I recall that conversation very well. Since I feel the effects of middle age rather keenly myself, and Pat was more than a dozen years older than I, when she talked about further studies I said something non-directive and encouraging. Something like "are you nuts?"

Pat was indeed very knowledgeable about the human person, about the human psyche.

But she was a Christian, not a Freudian. She believed that the greatest healer, the source of the deepest and most complete resolution of fear and sorrow, is Christ. To her, the person of Christ and his saving action was the source of the answers to life's crises.

If she were here, Pat would ask us to turn to this source in the face of our sorrow and confusion. A matter of fact woman in many ways, she would ask us bluntly: so what do you believe?

Perhaps we have heard the Christian story too often. (They say familiarity breeds contempt.) Have we, perhaps, lost the ability to apply the saving story of Christ's suffering, death and resurrection to our own circumstances? Every funeral is a chance to enter into this sacred story, which sustained our ancestors even in unspeakable sorrows.

Pat was convinced that it is—or can be—"the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction," as St. Paul says in the first chapter of Second Corinthians. She believed that "as we share abundantly in Christ's sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too."

But how does this happen? How does God comfort us? How does sharing in Christ's sufferings open the door to consolation?

St. Paul begins to answer these questions by telling us that we are children of God (and who is more ready to comfort than a parent?). But he goes a step further, and ties it all in with suffering. He says we are not only children but also heirs of God—and joint heirs with Christ "if only we suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him."

St. Paul says that it's precisely in suffering that we are most closely connected to Jesus. He is already our fellow human being in his human nature; but we really become "one of the family" by sharing in his suffering.

Still, how does sharing with Jesus as an "heir" address our pain and suffering, except in giving it some extra dignity? Paul again: "I consider that the sufferings of this present time are as nothing compared with the glory to be revealed for us."

There's the answer: what we inherit with Christ is the kingdom. What we share with him is his resurrection, his glory.

In other words, although there is no answer on earth that fully addresses all our losses, there is an answer in heaven that completely redeems them. Earthly pain, accepted in union with Christ, leads to eternal life. As one old Quaker saying has it, "no cross, no crown."

We have become so secular and immediate in our thinking, even our religious thinking, that we hesitate to look for the answer to life's biggest questions in the life to come. Even priests like to show how the Gospel brings answers and peace here and now (as it does, in many situations). But the big picture is the life to come, and without a lively sense of it we will never experience the full freedom that Christ came to bring.

And the number one freedom He won for us is freedom from the fear of death.

Pat knew all this, and lived all this, in a life that was not untroubled by suffering and pain. Her attraction to the Religious of the Cenacle was obviously connected to their apostolic work of spiritual direction. But I suspect it was rooted also in the foundress of the Cenacle Sisters, St. Therese Couderc, whose life is an outstanding example of free and humble acceptance of misunderstanding, suffering and anguish, through faith in the mystery of Christ.

You know, it isn't possible to speak of these things at every funeral. In some cases the congregation isn't ready to hear them; in some cases the person who died didn't believe them.

But today we mourn someone who did. Someone for whom Christian and Catholic faith opened the door to peace and healing. She would want it to do the same for us.

Called to Proclaim! (Sunday 5B)

2012-02-04T19:50:00.000-08:00

Father Robert Barron from Chicago is fast becoming the new Fulton Sheen. Like the famous television preacher of the 1950s and 60s, Father Barron seems to be everywhere at once – on YouTube, on television, and writing books.

His specialty is in the details rather than in his delivery. He mines the Bible for gems—insights we could easily miss.

Father Barron is inspired by Origen of Alexandria, a third-century Father of the Church who compared the Bible to the Eucharist. Origen said that we must treat each word of the Scripture as reverently as we would a particle of the Host. Just as we're careful not to drop even a small piece of the consecrated Host, so we should make sure not a word of the sacred text falls to the ground.

This thought also inspired me as I wrote my homily this week. Unfortunately, it inspired me while I studied next week's readings by mistake. In any case, when I finally got on the right page, I read with special care, pretty much word by word.

When I did, I found one word that jumped off the page in today's Gospel: that word was proclaim. Even with people lined up outside his door, Jesus tells the apostles he needs to "to proclaim the message." Mark uses the verb twice.

The same word dominates our second reading. Paul says "woe to me if I do not proclaim the Gospel."

Think of the other things Jesus could have been doing: healing and casting out demons, for sure. Think of the other things Paul could have been doing: strengthening Christians, building community, solving problems. Yet both our Lord and St. Paul put proclaiming the Good News at the top of the list.

Today, both Jesus and Paul remind us that we're called to proclaim the Gospel—it's our duty. But Job, in our first reading, adds another motive—people are dying to hear the message. Human beings, Job says "have a hard service on earth." Life's not easy. Job's not the only one facing sleepless nights tormented by worry or by the fear of death. Life is short, and often life is hard.

Christ has the answer to Job's questions, and Christ has the answers to the questions of modern man.

Maybe, just maybe, at one time we could get away with saying that proclaiming the liberating and healing message of Christ was the duty of priests and sisters. There was a time when we seemed to have a good supply of both. But if it were ever true, it's not true now.

St. Paul puts it perfectly: "how are they to believe in one of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone to proclaim him?"

The Apostle asked those questions in his Letter to the Romans, not in a letter to priests. And they're meant for us. How are people today going to believe in a Lord they've never heard of? And how are they to hear without someone to proclaim him?"

The 'someone' is you. You, the fifteen year-old student at STA. You, the middle-aged dentist. You, the young mother of four. You, the assistant manager at Park Royal. You, the retiree, you, the medical student.

I can preach until I am blue in the face without reaching any of the people with whom you study, work or live… because they don't come to church, and unlike Bishop Sheen or Father Barron, I'm not on TV.

And with all due respect to St. Paul, I can't be "all things to all people." I'm not a woman; many of you are, though. I'm not young; but some of you are. I'm not rich, but some of you are; and I'm not elderly (yet!) but some of you are. It's you, the parishioners of Christ the Redeemer parish, who can actually be "all things to all people," and can proclaim the message in an effective way to the people the Lord puts in your path, rich and poor, old and young, male and female.

What does this say to us today? Surely it's a simple message. We need to make sharing the faith a priority in our lives.

The stunning success of our Alpha courses is proof of what I am saying. People came because friends, family members, and acquaintances asked them to come. And they came back because they found a warm welcome.

When so-called ordinary parishioners realize they are entrusted with a commission, great things happen.

Divine Authority (Sunday 4B)

2012-01-29T05:58:00.000-08:00

Meryl Streep’s latest movie, “The Iron Lady,” won’t break any box office records, since fans of Margaret Thatcher don’t like its disrespectful treatment of her old age, and the younger generation has already started to forget her.

But the first woman Prime Minister of Great Britain doesn’t need to worry about her place in the history books; that’s secure enough.

And at least she would like the title of the film. The "iron lady" took pride in her nickname. When they unveiled a bronze statue of Lady Thatcher in the Houses of Parliament, she commented “I might have preferred iron – but bronze will do, since it won't rust.”

Twenty years after her retirement there are still bitter disagreements about Margaret Thatcher's policies. But there's little disagreement about her unflinching determination. People who didn't admire her beliefs still admired the remarkable way she stuck to them.

Deep down, we don't trust people who tell us what they think we want to hear.

One thing we know about Jesus: he never told people what he thought they wanted to hear. He was not afraid of being unpopular: at one point people wanted to throw him off a cliff, some of his own disciples quit when he told them his body and blood were real food and drink, and of course eventually his teaching led him to the cross.

Yet today's Gospel shows us the attracting power of his uncompromising words. The people were “astonished” at Christ's teaching; they were “amazed.” One modern translation even says, “they were being knocked out with astonishment” (R. Gundry).

In particular, the folks listening to Jesus in the synagogue were dazzled by the authority of his teaching.

Did you notice how St. Mark underlined that? He didn’t tell us a single thing Jesus said at Capernaum: not one word!

Archbishop Prendergast makes this point clearly in his commentary on today's Gospel text.

“Mark stressed the impact of Jesus’ teaching without telling us what feature of it displayed that authority. His focus was on the authority as such and on the people's reaction."

So it seems right that we should spend a few moments thinking about authority as such, and on our reaction to it. Some of us grew up times when authority was respected, others when authority was routinely rejected; but all of us need to understand the special place it plays in our spiritual lives.

Many references to authority in the Catechism are about political or public authority; I’m not talking about that today. The Catechism also has a lot to say about authority in the Church; and even that's not where I'm going this morning.

Today, I want to talk about divine authority—about God’s authority, the authority with which Jesus taught in the synagogue at Capernaum. There’s not so much about that in the Catechism, perhaps because it seems obvious.

But if it’s obvious, it’s not as obvious as it once was. Rabbi Harold Kushner’s latest book is titled “I’m God, You’re Not.” Not so many years ago, that title wouldn’t have made much sense, but nowadays there are a whole lot of people—including Catholics—who need to think that over. We have taken to insisting that God fit in with modern thinking in ways that really do not acknowledge his authority over us.

At least half the time someone challenges me about the Church’s teaching, they are challenging not her authority but God’s. They do not recognize God’s absolute and sovereign right to command whatever he chooses; they reject the Lord’s words “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways,” which we find in the book of the Prophet Isaiah.

Of course even the most half-hearted believers won’t turn to God and say “what right have you to tell me this or that?” They’re probably afraid he might actually answer them by saying “because I’m God, and you’re not.”

Instead, they say things like “well, the Church better get with it,” or “it’s not good to be too religious” or even “I hate religion, but I love Jesus.” That last line can simply mean “I love Jesus, but not when he tries to tell me what to do.”

Rejection of God’s authority is especially common when our bodies are involved. The pro-abortion argument that a woman has a right to her body is one example. In fact, with no apologies at all, God claims full authority over us, body and soul. St. Paul couldn’t make that clearer when he writes “do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God, and that you are not your own?”

Efforts to exclude God from civic life, from the public square, are also based on a refusal to acknowledge the supremacy of God. His laws, both natural and revealed, are only to be obeyed when they coincide with our human appraisal of the situation.

What is the correct way to understand God’s authority over our lives? The Catechism answers this very well when it says that we don’t believe because revealed truths are obviously true to our human reason but “because of the authority of God himself who reveals them,” God “who can neither deceive nor be deceived.”

Of course God has made sure that our submission in faith is nonetheless in accordance with reason. “The miracles of Christ and the saints, prophecies, the Church’s growth and holiness, and her fruitfulness and stability” are very helpful signs of divine Revelation. Our assent to revealed truth is reasonable; by no means is it “a blind impulse” (see CCC 156). Yet ultimately, we believe because of God’s authority—even when our human understanding falters.

To continue with the Catechism, “Faith is certain. It is more certain than all human knowledge because it is founded on the very word of God who cannot lie” (CCC 157).

A couple of the candidates running for president in the United States could learn a thing or two from the Iron Lady. The number of times they’ve changed what they claim to believe is nothing short of astonishing, and people distrust them as a result.

Jesus inspires our trust by his complete consistency and confident authority. As St. Paul tells the Corinthians, Jesus “was not ‘Yes and No’; but in him it is always ‘Yes.’” If we aren’t amazed and astonished—even knocked out—by the authority of his teaching, perhaps it’s time to take today’s Psalm to heart: O that today you would listen to his voice—harden not your hearts.

The Power of Now: Sunday 3.A

2012-01-21T20:31:00.000-08:00

A few years back a parishioner gave me a copy of a New Age bestseller called The Power of Now. It seemed an odd thing to hand your pastor, and odder still when my head started to swim with the author's convoluted ideas.

So I asked the parishioner what he had in mind by giving me the book. "Oh," he said, "Someone gave it to me, and I sure didn't want to read it."

But there was one good thing about the book: the title. In four words it sums up an important message from today's scriptures.

Jonah was a slow learner; he found out the power of "now" after trying to avoid the will of God. The first sentence of today's first reading has been badly edited in the Lectionary. We read "The word of the Lord came to Jonah, saying, 'get up, go to Nineveh," but that's not exactly how chapter three begins.

In the Bible, it says "The word of the Lord came to Jonah a second time…" In between the first time and the second time, Jonah flees from the presence of the Lord in an effort to avoid his mission. And we all know what happened next: he is shipwrecked, and swallowed by a whale.

He learned the power of now the hard way, so when God commands him a second time, he gets a move on.

St. Paul was a much faster learner, and when he meets Jesus on the road to Damascus, he's all about "now," spending his energies tirelessly, making up for lost time with missionary zeal. He literally lives like there's no tomorrow—because he's not sure about tomorrow. Like many in the early Church, Paul expects the return of Lord at any time.

Almost two thousand years have gone by since Jesus ascended to the Father, so we tend to be less convinced than Paul was that time is short. We may even think he was simply wrong in his lively expectation of the Second Coming.

But of course Paul was not wrong. Jesus himself tells us that he is "coming at an unexpected hour" (Mt 24:44) and says his followers "do not belong to the world" (Jn 17:14-16). And all of us past fifty know from experience that time is short—that even if the Lord does not return in our lifetime, we will return to him sooner than we might like.

The teaching of Jesus is mostly about "now" and much less about "then" or "when." Even though he promises an eternal reward, he is always reminding us that the Kingdom is at hand. Time is short because time is fulfilled: Jesus has already begun his reign.

The Lord uses simple imperatives to convey the timeliness and urgency of his message: "repent" and "believe." He doesn't tell us to begin a lengthy process of self-discovery so we can slowly mature into Christians. Repent and believe—you can almost hear him add: now.

There's a tale told by Professor Barclay that I have used in many sermons, because it makes such a practical point about these important truths. It's the story of a job interview in Hell. Three devils applied for a vacant position as tempters on earth.

Satan asked the first candidate what he would do to ruin souls. He replies that he would convince them there is no Heaven. Satan sneers that people naturally know there must be something to reward earthly virtue, something beyond their horizons. "They'll never fall for that," he says, and sends the unsuccessful applicant on his way.

The next devil comes in, and Satan asks the same question. Very confidently, the eager devil says "I would convince them that there's no such place as Hell." Satan erupts with laughter. "What a useless strategy! The human sense of justice will see through that in a minute. Get out of my office."

Finally, the last candidate begins his interview. When Satan asks what he would do to capture souls, the third devil says "I would convince them that there's lots and lots of time."

Satan smiled. "You've got the job."

Even Satan knows the power of now—and the ruinous power of "later." Time has grown short, and later all too often means "never."

At the 9 and 11 Masses today, we are blessed to meet the men and women who have decided that now is the time—either to be baptized or to enter in to full communion with the Catholic Church. They declare their intention so we'll know we should support and pray for them. But they also remind us that our time is short, and that our moment is now.

Do we need to make a more radical commitment to our faith? That's a wordy way of asking "do we need to repent"? Do we need to believe more fully in the good news?"

Friday night I spoke to two or three hundred people at the fiftieth Life in the Spirit seminar held in this diocese; to my surprise, the organizer told me I had spoken at the first seminar as well, nineteen years ago. Most of the people there are baptized, confirmed and practicing. They came out on a stormy night because they know the Kingdom has come near, and they feel a need to experience its fruits more fully.

One of the reasons why evangelical Protestant churches are so strong is that they invite adult Christians to make a decision for Christ now. Needless to say, a one-time "yes" to God is no substitute for perseverance over the years. But nor is unfocussed Christian living a substitute for a personal act of faith here and now.

In many Protestant evangelical churches, at this point in the sermon the preacher would invite people to make a new spiritual commitment to Jesus. Those who wished to would stand before the altar as a symbol of their decision, which is why the invitation is referred to as an "altar call"—even in churches without altars.

An "altar call" is not part of our tradition. We sometimes say that coming forward to receive Communion is the perfect altar call.

But maybe Catholic preachers should be less shy about inviting people to renew their commitment to Jesus right here and now. It's easy to agree with a homily that says we should do something in the future; it's a greater challenge to decide whether to do something now.

So today I'm inviting you to bow your heads and experience the power of now—the power of a renewed commitment to Christ. I'm going to read you part of the commitment prayer that is used in the Life in the Spirit seminars. Make it your own as I pray it; if you wish, repeat each phrase in your heart.

Lord Jesus Christ, I surrender to you today with all my heart and soul. From now on, I want to belong to you totally and completely. I want to be freed in every way from the power and rule of Satan.

Jesus, I believe you are the Son of God, that you died on the cross to free from my sins and that you rose again to bring me new life. I receive you as my Lord and Saviour. I ask you to help me turn away from all wrong doing and I ask your forgiveness for all the sins I have committed.

Lord, I give my life to you. I open wide the doors of my heart and I ask you to fill me with your presence.

Amen.

Groups and Church Communion

2012-01-15T08:19:00.000-08:00

Our Catholic schools sponsored a fundraising dinner last night for the Imagine Project, an exciting effort to provide a community center at Sacred Heart Parish in one of Vancouver's poorest neighbourhoods.

They auctioned off the usual items: dinner for two at a fancy restaurant, a pair of Canucks tickets, a weekend for two at downtown hotel.

But imagine if they'd offered a dinner for one. Or one ticket to a hockey game. Or a weekend getaway for one.

No-one would have bid anything, except perhaps for a few hard-pressed mothers, who might have paid big money to stay alone at the hotel. But generally, we don't do many things by ourselves.

Have you ever wondered why that is? I still can't figure out why I can't go to a movie by myself; after all, you don't talk to anyone during the film—at least you shouldn't!—and conversation afterwards isn't usually the point.

The answer is actually quite simple: we are social beings. You can't understand people without realizing that. And that's just as true when it comes to the Church. Many aspects of her life and mission are tied to the social nature of her members.

That simple fact is the natural basis of what I want to talk about this morning. The supernatural side of the story is the word "communion." It has many meanings, the first of which has a capital C: we speak of "going to Communion," when we receive the Eucharist.

Today I'm using communion with a small C, because the word also refers to the community life in the Body of Christ that is the effect of the Eucharist*; it even refers to the nature of the Church itself—the Catechism says the Church is a communion (n. 688).

So there's our starting point: the members of the Church are people, who are social by nature; and the Church by nature is a communion of people in communion with one another and in communion with God.

From that starting point, Blessed John Paul drew a conclusion of enormous importance to the Church and to our own parish. In his letter on the life and mission of the laity, he wrote: "Church communion, already present and at work in the activities of the individual, finds its specific expression in the lay faithful's working together in groups…"

Think about what this means! Somehow, when groups participate in the Church's life and mission, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. If a group of ten people visit the sick, something happens beyond what happens if ten people each decide to visit the sick.

That "something" is simply this: the group becomes a sign of communion. All the good done by each individual is present, but added to it there's what Pope John Paul called a "cultural" effect: the group becomes a sign of unity and community to a fractured world.

Groups, associations and movements in the Church are not only a result of the social nature of the person, but also a way of building community in the Church and in our individualistic world.

This doesn't take anything away from the enormous good that's done by individuals. Every time a single parishioner visits someone in hospital, or drives an elderly person to Mass, he or she participates in the Church's mission of charity. When one man or woman asks someone to Alpha, or shares the faith in another way, they carry on the Church's mission of spreading the Gospel.

What the late Pope is saying is simply that something specific and valuable comes when such things are done by groups or associations: namely, Church communion is expressed. Something central to the nature of the Church can be seen clearly.

Like so much that came from the brilliant mind of Blessed John Paul, these concepts—which might sound a bit abstract—have very practical consequences for us. In two words: groups matter. They matter to the Church, which needs them not only to promote its mission but to strengthen and manifest its communion. They matter to each Christian, since, as John Paul has written, belonging to a group can be a big help in remaining faithful to the demands of the Gospel and our commitment to the Church's mission.

And what he is saying matters very much to our parish, because whatever is true about individuals and whatever is true about the Church is, of course, true about the parish of Christ the Redeemer and its members.

Groups matter to our parish. It can neither be what it's called to be, or do what it's called to do, without groups and associations.

In concrete terms, this means a strong parish needs strong groups. It also means that we must fight the temptation of avoiding groups because we'd rather do good on our own time, in our way. It means that meetings are important even if no-one, myself included, likes going to them.

It means that we must support the groups that have traditionally been the backbone of Canadian Catholic life: the Catholic Women's League, the Knights of Columbus, and the Society of St. Vincent de Paul.

It means also that we must be open to the new groups and movements that Pope John Paul identifies as part of a "new era of group endeavours." These include various and very different group forms, including organized new movements like Focolare or the Neo-Catechumenal Way, less formal groups promoting the Catholic charismatic renewal, or the prelature of Opus Dei.

And it means that the parish should encourage the formation of small groups to carry on various activities under its umbrella.

Today I want to focus on "the big three": the Catholic Women's League, the Knights of Columbus, and the Society of St. Vincent de Paul. Today's society makes life difficult for all such voluntary organizations, whether they are Catholic or not: even the Masons have trouble recruiting nowadays, and I noticed in the paper the closing of a branch of the Canadian Legion. People are busier and busier, and more and more tired at the end of the day. Social ties among Catholics are weaker, and it becomes an uphill battle to find members and especially leaders for parish groups.

But there are compelling reasons why we must fight these trends. I've given you many of them already. Let me add two more: first, some good work can only be accomplished by groups. No individual parishioner should try caroling at a nursing home—at least not unless he or she has a wonderful voice and an ego to match.

And second, groups keep us moving. My Mom exercised for years with a group she called the pool ladies, who met regularly at a local swimming pool. Now that she's moved here, she has discovered her apartment building has its own "pool ladies," and she exercises with them.

I'm not doubting my mother's self-discipline, but it's hard to imagine she would have been so faithful to her exercises without the group.

The CWL, K of C, and SVDP have been part of the Church for so long that we recognize them by initials alone. Still, we may not recognize all that they do: in the parish, they are three pillars supporting much of what we do, and you know about that from the bulletin and your own experience. But all three also do tremendous work outside the parish: the K of C is one of the strongest supporters of the Church internationally, the CWL advocates for social justice and civil rights nationally, and the SVDP does extensive charitable work throughout the Archdiocese, notably in the downtown east side.

Attending a meeting may not be exciting, but it's fair to say "no meetings, no mission."

After Mass today, you will find members of "the big three" in the foyer asking you to join them. Please give their invitation some serious thought if you'd like to get more serious about living your faith and sharing in the Church's communion and mission.

And if you already belong, I hope that you might give some thought to saying "yes" when you're invited to leadership. Nowadays it's even harder to get leaders than members.

One final thought: As with every other act of stewardship, you're very likely to find that you receive more than you give. In his powerful little booklet called Is Real Change Possible?, Peter Herbeck writes that "One reason why many Christians don't experience the power to change is that they are living in isolation. The Christian life was not meant to be lived alone. Christianity is a communion of passionate lovers, of people whose hearts are together set on God."
____________
* See L. Bouyer, Dictionary of Theology (1965) 91.

Alpha: A Gift Fit for a King

2012-01-08T06:56:00.000-08:00

Did you come to church empty-handed this morning? And I'm not talking about whether you remembered your envelopes or your wallets.

I'm asking what gifts you brought to offer to the Lord. What homage will you pay to Jesus as we celebrate his birth?

Most of us wouldn't dream of arriving at a birthday party without a gift. So how can we celebrate this great mystery without one?

Each of us is invited to join the procession to Bethlehem, foretold by Isaiah's prophecy in our first reading, prefigured in our Psalm, and described in the Matthew's account of the visit of the wise men.

Like excited youngsters attending a birthday party, we need to say "here, this is for you!" and wait eagerly for the reaction.

But what are we to bring? What can we offer the Creator of the world?

It's a fair bet that no-one has brought him gold, or frankincense or myrrh. These aren't what Jesus needs or asks. Today, he doesn't ask for symbolic gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh but very practical gifts of time, talent, and treasure.

When we offer the Christ Child our time, our talent, and our treasure, we do exactly what the wise men did: we pay him homage. We allow our joy at his birth to overflow into our lives. We admit to being overwhelmed by the Star of Bethlehem that brings light to the darkest corners of our lives and our world.

I'm not going to talk about the powerful symbolism of the gold, frankincense and myrrh this Sunday; it's enough to say that the Epiphany story would be incomplete without all three. And it's enough to say that Christians don't choose whether to offer time, talent, or treasure: we are called by baptism, and by discipleship, to offer all three as we kneel before our King.

But still you ask: what am I to offer? Is this homily about increasing the collection?

Not at all. Even at Bethlehem, the greatest gift the Magi offered was their time. T.S. Eliot reminds us of that in his poem "The Journey of the Magi," which begins by quoting a seventeenth-century homily: "A cold coming we had of it/ Just the worst time of the year/ For a journey, and such a long journey."

What was true then is true today. The light that has shone in our hearts, the dawn that draws us, the mystery made known to us, and the promise given to us logically and necessarily require a response. And how can we respond without offering time?

So far in this brief homily I have asked eight questions. They may seem rhetorical—they haven't made anyone too uncomfortable. It's time, then, to ask a question that's very practical: are you willing this month to take the time and make the effort to share the true joy of Christmas with someone you know?

Even more specifically: will you offer the Lord the gift he most desires, by asking a friend, a neighbour or a co-worker to come to the Alpha course?

Will you take the time to come with them on Monday nights?
The Alpha course invites people to share "in the promise in Christ Jesus through the Gospel" that St. Paul speaks of in our second reading. It makes known the basic truths of the mystery that God has revealed through the coming of Christ.

It's not a catechism course. It's not a refresher course. It's twelve weeks of what C.S. Lewis called "mere Christianity"—namely, the fundamental truths about the life and death of Jesus and all that they mean for sinful man.

Alpha is fast and funny. The food is good. And the atmosphere is welcoming. The other day someone asked me whether they could ask an atheist to Alpha. I laughed and said "Of course! Alpha is tailor-made for atheists. We'd love to see Dawkins at Alpha; it would have been great to see poor Christopher Hitchens at Alpha."

My family is a gift-giving family. But there's not much spontaneous about our gifts. Before every birthday or Christmas there's a jungle telegraph that communicates a list of suitable gifts; sometimes all I have to do is wrap it. It's that easy: no need to guess.

Today, in our parish, there's no need to guess. If you want a gift idea for the birthday of our Saviour, bring someone to him; go through the list of people who've asked you about your faith, or who have criticized your faith, or who seem to have lost their faith. Ask them to Alpha—more precisely, ask them to come with you to Alpha.

Your gift of time may open eternity to someone; but whatever comes of it, you will have offered a gift fit for a King.

Homily at Rise Up

2011-12-29T13:24:00.000-08:00

I preached this morning at the opening Mass for Catholic Christian Outreach's annual Christmas conference, attended by more than five hundred young people. Here is the text of the homily.

Pope Benedict seems to have come up with a new phrase—new to me, anyway. In a recent talk, he spoke of "faith fatigue."

He suggested that we suffer from faith fatigue when a number of things get us down: that regular churchgoers are growing older and fewer; that the recruitment of priests is stagnating; and that scepticism and unbelief are growing.

But in the face of those discouraging signs, the Holy Father was very quick to mention that he finds remedies for faith fatigue. He mentions first the Church in Africa, with its "joyful passion for faith."

"None of the faith fatigue that is so prevalent here, none of the oft-encountered sense of having had enough of Christianity, was detectable there, he said.

Not surprisingly, the second remedy that the Pope found for faith fatigue was "the wonderful experience of World Youth Day in Madrid," which he called the "new evangelization put into practice."

In particular, he found five things about World Youth Days that point towards a new, more youthful form of Christianity.

The first thing he mentions is "a new experience of catholicity, of the Church's universality." Pope Benedict sees this when people who have never met one another, know one another, despite different languages and cultures. "Shared faith and a common liturgy … unites us in a vast family. At World Youth Day, we recognize that "it is a wonderful thing to belong to the worldwide Church, to the Catholic Church, that the Lord has given to us."

The second is the generous spirit of service and sacrifice that goes along with the general chaos of a WYD. (Well, the Pope didn't mention the chaos—I added that bit.) He says this readiness to give oneself is ultimately derived from meeting Christ, who gave himself for us.

The third mark of a more youthful faith is adoration, which he calls primarily an act of faith.

The fourth is the Sacrament of Confession, which has more and more become a central part of WYD. This healing sacrament awakens in us the positive force of the Creator, to draw out of our sin, upwards to Him.

Finally, Pope Benedict points to joy. Faith leads to joy, he suggests, since only faith gives me the conviction that it is good that I exist. It is good to be a human being, even in hard times. Faith makes one happy from deep within. That is one of the wonderful experiences of World Youth Days.

I have quoted at great length from the Pope's remarks, which he made in his end-of-the-year meeting with his collaborators at the Vatican. The first reason is that they are proof of the central thing that St. John proclaims in today's first reading: the darkness is passing away and the true light is already shining.

Despite our stumbles and struggles, despite our own inconsistencies and those of others, the light is shining. As we prayed in the opening prayer, God has dispersed the darkness of this world by the coming of Christ, the Light. Like Simeon in the Temple, we have seen salvation shine—a light that banishes all fear.

My second reason is simply that everything the Pope said about World Youth Day—except his mention of the near-disaster when the storm struck in Madrid—applies to our days together this week. All the optimism Pope Benedict felt at WYD he would feel if he were able to be with us; Rise Up is no less a remedy against faith fatigue.

If you have experienced that already, or know it to be true, let's rejoice together. If you are attending for the first time, then bring your own faith fatigue—your doubts, darkness, and fears—and allow these days to be a lasting and perfect remedy.

Introducing Father de Souza

2011-12-28T16:44:00.000-08:00

I had the pleasure tonight of introducing Father Raymond de Souza at a reception in Vancouver to promote his new venture. Here are my brief remarks.

After I accepted the welcome invitation to present Father de Souza to you, the organizers of this evening's reception e-mailed to ask if I would like some biographical information on him. I said only if you want me to talk for more than half an hour! I have at least that much material in my head.

In fact, my only challenge in introducing Father Raymond de Souza tonight is trying to avoid a full length speech: because I am not only a friend, but a fan.

Having just had the pleasure of hearing him kick off CCO's Rise Up with a very stirring speech, we gather with Father de Souza, principally to recognize the latest of his many contributions to intellectual life in Canada: he has, as you know, taken on the job of Editor-in-Chief of Convivium.

This new journal, launched by Cardus, Canada's leading Christian think tank, bears the important subtitle "Faith in our Common Life."

The challenges of inviting Canadians to a thoughtful dialogue on faith would be enough to keep someone busy full-time, but needless to say Convivium shares Father Raymond with one or two of his other activities.

These are principally his work as chaplain of Newman House at Queen's University in Kingston and as pastor at Sacred Heart of Mary Parish on nearby Wolfe Island.

And of course his official biography is very quick to point out his favourite job—chaplain of the Queen's football team! He's held that position for the past seven years, including—please take note—the season when Queen's won the national championship.

Then there is his other journalistic pursuit, as a weekly columnist for the National Post. He began in that role as a seminarian, which led me to conclude he was a late vocation who had worked for decades on a newspaper before turning to the priesthood. To my dismay, I discovered his talent was natural, and that he was some years younger than I.

As a columnist for the Post, Father de Souza has given voice to views that are terribly under-represented in the press and other media, arguing with clarity and conviction on burning issues without becoming a scold or a one-issue writer. In fact, the scope of his columns is one of the things that makes him such a joy to read.

George Weigel, the author of acclaimed biographies of Pope John Paul, described Father de Souza as "Canada's finest Catholic commentator." This is high praise coming from a very serious American intellectual. On the other hand, when Weigel was told about a gathering of Canadian conservatives, he expressed a great deal of surprise that there were enough of them to gather!

Tonight's reception shows there are enough fans of Father de Souza in Vancouver to make a happy gathering, and I am extremely happy to one of them.

Christmas Day: The Pope’s Three Wishes

2011-12-25T10:42:00.000-08:00

It was Christmas Eve, but Jim, Frank, and Joe were stranded on a desert island. Their food and water were almost gone, and the three friends were beginning to lose heart.

Suddenly, a bottle floated onto the shore; as soon as they picked it up, a genie popped out. She said, "I have three wishes to grant. Each of you can make one wish come true."

Jim was thrilled. He said, "I wish I were in Bethlehem, singing Christmas carols in Manger Square with my wife and children. Instantly he was gone, his wish granted.

Frank smiled and said, "I wish I were in Rome right now attending Midnight Mass with my dear parents at St. Peter's. Just like that, he disappeared.

The genie then turned to Joe. "And what do you wish for?"

Joe answered, "Bethlehem, Rome, or Vancouver. Gee, I wish I had my buddies back to help me decide..."

I dared to begin my homily by joking about three wishes, because I want to talk today about the three wishes Pope Benedict made just before switching on the lights of the world's largest Christmas tree.

The tree, incidentally, is near the town of Gubbio, where St. Francis started our tradition of the Christmas crib.

Pope Benedict's three wishes are a beautiful lesson in the true Christmas spirit.

He began with the hope that we would lift our eyes towards heaven and not be stuck on earthly things.

"My first wish," he said, "is that our gaze… our minds and our hearts, rest not only on the horizon of this world, on its material things," turn towards God like the soaring Christmas tree.

He said that "God never forgets us, but he also asks that we don't forget him."

The Pope's second wish reminded us that we must rely on the light of Christ. He wished that everyone remember that we "need a light to illumine the path of our lives and to give us hope, especially in this time in which we feel so greatly the weight of difficulties, of problems, [and] of suffering."

"The Child … we contemplate [at] Christmas, in a poor and humble manger, is "the light that overcomes the darkness of our hearts" and gives us "firm and sure hope."

"My final wish," the Pope concluded, "is that each of us contributes something of that light" to others: "our families, our jobs, our neighborhoods, towns and cities."

He prayed that we will be a light for our neighbour, overcoming selfishness, which so often "closes our hearts and leads us to think only of ourselves."

"Any small gesture of goodness," Pope Benedict said, "is like one of the lights of this great tree: together with other lights it illuminates the darkness of the night, even of the darkest night."

In his three wishes, the Holy Father has summed up the message of Christmas: turn to God, walk in the light of Christ, and share that light and love with others.

What impresses me so much about these three thoughts is how realistic they are. Pope Benedict knows how tempted we are to limit our horizons to the things we can see, to our human needs and wants. Perhaps more than anyone else, he knows how deep the darkness can be; the Pope hears daily reports of injustice within nations, savagery between peoples, and infidelity within the Church.

Yet he knows that this is precisely why Christ came to earth. Jesus was born at Bethlehem not to give us an annual feel-good celebration, but to save us from our sins.

This morning each of us is a genie who can grant the Holy Father his three wishes. We can forget, for a moment, who got the better gifts; we can take our minds off how we're going to fit everyone around the table, especially since two of the relatives aren't speaking. Instead, we can lift our hearts to heaven as we take part in this Mass with thanks for the gift of salvation.

We can ponder in our hearts the wonders of the gift of Jesus, just as Mary did beside the manger that first Christmas night. Like the shepherds of Bethlehem, we can glorify and praise God for all we have heard and seen. And we can resolve to be faithful to Sunday Mass in the year ahead so that we're sure to look up to heaven at least once each week.

We can grant Pope Benedict his second wish by letting the true light become our guide. All too often we try to walk by our own light or by the values of the world. This Christmas we can resolve to turn to God more often, and more confidently. Perhaps this will mean looking to the Bible or the Catechism for more practical guidance on our daily journey, or just trying harder to accept God's will in a spirit of prayerful surrender.

Finally, let's grant the Pope's third wish by deciding to be more thoughtful and charitable—not only to the needy, but to our family members, friends and co-workers. We can share with others the good news of Christ's coming. We can do it in words, like the shepherds did, or by even the smallest acts of kindness, as Pope Benedict suggests.

One of the kindest things we can do is sharing our hope and faith with others. In January, our parish will offer the Alpha Course—a lively and interesting introduction to the basics of Christianity. This morning, I invite anyone who is at all interested in the Christian answers to the big questions about life to grab a flyer as you leave.

But even more important, I invite parishioners who want to give the best Christmas present in the world to a friend or co-worker or family member to bring them along to the Alpha course. There are details in the bulletin and we have some flyers as well.

Bethlehem, Rome—or Vancouver. Wherever we are at Christmas, the goodness and loving kindness of God our Saviour has appeared and the light of Christ shines in our hearts through his Holy Spirit, poured out on us richly so that we might inherit eternal life.

This is cause for true rejoicing in a world where the night can seem very dark in certain places or at certain times. By turning our eyes to the light, by letting the light guide our path, and by sharing it with others, we'll do much more than grant the Holy Father three wishes; we will receive the gift of salvation that Christ was born to bring.

(My homily for Midnight Mass can be found here.)

Midnight Mass: Let the Light Shine

2011-12-24T21:13:00.000-08:00

When I was ten years old, a great darkness came over the land. The lights went out for 25 million people, in an 80,000 square mile area of Eastern Canada and the Northeastern United States. It was the great blackout of November 1965, caused by a massive power failure.

Without warning, hundreds of thousands of people were stuck: stuck in subway and commuter trains, in elevators, at the top of skyscrapers.

In such circumstances, there were the usual grumblings and complaints, to be sure. But, in general, something quite amazing happened: the blackout brought people together! Folks who had taken the same commuter train for years spoke to their neighbors for the first time. People in elevators started to sing to pass the hours. The cold rush hour crowd began to thaw.

Those stuck in their top floor offices began to enjoy the night-time view for the first time, and point out its beauty to their coworkers.

And to everyone's amazement, the crime rate in New York City went down.

The darkness had actually brought people together, given them a chance to slow down and communicate—given them a chance to experience community.

It's a wonderful bit of history. But it makes me ask this question: if the darkness can bring people closer to one another, shouldn't the light—the one, true, light of the world—do the same, only more?

Should the darkness do a better job of forming a community than the Light does?

Isaiah tells us that "the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light." Who are those people?

Isaiah says "those who lived in land of deep darkness: on them light has shined." What is that light?

You know the answer: The light is Jesus, shining in even the darkest places of our world and of our hearts.

And who are those people who walked in darkness? We are those people—God's people.

Is it possible that the failure of a power station can draw people closer to one another than the one, true Light whose coming we celebrate tonight? Can blackouts have more influence on our lives than the birth of the Lord who brings salvation to all?

Let us hope not. Let us pray not. We can decide, this Christmas, at this Mass, to allow the light to change how we relate to one another in our homes, in our workplaces or schools, and most especially in our parish. We are not thrown together like people stuck on the same elevator; we are called together by our baptism, by our faith, by our hope, by our love for God and for one another.

I think it was the atheist philosopher Jean Paul Sartre—or maybe Nietzsche, also an atheist, who said "for me to believe in the Redeemer, those Christians need to look more redeemed."

How do we, as Christians, live in the light—how do we start looking more redeemed, especially as we celebrate Christ's birth.

There are as many answers as there are people in the pews this night. Asking God to heal and forgive our sins, particularly in confession, is the first way that comes to my mind, since the appearance of our Saviour trains us, as St. Paul says, to renounce our sins and live godly lives.

When God forgives our sins, he lifts the yoke from our shoulders, and frees us from the heavy weight that oppresses us. If there is something hanging over your head, or weighing on your soul, let Christmas be the moment when you ask God to set you free.

I heard a story about a priest who was harassed by a man in his parish many years ago. The man started false rumours about him, wrote vicious letters to the bishop and others, and launched petitions to have him removed.

But after several months the man moved away, and began to change his life and draw nearer to God. Eventually, he realized the harm he had done to the innocent priest, and he wrote a long letter apologizing for what he'd done and begging forgiveness for the injustice.

The priest replied by a three word telegram: "Forgiven, forgotten, forever."

Now it might have been that the priest was cheap—telegrams were expensive—but I doubt it. He'd said everything in those three words. God is just as economical with us: forgiven, forgotten, forever, is what God says when we kneel before him in sorrow. This how salvation works: God forgives our debt, just for the asking. The people who walked in darkness have truly seen a great light.

But the second way to celebrate Christmas is to let others see us walking in the light. We need to learn a thing or two from those stuck in the great blackout of '65. Do we reach out to others in fellowship, in friendship, letting down our guard and taking a few risks? Now is the time to let God increase our joy so much that people can't miss it!

"You have multiplied the nation," Isaiah says. How does God multiply his people today? By their witness, their readiness to share the good news. Christmas isn't only for Christians, but for all—we're called to invite others to walk towards the Light, in the Light.

There's a song youngsters sometimes sing that goes "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine." It's not much of a Christmas carol—because the light isn't mine, and it isn't little! It's a great light, a marvelous light, a blazing light: because it is God himself. It is God made visible. It is God made man. For me, certainly, but not for me alone: for the world, the waiting world, the world that is darkened by sin and fear.

The light of Christ doesn't shine like the sun or the moon, far away. It shines in us, through us, when we share with others the gift we have received, the joy that increases in us.

To share Christ's light we have to start by living in it—as St. Paul tells us, we must live lives that are self-controlled, upright and godly. But that's not enough. Some of us need to know more about "this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us" at Christmas.

For those people, in January our parish will offer a basic introduction to Christianity called the Alpha Course. A lively and interesting program, Alpha welcomes anyone who is remotely interested in the Christian answers to the big questions about life.

Some of us, of course, already know the message. For those people, the Alpha course is an ideal opportunity to share it with others—by inviting a friend or co-worker or family member, and tagging along with them. There are details in the bulletin and we have some flyers as well.

Whether it's finding out more about Christ, or sharing what we know with others, Christmas is the time to let the light shine in our hearts—freed from sin, freed from fear, and full of hope.

Sistine Chapel

2011-12-19T11:45:00.000-08:00

My last post included a link to the Vatican's wonderful webpage on the Sistine Chapel. Navigating it, however, is a bit of a challenge. Someone sent me another link to a "birds eye" view that it less difficult to use. Click here.

Blogging in Italy

2011-12-10T11:43:00.000-08:00

As all my faithful readers know, my so-called "blog" is not the real thing--properly speaking, a blog is "usually maintained by an individual with regular entries of commentary, descriptions of events, or other material such as graphics or video." Mind you, my readers don't do their part, either, since "most good quality blogs are interactive, allowing visitors to leave comments... and it is this interactivity that distinguishes them from other static websites." (See "Blog," on Wikipedia.)

However, since I'm travelling--and not preaching--I thought I'd "blog" a bit on this interesting week in Italy. I can't download the few photos I've taken, but will link to some websites showing some of the sites I've visited.

Soon after arriving, I met up with my Beda classmate Fr. Jock Dalrymple and we had lunch in central Rome with our mutual dear friend Marina, with whom we've stayed in constant touch over the years. In the evening I caught up with Canadian College housemate Fr, Owen Keenan, who is back in Rome working at the Vatican.

Bright and early on Wednesday, Jock and I headed by train to Urbino, about four hours from Rome. Dominated by the magnificent ducal palace, this jewel of a town was rich in both art and history, and we had two delightful days exploring its steep streets (Jock limping valiantly after badly spraining his ankle the night before he left Scotland).

Among Urbino's charms was a skating rink and an outdoor market celebrating the national holiday of the Immaculate Conception; we also found a restaurant specializing in the cooking of the Marches region, where we ate very well. We celebrated the feast day at a Mass with the bishop in a parish church.

On our way back to Rome, we visited Pesaro, a larger city where we caught the train. In a short time we had breakfast by the Adriatic Sea, visited the Cathedral--where stunning mosaics have been discovered on two levels below the church floor--and briefly explored the town.

Just a few hours after our return, we prayed Vespers (Evening Prayer) in the Sistine Chapel. It was a tremendous experience to have a chance actually to pray in that setting, usually filled with tourists.The small gathering was mostly Vatican officials and some friends.

All for now!

Catholics Come Home

2011-12-06T21:33:00.000-08:00

I woke up in Rome bright and early this morning, since I haven't adjusted to the time change, and decided to continue cleaning up my overflowing in-box of e-mail. The first thing I did was watch a YouTube video about the Catholic Church that our retired parish secretary kindly had sent me ages ago.

Can't begin to tell you how impressed I was by the video--a positive statement about the Catholic Church's contribution to society throughout the ages. It was particularly powerful to watch it here in the Eternal City. Naturally, it uses familiar images of St. Peter's Basilica, but it also features a number of scenes from St. Paul's, where I was ordained a deacon.

Watch this inspiring "commercial" by clicking here.

The clip is produced by a group I'd never heard of called Catholics Come Home. Their website tells you more about them. They seem to have been formed by an advertising executive called Tom Peterson, and they must be doing something right since the anti-Catholic media personality Bill Maher found it necessary to attack their ads.

Alongside the "Catholic commercial," Catholics Come Home have produced an unsettling examination of conscience called "The Movie." You can find it on their website by clicking here and go directly to YouTube by clicking here.

Might it be good before Christmas to send a link to the first commercial--the more upbeat one--to family members and friends who are away from the Faith? If we make sure our e-mails are lighthearted they might do some real good.

Isaiah Can Leave You Breathless (Advent 2B)

2011-12-04T07:32:00.000-08:00

Would you like to know how much time it takes to write a short homily? About twice as long as it takes to write a long one.

I have to speak briefly this morning since I am on my way to Toronto for the annual meeting of Renewal Ministries. I chair the Canadian board of this Catholic charity, which is devoted to missionary work and evangelization. Many of you are familiar with Ralph Martin and Peter Herbeck, two of the leaders of Renewal Ministries.

From Toronto I'm off to Rome, so next Sunday I will be praying with you from afar.

On my day off last I was visiting some friends, and spied a framed quotation on their wall. It said "Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away."

For some reason, I thought about those words when I read today's first reading from the prophet Isaiah.

Isaiah proclaims the joy of redemption with various voices, but they all ring with victory. The prophet speaks tenderly, comfortingly. Then he shouts. And then the passage ends with the image of the Good Shepherd. His prophecy should take our breath away.

If these words don't leave you a bit breathless—if they don't lift your spirits—then maybe you should read the advertisement in today's bulletin for tickets to Handel's Messiah! Handel used many lines from today's reading in his exquisite work.

Even more important, we should find some time this week to go over the reading—it's always easy to find the Sunday readings on-line if you don't have a missal at home—and ask: is this my experience? Am I comforted by the knowledge of salvation? Does God speak tenderly to my heart?

Because Isaiah's words are a prophecy already fulfilled by the coming of Christ and by His saving work. It's true, He will come again, but His first coming has already leveled the hills of despair and darkness; His first coming revealed the glory of the Lord and banished fear from the hearts of men.

The prophecy is fulfilled in us when we open our hearts to the tenderness and mercy of God. Only in prayer can the Lord comfort us, feeds us, gather us, carry us and lead us.

My friend Vernon Robertson says that prayer begins as a duty, demands discipline, but will eventually lead to delight. So there are three steps to take in prayer: first, taking the duty seriously. If we fail to pray at all, we're really missing the boat. The second is to stick with prayer in a disciplined way, praying even when we don't feel like it. The third is allowing prayer to delight us.

Sometimes God will surprise us with consolation and delight. But most of the time we need to make the uneven ground level by persevering in prayer over a period of time. We need to take texts like this one from Isaiah into a time of prayer so that the full Advent message of hope and comfort penetrates our hearts.

With even a minimum of duty and discipline, prayer in Advent can take your breath away, and prepare you for a fresh experience of God's glory at Christmas.

At Mass, Actions Can Speak as Loud as Words

2011-11-26T21:35:00.000-08:00

Today is Grey Cup Sunday, but in this parish we're not offering prayers for either team. We have to balance our loyalty to the home team with the fact that the grandmother, aunts, uncles and cousins of one of the Blue Bombers are all parishioners here at Christ the Redeemer.

I must say that it's a shame the big game is being played on such a wet day. This morning a football fan from out of town asked a young boy outside of BC Place if it ever stopped raining in Vancouver. "I don't know," the lad replied. "I'm only five."

Of course the Grey Cup is not the most important thing happening on November 27, 2011. Today is both the First Sunday of Advent and the day we start to use the new English translation of the Mass.

We've talked a lot about the change, but soon enough we'll take it for granted and hardly notice. Some might say that's just what we should hope for, but I disagree. To me, the new Missal demands some fresh thinking about the Mass and how we take part in it.

Happily, this first Sunday of Advent is the perfect time to take stock of our spiritual lives, which should be centered on the Eucharist. While a tired young parent or a weary teen might sometimes nod off during the homily, there are many more of us who have become spiritual sleepyheads with our eyes wide open.

We're dozing spiritually if we come to Mass without passion. If we participate without focus. And whenever we pray without enthusiasm.

That can't be what Jesus wanted when He gave us the gift of His Body and Blood. Do you daydream through Mass, at least some of the time? Then listen carefully to just two words from today's Gospel: Keep awake.

Jesus is talking about the Second Coming. But he's also referring to our daily spiritual life; we need to be wakeful and alert, especially at Mass, where the Lord comes to meet us. Otherwise we may be napping as he passes by.

Think of the excellent wake-up call we're getting from the new translation! We've got no choice but to slow down and focus on the words we're saying, since they're no longer that familiar. So why not turn the awkwardness of using printed cards into a new mindfulness of what we're saying?

And words aren't the whole story. Any teacher can tell when a student is keen and alert. They sit up straight. Their body language says "I want to learn." The same is true of all our postures at church. From the Sign of the Cross we make at the beginning, to the genuflection we make as we leave, our body language says whether we're dozing off or diving in.

Posture reveals what's going on inside us, but it also helps shape it. If I pray slumped in an armchair, I won't likely pray as well as I do in a more alert posture.

A lot of what I'm saying today is just common sense. In human relationships, we know the difference between a firm handshake and a limp one. How do you feel when someone looks you straight in the eye and says "I'm very pleased to meet you"? Not the same as when someone mumbles, "Oh, uh, hi" while looking over your shoulder.

When parents tell kids to stand up straight, it's not just so they'll look good to others. It also affects how they feel about themselves.

So it should be clear that how and when we sit, stand, kneel and bow at Mass can make a big difference. The changes in posture today are minor, but they still invite us to think. From today on we'll all bow during the Creed at the words to show our profound faith in the Incarnation. We'll stand at the "Pray brothers and sisters that my sacrifice and yours…". That's a chance to pray with new intensity that the Lord will accept our sacrifice.

Until now, some people have knelt and others have stood at the "Behold the Lamb of God." Having one common practice will speak loudly about our unity in faith and prayer.

A slight bow of the head at Holy Communion will help us to focus on Jesus. This act of reverence before we receive the Body of Christ will strengthen those who haven't been doing it before. And now the whole community will join those who were already bowing.

Anyone who might prefer making another sign of reverence—like kneeling or making the sign of the cross—will now show their oneness with others and obedience to the Church by making the change.

You can tell from what I'm saying that posture is significant in two ways. It's personal—it shows outside what's happening inside. But it's also public—common posture shows unity with one another when we gather for the liturgy; we're one body in Christ.

In today's second reading, St. Paul rejoices in God's gifts to the Christians at Corinth. Later on he has some complaints, but he starts his first letter with thanks to God for the grace and spiritual blessings He has given to the members of the community.

But Paul knows there's always more. The apostle thanks God for what the Corinthians have, but in the same breath he also asks God to continue His work with them.

Christ the Redeemer parish has been celebrating the liturgy well: we've avoided liturgical mistakes, we've taken music seriously; we have well-trained lectors and servers, devoted people who care for the altar and the church, and a warm ministry of greeters and hospitality. But there's always more.

So let's be alert to what God wants to give our parish; let's stay awake and welcome His coming by participating fully at Mass—which, need I add—starts with arriving on time and finding a seat.

Only in heaven will we experience the wedding feast of the Lamb fully. On earth we just catch a glimpse. But God wants that glimpse to bring us closer to His heart Sunday after Sunday; he wants the Mass to nourish our souls, heal our wounds, and prepare us for eternity. He wants, in a word, to meet us here.

The word of God we've heard today ought to awaken us to a fresh encounter with the God who comes. No ear has heard, no eye has seen, all that He offers us in the Mass. There's always more.

A Major Announcement on Our Parish Feast Day

2011-11-19T21:15:00.000-08:00

What was the best homily Jesus ever preached? I think most priests would say his teaching on the Bread of Life, or his words of farewell to the apostles, both in the Gospel of John.

But I think the Our Lord's best homily might well be his shortest. (Even priests sometimes like a short homily!) We find it in the fourth chapter of Luke's Gospel, and it's just one sentence: "Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing."

My homily today won't be as short, and my words won't be a self-fulfilling prophecy like those words of Jesus. But I will begin with them, and try to show you how today's Gospel is being fulfilled in our parish, by our parishioners, at this very moment.

At first glance, the Gospel we've just heard seems far distant from 599 Keith Road in West Vancouver. For one thing, Jesus is talking about the Last Judgment. For another thing, he's talking about the starving, the naked, and prisoners. We have no naked in West Vancouver—it's against local bylaws. And if you're starving, there are all kinds of soup kitchens, just over the bridge.

And don't try building a prison in one of Canada's wealthiest neighborhoods. "Occupy Vancouver" would be kid stuff by comparison to the protests we'd have.

So how can I possibly stand here and tell you that 'today this scripture is being fulfilled in this parish'?

Before I answer that, I'd first better make one important point: this Gospel text isn't being completely fulfilled today—if it were, the Lord would be sitting on His throne before us, and the sheep would be here and the goats there.

But the fact is that the members of our parish community, as subjects of Christ the King, have decided to obey his command to the letter. And so, on our feast day, I am announcing that the parish has signed an agreement with the Government of Canada to sponsor a family of Iraqi refugees.

This decision was taken over many months by the parish pastoral council, with the support and approval of the parish finance council. It was taken with considerable courage, since our current financial situation shows a small deficit, and the commitment we have made is substantial and binding.

By the way, our government takes the sponsor's obligations very seriously. I had to sign a form saying I was not currently detained in a penitentiary, jail, reformatory or prison. It also asked whether I'd been convicted of murder. (I'm not making this up!)

When the possibility of sponsoring a family first came up, the immigration department asked how large a family we'd be willing to sponsor. So I asked the councils for advice. Their answer: as big a family as they could find. As it turned out, we were assigned a family of five: father, mother, a son aged 16, and two daughters aged 10 and 5.

The Shaboo family are Iraqi Christians. As many of you know, Christians in Iraq have been harshly persecuted; when I was in Rome, I attended a funeral Mass for a young priest who had studied there and who had been murdered on the side of the road in Iraq together with three others. (Thanks to my friend Rob's comment below, you can read the story here.)

They are truly naked—exposed to their enemies. Unlike even the poorest of Canada's poor, they desperately need to be taken in; they need to be liberated from the benevolent prison of the refugee camp. They need, in a word, the help of those whom the Just Judge calls "the righteous."

Some of you will simply rejoice that our parish has taken to heart those timeless words "Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did it to me." You'll be the first to get involved with our resettlement committee, which will need many generous people to assist the Shaboo family when they arrive sometime in the New Year.

But others might say "who me?" Is belonging to a generous parish enough to get me a spot with the sheep?

To answer this, we must first talk about what a parish is. Is it simply an association of people? In his apostolic exhortation on the vocation and mission of the lay faithful, Blessed John Paul says simply that the parish is where you find the Church—that's Church with a capital "c."

The parish, he writes in this document (known by its Latin title Christifideles Laici), is the "place where the very 'mystery' of the Church is present and at work." It's "not principally a structure, a territory, or a building, but rather, 'the family of God, a fellowship afire with a unifying spirit,' 'a familial and welcoming home.'"

From this it follows that the parish has a mission, and that we can—and must—carry it on together.

Here's what the late Holy Father says on that score: "Church communion, already present and at work in the activities of the individual, finds its specific expression in the lay faithful's working together in groups, that is, in activities done with others in the course of their responsible participation in the life and mission of the Church."

In other words, when we work together on our common mission, the very nature of the Church as communion is more clearly visible.

And we see something else about the Church when the parish works together: without the activity of the lay faithful, the apostolate of their pastors "is generally unable to achieve its full effectiveness," as we read in one of the documents of Vatican II. Without the active participation of parishioners, all the money in the world would not be enough to meet our sponsorship obligations to the Shaboo family, who will need to be welcomed, not just sheltered, clothed and fed.

They'll need help shopping and job-hunting; they'll need baby-sitters and tutors; they'll need movers and handymen. In fact, the one thing they won't need from our parish is priests—like most Iraqi Christians, they belong to the Chaldean rite of the Catholic Church, which has its own priest here.

I truly wanted to follow our Lord's example and give a short homily today. I ended up following Pope John Paul's instead—I don't think he ever gave a short homily. Once I started reflecting on what he had to say in Christifideles Laici, I just didn't know where to stop. He completely connects the dots between our parish sponsoring the Shaboos and the calling we have as individual Christians.

Blessed John Paul writes that "The lay faithful ought to be ever more convinced of the special meaning that their commitment to the apostolate takes on in their parish."

"Ever more convinced." In other words, there's something extra-special about making the parish your base for service of the poor. John Paul quotes Vatican II to make this point: "The parish offers an outstanding example of the apostolate on the community level, inasmuch as it brings together the many human differences found within its boundaries and draws them into the universality of the Church." (Apostolicam Actuositatem, 10)

He continues "The lay faithful should accustom themselves to working in the parish in close union with their priests, bringing to the Church community their own and the world's problems…"

And he concludes: "As far as possible the lay faithful ought to collaborate in every apostolic and missionary undertaking sponsored by [their parish]."

Let me conclude: today's Gospel is being fulfilled in our parish. The King's commands are already obeyed with joy and zeal by the dedicated members of the parish conference of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul. And when Faris, Lilyan, Yousif, Rita and Maryam get off the plane, and our parish community greets them as brothers and sisters of the King of Kings, we will be that much closer to hearing those words "come, you blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world."

‘Permanent Truths’ at Jeremy and Kelly’s Wedding Mass

2011-11-12T10:33:00.000-08:00

The late William Barclay, a great scripture scholar, estimated that Jesus produced something like 180 gallons or 818 litres of wine at the wedding feast of Cana. He added that no wedding party on earth could drink that much wine. Well, Professor Barclay was a Scots Presbyterian, and probably never imagined the size of a Prairie wedding!

But the point he makes is beyond dispute. This is no ordinary miracle; it is much, much more than an act of kindness to an embarrassed host. Jesus did something he fully intended to surprise and delight us two thousand years later.

And he intends this sign to surprise and delight us today.

It might seem obvious for Kelly and Jeremy to choose to hear a story about a wedding at their wedding; and if you know Jeremy, it might also be obvious why he liked a story about good wine. But if you know them both, you will recognize their choice as anything but obvious. They have chosen to put the sign of Cana in front of us today as a statement of faith and hope.

Today Jeremy and Kelly invite us to forget their own wedding for a moment, and take a trip back to that small village of Cana.

Lovely things are happening there: we learn that Jesus is no killjoy, that he liked a party, and that he had a delicate concern for people's feelings. He also believed in keeping his mother happy.

(I should mention, by the way, that the words "Woman, what concern is that to you and to me" are not as awkward as they sound to us. In their language, Jesus was speaking to Mary in a perfectly respectful way; he addresses her lovingly as "Woman" even from the Cross.)

But planted right in the midst of this joyful event—and weddings were certainly the high point of social life for the poor and often-oppressed Jews in Palestine—we find permanent truths.

Today, Kelly and Jeremy declare their faith in enduring truths about marriage and, even more importantly, about Christ himself, for it was at Cana that he first showed his glory; it was there, as Professor Barclay says, that his disciples caught a dazzling glimpse of what he was.

Let's look first at what the sign at Cana tells us about marriage. We know from St. Paul that marriage is a sign of the loving union between Christ and his bride the Church. But Cardinal Marc Ouellet takes this a step further: he says that marriage is a sign of the union between the Creator and his creatures.

In his remarkable book Divine Likeness, the Cardinal tells us that the wine at Cana, and the exhilarated apostles who drank it, symbolize the presence of the Holy Spirit. And that presence of the Spirit is connected to the nuptial union between God and humanity.

In other words, Christian marriage both symbolizes and proceeds from the covenant God made with humanity in Christ.

The Cardinal even says that the sign at Cana is a key for reading all Christ's other signs, since it elevates human marriage to a symbol of the eventual fulfillment of all creation in the Kingdom of God.

Jeremy and Kelly, your union today is rooted in what we learn from the Old Testament in the Book of Genesis: that you were created in the image and likeness of God. Your marriage wonderfully participates in his original plan for creation. But it's also rooted in the New Testament truth that Jesus revealed at the wedding feast of Cana: it is a sacrament through which you participate in the spousal love of Christ and the Church.

Before such lofty theological heights make us dizzy, let's head back to the humble home at which the wedding of Cana was celebrated. At Cana Jesus chose to do the first of his many signs. Why? What does that tell us about him?

William Barclay offers a wonderful answer drawn from the words Jesus speaks to Mary: "My hour has not yet come."

All through the Gospels we find Jesus speaking about "his hour." In one place it is the hour of his emergence as the Messiah; most frequently it is the hour of his suffering and death. By speaking of his "hour," Jesus makes it clear that what happened at Cana was much more than a divine act of human kindness: it was part and parcel of the mission he received from his Father.

"All through his life," Professor Barclay writes, "Jesus knew that he had come into this world for a definite purpose. He saw his life not in terms of his wishes, but in terms of God's purpose for himself."

Kelly and Jeremy, I know very well that this is exactly how you see your marriage: in terms of God's plan and purpose for your lives.

You would not see things that way if Jesus had not caused changes in your life that were like water into wine. Along the path of discipleship, you heard him say "follow me to a wedding feast like none other."

And elsewhere in John's Gospel, our Lord says "I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly."

As missionaries and as Christians, and now as a couple, you have taken him at his word. He has convinced you by the sign of Cana and many other signs that he offers a life like none other, an exhilarating life, a life so abundant that even 818 litres of superb wine can't really begin to represent it.

Today, your family and friends rejoice in the love you have for one another; but we rejoice even more in the love that God has for you, and for each and every one of us.

***

So I invite you now, in the presence of Jesus and his Mother, before your friends in heaven and your friends on earth, to stand before the altar and enter into this sacred covenant of life and love.

Jeremy and Kelly, both full-time missionaries with Catholic Christian Outreach, also organized a prayer vigil the night before their wedding. My homily at that occasion may be found here.

A Wedding Vigil!

2011-11-11T22:34:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow I will witness the marriage of two staff members of Catholic Christian Outreach. Jeremy Rude, a friend for many years, is marrying fellow missionary Kelly Boyko near Edmonton. They chose to prepare themselves—and their friends—by a prayer vigil that included moving testimonies about marriage from CCO co-founder Angele Regnier and its president, Jeff Lockert.

As part of the vigil, we celebrated Evening Prayer from the Liturgy of the Hours, during which I preached the following homily at the couple’s request.

Those of you who are not Catholic may find this prayer vigil a bit puzzling. But don’t feel bad—the Catholics are more puzzled than you, since when they hear about a vigil, they think ‘funerals,’ not weddings.

So when I told a witty priest about this evening’s vigil, he asked if the body would be present!

The answer, of course, is yes. Marriage very much involves the body as well as the spirit, so much so that Jeremy and Kelly will walk into the church as two tomorrow, and leave as one flesh. But that’s something we will talk about at the wedding.

Tonight, let’s talk about this unusual vigil. Actually, it wouldn’t seem unusual to the first Christians. Nighttime prayer services were so common in the early Church that we read about them in documents from the first part of the second century.

We’re not sure how vigils caught on—obviously the greatest of them, the Easter Vigil, was connected to the fact of Christ’s rising before morning. But there was also a popular belief that the Second Coming would happen at midnight. (We’re not planning to wait around for that tonight.)

Whatever the reason for their popularity, vigils have gone by the wayside except at Easter. And even the good example of Kelly and Jeremy isn’t likely to bring them back anytime soon.

But that’s too bad, really. Because a vigil expresses three powerful truths about tomorrow’s celebration.

The first is that a wedding—like any sacrament—needs to be surrounded by prayer.

Sure, people who aren’t prayerful get properly married; even a groom who spends half the liturgy worrying about whether his best man forgot the rings can receive the sacrament. But prayer opens the door of the overflowing storehouse of spiritual goods.

Prayer helps the couple receive maximum spiritual benefit from the sacrament of matrimony, and prayer helps their family and friends share more fully in these blessings as well.

St. Charles Borromeo once preached about a priest who complains that a thousand thoughts distract him from God as soon as he comes into church to pray. The great reformer and bishop replies by asking “But what was he doing in the sacristy before he came out for Mass? How did he prepare?"

No-one will ask our happy couple that question. Their hearts and minds will be set on God tomorrow—as shown by their decision to pray with us tonight.

Our thoughts too will rise more easily to God tomorrow, because tonight we have fixed them on the supernatural aspect of this joyful union.

The second great thing about a vigil is that it’s expectant—it’s a time of watching and eager waiting. In former times, all the great liturgical feasts were preceded by a vigil of prayer, even ordinary Sundays. Medieval squires spent the night in prayer before being knighted. A vigil signified the importance of the day to follow… something big was about to happen!

Well, tomorrow is going to be a tremendous day! It’s going to be life-changing, maybe even world-changing. It deserves to be anticipated with eagerness and excitement. We shouldn’t limit ourselves to looking forward to seeing Kelly appear at the door of the church, radiant and lovely. We should be even more eager to see the great work that God will do in her life and in Jeremy’s tomorrow.

Kelly and Jeremy, you are expecting great things from God; that’s just what He wants you to expect, and He will not disappoint your hopes.

Finally, our time of vigil helps us focus on Christ. In his book Life Together, the 20^th century martyr Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote “At night Christ was born, a light in darkness; noonday turned to night when Christ suffered and died on the Cross. But in the dawn of Easter morning Christ rose in victory from the grave.”

Bonhoeffer challenges modern Christians to rediscover the spiritual rhythm of night and day. Even though we no longer have any fear or awe of night, we can rediscover the great joy that the early Christians felt every morning at the return of the light. We can learn again something of the praise and adoration we owe to God at the break of each day—for He has preserved our life through the dark night and wakened us to a new day, driving away darkness and sin.

We often say that every Sunday is a “little Easter.” Well, the same can be said of every night and every morning if we begin and end the day in the spirit of this evening’s vigil, watching and waiting. Christ is the Bridegroom who will arrive without warning at the door of the house, who will awaken the bridal party from sleep. But Christ is also the Risen One whom we welcome each morning as we arise from the darkness of night.

We will celebrate many wonders tomorrow, including human love, the love of family and friends, and the sheer joy of this union; but the still-deeper truths we have glimpsed tonight will lead us to the very heart of the matter: As a sacrament of Christ’s love, Kelly and Jeremy’s wedding shares fully in the mystery of his death and rising, calling them from death to life, from darkness to light.

Introducing Father Rosica

2011-11-07T08:24:00.000-08:00

Last night I had the pleasure of introducing Father Tom Rosica at the annual Meet the Movement dinner hosted by Catholic Christian Outreach Vancouver. Here's what I said.

When I grow up, I want to be Father Tom Rosica.

I told this to Archbishop Miller the other day, but he said it's already too late. Turns out Father Rosica is four years younger than I am. (We are, however, both celebrating this year our silver jubilees of ordination to the priesthood.)

Among my many reasons for jealous admiration, he speaks well two languages that I speak badly, having received his bachelor's degree in Italian and French literature. He attended two of the world's most distinguished schools of biblical study, and taught Sacred Scripture at three universities here in Canada.

For six years he served as the director of the Newman Centre, the Catholic chaplaincy at the University of Toronto. Perhaps it was there that he became a true apostle to youth, in which role we welcome him specially tonight.

To give you a proper list of our keynote speaker's other accomplishments, I'd have to be, well, the keynote speaker. But it's impossible not to start with his work as the chief executive office for World Youth Day, held in Toronto in 2002. It's no exaggeration to say that there are some people here tonight who trace their strong Catholic faith to that event.

Father Rosica had barely caught his breath after WYD when he took on a challenge no less daunting than running a massive international gathering. He became the CEO of Salt + Light Television in 1993, at the same time serving the Congregation of St. Basil as a formator and, then, as a member of its General Council. As you know, Salt + Light has gone from strength to strength.

He has advised both the Holy See and the Canadian bishops on communications matters; he has even been so brave as to be a consultant to the CBC. In just three weeks, he adds the presidency of Assumption University in Windsor to his other responsibilities.

But even these tremendous contributions to the Church in Canada and around the world pale in comparison to something else: Father Tom is "a man for others." His energies, his talents, his intellect may be focused on getting the job done, but his heart remains devoted to people.

If you'll allow a quick story: When my father was gravely ill, Father Tom offered Mass for him—more than once—at St. Peter's. And when Dad died, he wrote to say he'd prayed for me—and for you, Archbishop Michael—around the exhumed casket of Blessed John Paul II.

There are many other stories, well known to us in CCO, of his almost indescribable support for our movement; he has opened doors for CCO like a very skilled locksmith… or maybe an equally skilled burglar, I'm not quite sure! … CCO owes him an incalculable debt.

Dear friends, join me in welcoming a friend—a man for others, and a man for youth: Father Tom Rosica.

When the applause died down, Father Rosica looked up from the podium and said "I'm not dead yet!"

Visit of the Dominican Nuns (Sunday 32.A)

2011-11-05T21:21:00.000-07:00

While the usually-cloistered Dominican Nuns await the completion of their monastery near Squamish, BC, they are able to visit parishes; this Sunday we welcomed them to our morning Masses.

We're all hoping that the changes in the translation of the Mass are going to help us worship God reverently and profoundly. Many blessings have come from the liturgical renewal of the past forty years, but we know there are blessings still to come.

And of course, there have been some not-quite-blessed moments during those forty years. Vancouver escaped the worst of them, such as liturgical dance. I once heard the story of a religious Sister who danced the offertory procession in a flowing costume while playing the guitar. The bishop was visiting the parish on the occasion.

As the Sister approached the altar, the bishop whispered to the pastor: "If she asks for your head on a platter, she'll get it!"

I'm sure it's not a true story, and anyway our visitors today aren't that kind of Sister. We have in church with us the Nuns from Queen of Peace Monastery. These Sisters belong to the contemplative branch of the Order of Preachers, better known as the Dominicans.

St. Dominic made the brilliant decision to establish a community of Nuns to pray for the men he would send out as preachers of the Gospel. He knew that contemplation should precede action.

It's a hard concept for busy people in the modern world. "What do these Nuns do?" some people ask. Don't they run anything?

Today's readings tell us about these Sisters' calling. The Book of Wisdom explains that Wisdom is waiting to be found by those who take the trouble to seek her. Some effort is involved—the reading points out that getting up early makes it easier to find Wisdom—but her riches are a free gift.

In her book The Sacred Place of Prayer, Sister Jean Marie Dwyer (who can't be with us this morning) shows that even the great philosopher Aristotle taught that the pursuit of wisdom reached its highest point in contemplation. Aristotle saw contemplation as the fullest realization of our potential and the final purpose of human action.

Although Aristotle did not know the truth of a personal God, he knew that contemplation, rather than action, was the high road to blessedness. *

In today's Gospel, we can see the vocation of consecrated contemplatives represented by the wise bridesmaids. A beautiful Vatican document on the contemplative life says that "the nun is called to converse with the divine Bridegroom, meditating upon his law day and night so as to receive as gift the Wisdom of the Word and to become one with him, under the impulse of the Holy Spirit."

That sounds wonderful, but what does it have to do with us—busy priests, tired parents (and grandparents), hard-working students, all caught up in the whirl of the world?

The quick and easy answer is that we can ask contemplatives to do some of our praying for us. They offer a service of prayer to the Church and for all who ask their help. When I have big problems, Queen of Peace Monastery is my first call.

But that's not really the answer I want to leave with you today. The biggest service the Nuns offer to us is this: they are a reminder that the Bridegroom is coming. Like the wise bridesmaids, they keep their lamps lit and offer us an example of wisdom. By their special relationship to the divine Bridegroom, they keep before us a central fact: "As the Redeemer of the world, Christ is the Bridegroom of the Church. The Eucharist is the Sacrament of our Redemption. It is the Sacrament of the Bridegroom and of the Bride."++

Sunday Mass offers us an experience of community and fellowship; it restores us spiritually and nourishes us intellectually; it provides peace and strength. But we must never forget the height and the depth and the beauty and the richness of the Eucharistic celebration. It is the Sacrament of the Bridegroom and the Bride.

We need to wake up if we have dozed off to the full meaning and power of the Mass. The visit of the Sisters, and the drawing-near of the new translation, should encourage us to pray fervently to God for the wisdom to seek him in the sanctuary, and for the grace to see his strength and glory.

* Jean Marie Dwyer, OP, The Sacred Place of Prayer: The Human Person Created in God's Image, Novalis 2011, pp. 30-31.

+ Congregation for Institutes of Consecrated Life and for Societies of Apostolic Life, Verbi Sponsa, Instruction on the Contemplative Life and on the Enclosure of Nuns (1999) n. 5.

++ John Paul II, Apostolic Letter Mulieris Dignitatem (1988), n. 26.

Contemporary Anticlericalism (Sunday 31.A)

2011-10-30T08:29:00.000-07:00

Gossip can be good for you—at least that's what a new book says.

I'm not so sure. The author makes a clever case for the benefits of gossip, but if he spent a week in any parish he might change his mind. The fact is that much of the gossip you hear after Mass just isn't true.

I'll never forget the gossip that met me on my arrival here as pastor. On my second or third day someone asked me about the rumour that I was very unhappy to be at Christ the Redeemer; a day later another parishioner said she'd been told I had schemed and plotted to be named to this plum parish!

Parish communities are often hotbeds of gossip, and priests can be the prime target. Sometimes, of course, the gossip is true. We know all too well that priests, all too often, have given people good reason to speak about their faults and failings. What Jesus says doesn't apply just to the scribes and Pharisees, but to priests and other religious leaders as well.

And of course the proud or arrogant behavior that Our Lord describes in the Gospel isn't the worst evil; the first reading speaks of something much worse, the corruption of some priests—which brings upon them damnation and disgrace. But we've talked about that tragedy before. Today I would like to look at how we deal more generally with the flaws of our priests.

It's a tough topic, because we want our priests to practice what they preach. Last week, we heard St. Paul telling the Thessalonians to imitate him—he was that confident oh the example he gave. In today's second reading, he continues the self-portrait. Paul was a gentle and caring pastor, a model of Christian life. Priests should be, too.

But priests are human, and so struggle with human weakness. How do we handle that in a parish community?

Once upon a time, we handled it by never criticizing priests. In some pious homes you'd get away with criticizing your mother before criticizing a priest. This policy certainly helped people to be charitable, but it also helped some priests escape legitimate correction of faults and worse. It's not the answer.

And like most extreme positions, the "hear no evil, speak no evil" had a partner on the pendulum. That partner is called anticlericalism.

It's a word many Canadian Catholics have never heard, and that even fewer understand. Those of you from Europe or Mexico, however, know what anticlericalism is; in many countries, at various times, it was an organized political movement directed towards priests and religious. In some cases, it meant laws that made life more difficult for the clergy; in others it meant active persecution and even death.

An informed Canadian Catholic needs to know enough Church history to realize two things about anticlericalism. The first is that excessive priestly privileges in past centuries, or too much wealth concentrated in the hands of the Church, certainly encouraged the hostility towards the Church's ministers that anticlericalism represents.

There are few things more disturbing than hypocrisy, which is why Jesus uses the examples of the proud religious men of his day. When the clergy become a privileged group in society, resentment is natural.

In the middle ages there were books and poems that might be called anticlerical, because they mocked the clergy. Some of these writings were scandalous, but others expressed legitimate disappointment and disapproval of weak or selfish priests. At the end of the 1300s, Chaucer ridicules some of these in his famous poem The Canterbury Tales, considered a classic of medieval literature.

But the second thing we need to remember is that modern anticlericalism, at its heart, was not primarily an attack on priests. It was an attack on the Church.

The French Revolution, Communism, the Mexican constitution of 1917, the Spanish Civil War—all these and many other political movements had strong anticlerical elements. An Italian friend who just finished reading a history of his native country mentioned to me this week that he'd forgotten how much anticlericalism there was in the movement for Italian Independence.

In these and many other examples, hostility to the clergy was hostility to the Church of Christ, period.

Now why I am emphasizing these historical facts in today's homily? Simply because the ghost of anticlericalism continues to float through the air today. (And speaking of ghosts, you may be sure that most people dressed as priests and nuns at Halloween parties are doing so in a disrespectful way.) Communism is dead, at least in the once-Christian nations of Russia and Eastern Europe, and most of Mexico's anticlerical laws were not enforced in recent decades. But the strategy of attacking priests as a way of attacking the Church is alive and well, and Catholics need to know that.

Of course we need to know that intelligently, not blindly. Every attack on a priest is not an attack on the Church. We need to acknowledge that and to lament the terrible harm done by some priests. Yet if we don't recognize how enemies of the Church use the clergy as a proxy to attack the Church we will fail in our duty to defend her.

Recent scandals have prompted the threat of laws attacking the seal of the confessional in Ireland and some U.S. states. Various threats are made to the tax status of churches. Some extremists even argued for the arrest of the Pope when he stepped on British soil.

Again, there is no defense against actual crimes committed by clergy. But when we read the papers, watch TV, and speak with non-Catholic friends we must separate fact from fiction, and genuine reaction from anticlerical opportunism.

In other words, bad priests may have given a stick to those who despise the Church, but it doesn't mean good Catholics should sit around while they beat the Church with it.

Twentieth century Catholics need a mature understanding of this, and to be able to recognize three things:

Serious failings of priests must be reported and addressed by the competent authorities, religious and civil.
Foibles of priests—their everyday faults and shortcomings—we must take in our stride and not confuse with more serious things. As long as priests are chosen from among men and not angels, there will be some who do not practice what they teach or give an example to imitate. Jesus knew this from the start, which is why he warns us so sternly—and why he made sure that the power of the Sacraments did not depend on the holiness of the minister.
The shortcomings of the Church's ministers, whether grave or not, aren't the shortcomings of the Church itself. When they're used as an excuse to attack the Church and her mission, it's likely that old-fashioned anticlericalism is at work once again.

It's good that I close by thanking you for the way you put up with my faults. I depend on your charity. You overlook my impatience and busy-ness, and generously wait for me to return phone calls and answer e-mails, to mention just a few things.

And I plead guilty to one of the specific charges that Jesus makes against the scribes and the Pharisees. I do love the place of honour at banquets, since we get fed first! But if you went to as many banquets as I do, you might forgive that fault...

No Hands But Ours (Sunday 30.A)

2011-10-22T20:28:00.000-07:00

I was praying in the front pew a while back, when out of the corner of my eye I saw that something was wrong with the statue of the Sacred Heart. On closer inspection, I noticed that it was missing one hand.

Some detective work quickly discovered that the hand had come loose and fallen on the floor; it was in pieces in the sacristy.

Fortunately, Father Xavier's many talents include statue restoration, and all was well a day or two later.

But to tell you the truth, I was a bit disappointed that the repair was so quick and easy—because I'd started to think about putting up a sign that said "Let's give Jesus a hand!"

It's not as silly as it sounds. Consider the more serious words of St. Teresa of Avila, who wrote:

Christ has no body now but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours.
Yours are the eyes through which he looks with compassion on this world,
Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good.
Yours are the hands with which he blesses all the world.

God is all-powerful, and can do all things. Milton recognized this when he wrote "God doth not need/Either man's work or his own gifts." But the fact is God chooses to do much of his work on earth through human instruments.

Today the Church celebrates World Mission Sunday, our annual reminder that spreading the Gospel everywhere is a responsibility of every Christian. Pentecost was the first and last time that the Holy Spirit worked all on his own; since then God has called on men and women of every age to assist in the Spirit's mission to the world.

Today our parish celebrates another Welcome Sunday, when we acknowledge the new members of the congregation. But the real job of welcoming them isn't done from the pulpit. They are made to feel at home by handshakes, smiles, the pouring of coffee and the cutting of cake.

Many years ago, I met a woman who had been baptized the previous Easter at St. Anthony's parish. But when I asked her how she liked the parish, she said "oh, I don't actually go there. I much prefer the Cathedral. Nobody ever speaks to you at the Cathedral!"

Well, there's no accounting for tastes. Still, the fact is that the Church is a communion of persons, and communion among believers is shown by the warmth of welcome. I still mourn the letter I got a year or two after arriving at Christ the Redeemer. It was from a woman who was moving away after three years here, during which, she said, no-one ever spoke to her.

I was tempted to write back and ask if she'd ever spoken to anyone, but that's not really the point. In our second reading, Paul is saying that he and his companions were like living Gospels for the Thessalonians; people imitated them, confident that they were authentic models of Christ's own way of life.

It's often said that you are the only Gospel some people will ever read. We support the Church's world-wide mission of evangelization by prayers and sacrifice, including financial sacrifices. But closer to home we are missionaries at home, school, and work. We are missionaries who speak a language of love, as Jesus commands us in the Gospel we have just heard.

I found a wonderful Methodist website where a Quaker writer listed all the ways the early Church cared for the poor, both within the community and beyond. By the year 250, Christians in Rome were caring for some fifteen hundred needy people; a hundred or so years later, St. John Chrysostom reported that the Church in Constantinople fed 3,000 people every day, regardless of religion.

As you know, you can find just about anything on the web, and you can't take all of it too seriously. But I came across a blog that made me very sad. In a post entitled "Why I am Not a Catholic," a man wrote "Does Roman Catholicism have some of the same behavior as early Christianity. No. Not in the least. There's not even a resemblance."

It's not true, of course, except in his experience. Much of the good that's done in the parish is done quietly, out of respect for the privacy of those who are helped; so where possible we need to show love in action right here in church.

We will not love our neighbour if we do not begin by loving our fellow parishioners—even those who park in front of the rectory garage, or who abandon their cars in the fire lane. (Not at this Mass, of course!) "See how they love one another," was the pagans' reaction to the early Christians as recorded by Tertullian.

In times of persecution, early "Christians also provided for those who lost their jobs because of their faith in Christ. It was assumed, for example, that an actor who became a Christian, and had to give up his profession because of its involvement in pagan mythology, would be cared for by the church. . . "

We may yet have to help those who lose their jobs on account of the faith, but right now we love our neighbour in the parish in numerous ways, some of them as simple as moving over in the pew. The warmth of our greeting at the sign of peace can make a big difference, especially when the person we are greeting is someone we don't know.

Of course Jesus doesn't only tell us to love our neighbour. The first and greatest commandment is to love God with all our heart, soul and mind. From such love flows love of neighbour in all its forms.

Today, as we continue to think about the upcoming changes to the liturgy, I'd like to suggest that participating fully at Mass is a way of fulfilling both the command to love God and the command to love our neighbour at the same time.

Our reverent silence invites others to join us in prayer. Our genuine responses and heartfelt singing make it easier for others—especially visitors—to take part. Have you ever thought of that? I can tell you from a priest's point of view that Mass is richer when the congregation is actively involved. Yesterday I said Mass for the Dominican Nuns—who are coming to visit us in a few weeks, by the way—and I felt truly holy! Only it wasn't me at all; I was flying in their spiritual jet stream.

There's even a missionary aspect to such things as bowing during the Creed and before we receive Holy Communion. These gestures are ways to proclaim publicly what we believe. We shouldn't assume that everyone in the Church is a fellow Catholic. There are a surprising number of folks who come to see what our parish is about, and they are going to read our body language carefully.

Today's a great day to get rid of two false ideas. The first is that someone else will look after proclaiming the Gospel to the whole wide world. The second is that someone else will share the joy of being a Christian with the person next door, in the next office, and beside you in the pew.

So let's lend Christ a hand. He has no hands but ours.

Giving God His Due (Sunday 29.A)

2011-10-16T08:03:00.000-07:00

This morning's paper says that grizzly bears are expected to appear on the North Shore before too long.

This could be God's way of getting people to church on Sunday morning—when you spot a grizzly in the woods or on the slopes it's not a good time to think "Oh-oh. I'm supposed to be at Mass."

More likely, if we do get grizzlies—and the experts say that's many years away—there will be some who'll say, "Sunday Mass? Not me. Might get attacked by a grizzly in the parking lot."

Oh well, we do need a new excuse for missing Mass. The old one is getting pretty tired—"I don't get anything out of it."

That excuse has been a used for years, by young and old, to explain why people miss Mass, either some of the time or all of the time. And for just as many years, priests have preached "it's not what you get out of Mass, it's what you put into it."

That's true, but it's not my message today.

Today I want to look at attending Sunday Mass from a different angle, that of duty. In today's Gospel, Jesus says "Give therefore to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's."

Almost all of us understand what it means to give to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, even if we lament our income taxes and are annoyed by parking tickets. But what does it mean to give to God the things that are God's?

Very high on the list is giving God the worship he desires, deserves and demands. The Catechism tells us that worship is a commandment written naturally on the human heart. Pagans worshipped God without being told to. The Old Testament, of course, states the commandment of keeping the Sabbath day holy.

For Christians, from the earliest times, the celebration of Sunday—and the Sunday Eucharist especially—have fulfilled this natural and supernatural obligation of worship. From all that we have received from God, we offer back our act of worship.

Small wonder that the Catechism calls the Sunday Eucharist "the foundation and confirmation of all Christian practice" and reminds us that deliberately missing Mass without a serious excuse or dispensation is a grave sin.

Please don't get the idea that Sunday Mass is only about the worship we owe to our Creator. It's much, much more: it's "a testimony of belonging and being faithful to Christ and to his Church." [CCC 2182] It's the weekly celebration of the Easter mystery—of our salvation. [CCC 2177]

But today our Lord reminds us of one central fact: we owe to God the things that are God's. While blessing the candle at the Easter Vigil, the priest says "Christ yesterday and today, the beginning and the end, Alpha and Omega; all time belongs to him and all the ages…"

How can we hold back an hour a week from Him to whom all time belongs?

At this point, if you are a sharp listener, you have realized that there's a problem with this homily. I am preaching about the duty of attending Mass to people who are already here attending Mass. What's the point of that?

There are two points, actually. The first is that the duty to attend Mass is so basic to our lives as Catholics, that we have a related duty to help others fulfill this obligation.

Here's how Archbishop Miller put it in his homily at St. Edmund's Parish last night: Of course you must practice what you preach, but you must also preach what you practice.

The Archbishop mentioned extending an invitation to Mass as one of the ways we can tell people that God loves them and wants them as his friends. How many of us have invited a neighbour or co-worker to join us at Mass, and perhaps for brunch afterwards?

Archbishop Miller's challenge to St. Edmund's parishioners is a challenge to us as well: "A parish community which is alive in the Spirit must invite those who no longer worship with us to hear the Gospel all over again, as if for the first time." [cf. Benedict XVI, Homily at Vespers (28 June 2010].

Those who have become inactive he says, are often just waiting for an invitation from us.

The second reason I'm talking to those who are attending Mass about the duty of attending Mass is this: we owe more to God than our mere physical presence in Church. Worship demands reverence and attention, and Christian worship requires participation.

In a positive way, this means that all of us take an active interest and become personally involved in the liturgy. While there is a unique and irreplaceable role for the priest, because of the common priesthood all of us received in Baptism, every baptized person participates in the offering of the Eucharist. Although there is a distinction of roles, the lay faithful do "offer to God the divine victim and themselves with him." [Apostolic Letter Dies Domini, 51]

Practically, full and active participation involves attention, whole-hearted and audible responses, and an effort to lift our hearts and minds to God—both in prayer and in song. It helps enormously to prepare for Mass, either by looking at the readings at home, or by a period of prayer before Mass starts, or both.

With the bulletin today you will receive a handout about posture and gestures. It reminds us that we are composed of body as well as spirit, and that we pray also with our bodies. The postures of standing, kneeling and sitting all say something; and the gestures of bowing, making the sign of the Cross, and processing to the altar are not merely ceremonial.

It all depends whether or not we do them consciously. When we do these things with awareness, understanding and faith, they have great meaning and value. If you've never thought hard about this, today's your chance—take the handout home and give it a careful read. Then try for the next few Sundays to do at least two things, whether it's genuflecting, or kneeling, or bowing in the Creed, with very careful attention.

The changes at Mass coming up on November 27 will include some changes in gesture and posture as well. The bishops of Canada have determined that the sign of reverence before receiving Holy Communion will now be a bow of the head to the Sacred Presence. The children at St. Anthony's School have been practicing this for some months already.

Doing certain things together bears witness to our unity in Christ. So on November 27 we will follow new common directives from the Archdiocese and bring to an end the mixed practices we've been following until now.

These are, as I've said, the positive ways we render to God our humble worship as his creatures and as Christians.

Looking from a different angle, there are things we need to avoid if our worship is to be fitting. The first, of course, is arriving late. While there will always be people—often the parents of young children, or the caregivers of the elderly—who have gold plated reasons for showing up late, habitual tardiness really contradicts the proper sense of duty to God that is part of Sunday Mass attendance.

It's uncharitable, of course, to those we disturb, but the real losers are the folks who are late, because after getting off on the wrong foot, so to speak, they are going to have a much harder time entering into the profound mystery of the Mass.

I had a wonderful letter this week from a parishioner who mentioned one family sitting near her where the children read non-religious books all through the homily while their father texted. And each time someone texted back, his Blackberry buzzed! Small wonder God let that network crash.

The letter also mentioned inappropriate dress and an amazing number of people who think they can carry on a full conversation during Mass without disturbing others or offending God. Wrong on both counts, I assure you.

I should make it very clear that the parishioner who wrote is not some cranky person; she concludes her letter by saying "let she who is without sin cast the first stone," admitting she once kept a parish library book for nine months! I should also add that she is not alone: two other parishioners spoke to me just this week about how disturbed they were by someone talking all through the homily.

Someone else sent me an excellent internet item about many other things that should not happen in church. But I'm not going to carry on about them, since if you accept my basic point—that we owe God our true worship on Sunday—then a long list of rules is unnecessary. And if you don't, the rules will do no good anyway.

St. Paul reminds us today that the message of the Gospel didn't come to us only in words, "but also in power and in the Holy Spirit and with full conviction." The latest steps in the renewal of the liturgy is an opportunity to examine ourselves and to ask whether this is how we come to Mass—expecting not only a message but an experience of God's power in our lives.

But if we're not quite there, let's begin with the basic conviction that God desires, deserves and demands our weekly act of worship. If we give him that faithfully, we will arrive sooner rather than later at the "full conviction" every Christian should have.

Actually Blogging!

2011-10-10T06:51:00.000-07:00

No homily this week! I offered Mass this morning in a small chapel in Ottawa, using the new translation of the Roman Missal for the first time--jumping the gun slightly on the November 27 introduction date, which I judged to be all right when celebrating with a congregation of two!

I liked the more solemn cadence, although I stumbled a bit, and I believe the changes will help us celebrate Mass with greater reverence and solemnity.

My host here, Archbishop Terrence Prendergast, SJ, was on the Vox Clara commission that worked on the new Missal, so we had some interesting discussions, and enjoyed watching the light-hearted DVD presentation that the American group Lifeteen has produced to introduce the changes to youth.

Yesterday I gave a talk on stewardship and youth at Annunciation Parish. It was basically the same as the one I gave at the International Catholic Stewardship Conference in San Diego last year, but I didn't think that would be a problem--until I discovered Father Maurice Dionne, director of the stewardship office for the Archdiocese of Ottawa, in the audience. He'd also been in San Diego, so I had to tell him he'd be hearing a rerun. At least he liked the talk in San Diego--a recording of it is posted on his website.

Later I married a young parishioner at St. Mary's Parish, coincidentally another parish under the pastoral care of the Companions of the Cross, the religious order founded by Father Bob Bedard, who after a long illness died the night I arrived in Ottawa. I met him only twice, but he made a very deep impression on me. He encouraged priests to pray over people in need, overcoming our shyness in this regard. He also spoke powerfully about "giving God permission" to work in our lives. May he rest in peace.

The parishioner met his bride at Catholic Christian Outreach's annual Christmas conference, Rise Up, a few years back; it's a wonderful match and it was a wonderful wedding. I didn't write my homily out as I usually do nowadays, but the highlights are very simple--some lines from John Paul II that I found while reflecting on the couple's choice of Gospel reading, the passage in Matthew where Jesus calls us the salt of the earth and the light of the world.

The first quotation came from Blessed John Paul's letter on the Christian family in the modern world, known by its Latin title Familiaris Consortio. Here's what he wrote, in n. 13: Spouses are "the permanent reminder to the Church of what happened on the Cross."

The second is not as dramatic, but still surprised me some. It's from his letter on the laity, Christifideles Laici, n. 40: "The lay faithful's duty to society primarily begins in marriage and in the family. This duty can only be fulfilled adequately with the conviction of the unique and irreplaceable value that the family has in the development of society and the Church herself."

The notion that the primary service the laity renders to society is through marriage and the family shouldn't really have surprised me, since I was familiar with the fact that "The family is the basic cell of society. It is the cradle of life and love..."

I used the words of "the Polish Pope" (both Ada and Thomas come from strong Polish-Canadian families) to stress that their marriage matters to society especially in these times "when human egoism, the anti-birth campaign, totalitarian politics, situations of poverty, material, cultural and moral misery, threaten to make these very springs of life dry up."

Ada's pastor, Father Roger Vandenakker, and I were very quick to agree: there's nothing quite so joyful as celebrating the marriages of young Catholics who practise their faith. We can't help feeling a bit flat when we officiate at the weddings of those who don't see their union as a deeply spiritual event. We enjoyed ourselves thoroughly--Father Roger even graced the reception with a splendid version of a Caribbean wedding toast sung by the great Harry Belafonte long before Thomas and Ada were born.

A good weekend all around! Happy Thanksgiving to all.

Producing Fruit: Sunday 27.A

2011-10-02T05:44:00.001-07:00

Every priest has at least three books he treasures: his bible, his breviary, and his book of somebody else's Sunday homilies. And of course I think he ought to treasure a fourth book, the Code of Canon Law, but that's just my biased opinion!

Actually, most of us have a few volumes of Sunday homilies on our bookshelves. I have four sets—two from the States, one from France, and one from Italy. As the years have passed, I consult them less and less, but this Sunday I came up a bit dry so decided to turn to my trusted books.

One of the Americans, Father John Jay Hughes, suggested that today's parable would have been very clear to the people of Palestine, because there was a real problem with land owned by foreigners. He also explained that three details in the parable—the fence around the vineyard, the wine press, and the watchtower—would also mean a lot to them, because they knew Isaiah's version of the story, which is our first reading this morning.

The people listening to Jesus wouldn't have had any trouble figuring out that "the vineyard story was a parable about God's loving care for his people, and about their ungrateful response."

The second American preacher, Father Stanley Krempa, tells us that this parable "looks backward and forward. Looking back, it sums up the story of redemption." Those who were given care of the vineyard didn't produce a yield for the Lord, and rejected the Son who came to help. The vineyard was then given to new tenants, called to produce the rich harvest the Lord desires. That's us.

"The parable also looks forward with a rich meaning for us. The vineyard is our world, our society. What are we doing with it? How are we caring for it?", Father Krempa asks in his homily.

And then he gets very specific: "Within this vineyard is the most precious gift of all, the gift of human life. Do we reverence life?"

That's not just a question in a book. It's a very immediate and personal question to all of us. As the years pass and we become more used to legalized abortion, we can forget that we Christians have a duty of care for the society in which we live; we have an obligation, not an invitation, to defend life from conception to natural death.

Our parish has accepted the challenge of providing enough people to pray from midnight to midnight at BC Women's Hospital on October 21 as part of a dramatic campaign of prayer to end abortion. 40 Days for Life is the largest and longest coordinated pro-life effort in history; Christ the Redeemer Parish has taken one of these 40 days as its responsibility—our people will stand for life during a peaceful vigil that's meant not only to change the hearts of those contemplating abortion, but to change us as well.

Before we brush off this challenge, we need to ask ourselves: am I producing the fruits of the kingdom? Is the landowner—the Lord of all creation—asking one hour from me?

A third homily, by the French Jesuit Albert Vanhoye, now a Cardinal, reminds us that this parable refers to the passion of Jesus, who is, of course, the Son killed by the wretched tenants.

It's the Father who speaks to us through the prophet Isaiah in the first reading, and He speaks with as much sadness as anger. What more could I have done?, the Father asks.

It's a question He must ask Himself every Sunday. When entire families skip Mass because it interferes with soccer practice, when we rush to Mass unprepared, when we say the responses and sing the hymns like we wish we were somewhere else, don't you think God is more than a little sad?

I suppose you could say that missing Mass—either by not showing up mentally or not showing up, period—isn't to be compared to killing the landlord's son and tossing him out of the vineyard. But nor is it what the landlord expects—a warm welcome and a ready offering of the fruits of our lives.

Today's handout on the Mass from the Archdiocese—which I hope you will all take home and read—reminds us that each member of the congregation has a role in the celebration of the Eucharist. The Church calls everyone to full, conscious and active participation in the worship of God.

This means that each one of us must make a sincere effort to be fully engaged in the liturgy. Those in the pews are not spectators but participants.

The changes in the Mass that we'll see next month are a real opportunity to take stock of how—and how often—we fulfill our baptismal calling to share in the priesthood of Christ. As the parable reminds us, we owe spiritual fruit to the owner of the vineyard, and anything less can amount to a rejection of His Son, our Lord.

Daily Conversion: Sunday 26.A

2011-09-25T16:00:00.001-07:00

The parish welcomed the archdiocese's only deacon at Mass this morning. Rev. Mr. Pablo Santa Maria is in his final year of studies for the priesthood at the Seminary of Christ the King. The congregation responded very warmly to his homily, a call to personal conversion. Deacon Pablo kindly allowed me to put his text on my blog.

Today's parable is not among the best known of the parables of our Lord, however, it presents us with a powerful lesson...an invitation to conversion...conversion of heart and life, so that we can develop a relationship with Christ and so that we can find life.

In the first reading, the Prophet Ezekiel gives Israel a message from God. He speaks of those who have done right, but then turned to sin. These people will find punishment. Then he speaks of those who did not lead a virtuous life, but have a moment of conversion and turn their lives around. They will find life in abundance.

Christ repeats the same lesson to the priests and Pharisees; he puts this parable to them, a legal case for their opinion. Two sons, one who says no to the father's request and goes and does it, and one who says yes, but does not carry out his father's will. Which one has done the right thing? Who carried out the father's will?

These two sons represent two groups of people: identified with the first son are the sinners, in this case the tax collectors and prostitutes, who repent at the preaching of John the Baptist, and turn their life around. The theme of conversion and forgiveness was an important theme for Matthew (author of today's Gospel) since he had been a tax collector and found forgiveness.

Identified with the second son are the religious authorities of Israel—the Pharisees, the elders and scribes; all who refuse John's message. With this parable our Lord reiterates what we have heard before "...there is cause for great rejoicing in heaven, for one sinner who repents than for one hundred righteous..." This parable reiterates that joy, our Lord's predilection for sinners who repent, who turn their lives around, who find a moment of conversion.

But what is conversion? Some of us have heard the word before: conversion is turning our life around; it's like when we're driving and we make a U-turn when we come to an intersection that is taking us away from our goal.

The saints are wonderful examples of conversion, like St. Ignatius of Loyola or St. Augustine. Both led lives that were not exactly virtuous, both experienced a conversion and left their sinful ways and became great saints, teachers and examples.

Conversion is something we have to come to experience and to life. In our lives there will be a time in which we have to respond to the big questions..."do I want a relationship, a friendship with Christ?", "Am I going to be satisfied with a mediocre spiritual life?", "Am I ready to be holy?" This is where we'll make that U-turn in our lives.

However, conversion is much more than a one-time change. It is an ongoing process. In the Alcoholics Anonymous program, the members say, "today I will not drink". The members of AA have already made the decision to stop drinking, but they have to renew that commitment every day. It's an ongoing attitude that goes on for the rest of their lives.

For us Christians, in our spiritual life, it is much the same; as Pope Benedict has said, the "being a Christian can only take the form of becoming a Christian ever anew". It means saying yes to Christ, to his friendship, to his challenge of becoming a saint, of not letting ourselves be satisfied with mediocrity. [See Joseph Ratzinger, Dogma and Preaching]

St. Josemaría spells this out very clearly. He writes "In our life as Christians, our first conversion--that unique moment which each of us remembers, when we clearly understood what the Lord was asking from us—is certainly very [important], but it is the following conversions, the subsequent saying yes to the Lord, the become a Christian everyday that is going to be increasingly demanding. It's not an easy call; but then again Christianity is not an easy way of life; it is not an invitation to mediocrity, but a challenge to grow in holiness and in love with God." [St. Josemaría, Christ Passing By, n. 57]

Now, we can feel discouraged and even intimidated, but we all experience this challenge in many areas of our life; in all the things that are really worthwhile; in our school work, our careers, our marriages, our relationships. These all demand time and a daily struggle; and it is the same for our relationship with Christ.

So as this new week begins, let us be solid in our resolve to be Christians, let us say yes to the Father who asks us to work in his vineyard of our holiness, let us go out there and take concrete steps; I cannot tell you what, but something concrete that will move us toward conversion. And let us do it joyfully, for this conversion will only be real when we can say yes to the Lord with joy in our heart.

Mass Changes: A Great Opportunity

2011-09-18T07:16:00.001-07:00

I was wasting time looking at religious "light bulb jokes" on the internet when I should have been working on my homily. You know the ones I mean: "How many Protestants does it take to change a light bulb? Twenty. One to screw in the bulb and nineteen people to form the light bulb committee." Or "How many Amish does it take to change a light bulb? Light bulb? What's a light bulb?"

The usual joke about Catholics is "How many Catholics does it take to change a light bulb? None—we use candles." Another answer was simply "nun."

But the one I liked best was "How many Catholics does it take to change a light bulb? Change? "

True enough—our Church is more resistant to change than most. Catholic doctrine evolves, but only slowly and always in a way that develops rather than alters our belief. And parts of our liturgy go back to the time of Christ, while others are many hundreds of years old.

Everyone knows, however, that some things do change in the Church. When I was a young boy, Mass was entirely in Latin—that's the best example from modern times. Some people loved that change, while others lamented it.

As most of you have heard, we are preparing for another change in the liturgy. We will begin using a new English translation of the Mass in two months, on the first Sunday of Advent.

Why change the translation we have used for more than forty years? Basically, to improve our liturgy on the basis of the insights and experiences gained during those years. The new translation tries to observe the Latin sentence structure wherever possible, and to be more literal—in other words, it pays more careful attention to each word in the text. It uses a more formal and less everyday kind of English, and makes clearer the references to Scripture texts in our liturgical prayers.

There will also be some changes in when we kneel and when we stand, aimed at bringing unity to our participation at Mass.

Will these changes make a difference? That depends much more on us than on the translators. We can change the words we pray with little thought, and it will matter little. Or we can see the new translation as a wonderful opportunity to ask whether we've been getting as much from Mass as we should.

For my part, I see the new wording as an invitation to enter more deeply into the spirit of the liturgy. I want to reflect more on liturgical theology and tradition, and to celebrate Mass more reverently as a result.

Father Xavier and I would like to help everyone in the parish to grab this opportunity for spiritual growth, so for the next six weeks our homilies will be devoted to the Mass. For six weeks there will be a handout from the Archdiocese to help us pray and think about what we do on Sunday. Together, we're going to ask ourselves: is Mass the most important thing we do all week? Is it the very center of our Christian life?

And that's not all. We will have two short courses, five or six weeks each, for those who want to take a good look at what the Mass is, and to learn about the deeper significance of the outward changes. Starting on Thursday, we'll take "A Biblical Walk Through the Mass" with Dr. Edward Sri. This course, presented both Thursday morning and evening so all can attend, can help you see, perhaps for the first time, why we say what we say, and do what we do every Sunday at Mass. The words and gestures will be seen in a new light, giving new life to our experience of the liturgy. It uses excellent video lectures and attractive course materials, and allows for questions and discussions.

When the "Biblical Walk" is over, we'll be offering another short course called "Mystical Body, Mystical Voice: Encountering Christ in the Words of the Mass". It's every bit as good as it sounds. The presenters on the DVD are Father Douglas Martis and Mr. Christopher Carstens, who were a big hit when they spoke in Vancouver at the beginning of the month.

You'll hear much more about the changes in the weeks to come. Today's big question is: will you invest some time this week and this Fall so that the changes aren't just words and gestures? One or both of our lively and interesting courses can lead to a richer and better understanding of what, why, and how we celebrate the Mass each Sunday.

Forgive Us…As We Forgive (24.A)

2011-09-11T08:27:00.001-07:00

I bumped into a young parishioner at a CCO event last night. As soon as he'd said hello, he asked "So, do you have a really good homily for tomorrow?"

My first instinct was to reply "Hey, I always have a really good homily," but I resisted that temptation and told him the truth.

"No, not particularly. Why do you ask?"

He said, "Well, it's the anniversary of the terrorist attacks of 9/11, and the readings are all about forgiveness. Should be easy to tie them together."

True enough. Easy to connect our readings with the tragic events in New York, Washington and Pennsylvania ten years ago today. But too easy.

Too easy because that connection would produce just the kind of homily we all love to hear—a powerful and challenging message… to other people. We could sit back and shake our heads in sorrow that those Muslim extremists harbored such terrible anger. We could decide to forgive terrorists, even to pray for them.

But that's what I call a "long distance" application of the Gospel. None of us live with a terrorist (although one mother of a two-year old told me she wasn't quite sure about that). None of us works with a terrorist, or has one for a neighbor.

The simple message I take from the first reading today, and from what Jesus tells us in the Gospel, is that I must forgive my brother, my sister, my neighbor—and that there's a very good reason why I must: because God has forgiven me.

Does this message really need a good homily? It certainly doesn't need a long one. It's summed up in one line from the Our Father: Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

In that one phrase, we invite God to treat our sins against him the same way we treat the sins of others against us.

If that doesn't make you a bit nervous, you're a far more generous and forgiving person than I am. Frankly, I think today's liturgy might offer the scariest words Jesus ever spoke. He flat-out tells us that God will treat us like the angry master of the wicked slave, unless we forgive from the heart.

Does that seem harsh? The first reading explains it logically, in case we missed the point of the parable (which is, let's be honest, pretty difficult to do). "Does anyone harbor anger against another, and expect healing from the Lord? If one has no mercy toward another like oneself, can one then seek pardon for one's own sins?"

Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Frightening… but logical.

The parable of the unjust slave appeals to our common sense and sense of justice; that's why it needs no explanation. But why does Jesus need to teach about forgiveness with such force—why is he so uncompromising here? He was gentler, it seems, with the woman at the well, and with the woman who washed his feet with her tears.

The answer can only be that forgiveness is the only chance most of us get to imitate God. It's the best chance most of us get to follow in the footsteps of Christ. It's the most common way we show that our faith makes a difference in our lives.

St. Paul was martyred; St. Francis kissed the sores of lepers; Mother Teresa cared for the poorest of the poor. We don't have the opportunity to imitate them, even if we could.

But Jesus forgave his enemies. God forgives the most outrageous offenses against his commands. And we can forgive those who hurt, anger, and annoy us. Sometimes it will take a colossal effort, other times a daily surrender of self. But always it will be the proof of authentic faith, faith that makes a difference.

And each act of mercy towards others will slowly move the world closer to peace, closer to harmony, and further away from the hatreds that filled the hearts of angry men that tragic day ten years ago.

A “Report” to the Parish on WYD

2011-09-03T20:49:00.001-07:00

Whatever you do, don't ask me about my "holiday"—at least not if you mean the trip to World Youth Day!

Almost every day in Spain we reminded each other we were on a pilgrimage, not a vacation. Not that we needed a whole lot of reminding—various inconveniences and a constant diet of salami sandwiches were more than enough.

And, of course, sleeping outside with more than a million people was a pilgrimage experience like none other; it could not be confused with a camping holiday, that's for sure—not that you'd ever catch me on a camping holiday anyway.

The spiritual purpose of our trip was obvious at the gatherings for prayer and catechesis that shaped each day of the WYD program and of the Days in the Diocese we spent in Valencia beforehand. In addition to Pope Benedict, our group listened to talks by Cardinal Pell of Sydney, Archbishop Dolan of New York and our own Archbishop Miller.

We also had many opportunities for Eucharistic adoration, and major public events like the Stations of the Cross.

More than once, though, I asked myself "is this really a good idea?" The crowds were so large, and the logistics so daunting, that I did find myself wondering whether it was all worth it, for me as a non-youth, and even for the young parishioners who formed our group.

Happily, I got an answer to my question—in fact, more than one answer.

The first came from Pope Benedict himself. He is well aware that there are some people who ask whether World Youth Day isn't just a kind of rock festival, a churchy Woodstock with the Pope as its main attraction. In an address after WYD in Australia, he admitted that even some Catholic critics say these massive gatherings would be basically the same, with or without faith, that in the end they really don't change anything or have any real effect on life.

Having acknowledged these charges, the Pope proceeded to take them apart. I won't go into detail, but he said that the criticisms don't account for the specific character of the joy seen at World Youth Days, or for their power to build communion. He noted that that they aren't merely events, but journeys that start long before WYD itself begins and continue long after it ends.

Pope Benedict said that at World Youth Days, "friendships are formed which encourage a different way of life and which give it deep support. The purpose of these great Days is, not least, to inspire such friendships and so to create places of living faith in the world, places which are, at the same time, settings of hope and practical charity."

Not a bad answer to the doubts that arose in my mind from time to time. But not the only answer—the youth themselves, both our own small group of committed pilgrims and the thousands who I only passed in the streets, were living proof of the value of the sacrifices made by young people, their families, and generous supporters like the parishioners of Christ the Redeemer.

Good humour despite massive crowds and soaring temperatures, readiness to accept disappointments, and politeness in the face of angry protestors were all a sort of living Gospel to be read on the streets of Madrid.

The silence that fell on the million plus young people adoring the Eucharist at the prayer vigil with the Pope, and the expressions of prayer I saw on their faces at Mass were more than enough to make up for the occasional person who didn't seem to know why he was at Madrid—those were answers to my question as well.

Something did happen at Madrid, and I am still trying to understand it. For one thing, I was reminded of the idealism and the charity of youth—something I and our parish community must both imitate and encourage.

I saw early signs of the renewal of religious life. Young Sisters, Brothers and priests were everywhere, and to my amazement there were a number of Canadians and even Vancouverites among them.

The importance of Eucharistic adoration for the renewal of the Church, and its power to keep youth connected to the Mass, was also impressed on me; I have a growing sense that young people who are led to adore Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament will be young people who resist the pressure to stop attending Mass. I am not sure exactly how, but I think the parish needs to think about ways to respond to this insight.

In his homily at Cuatro Vientos airfield, the Pope spoke with his usual gentleness. But what he said was as rousing and challenging as anything you ever heard from Fulton Sheen or Billy Graham. It was a call to a personal relationship with Christ, within His Church, and a call to share the joys of that friendship with others.

"Dear young people," Pope Benedict said, "today Christ is asking you the same question which he asked the Apostles: 'Who do you say that I am?' Respond to him with generosity and courage, as befits young hearts like your own. Say to him: 'Jesus, I know that you are the Son of God, who have given your life for me. I want to follow you faithfully and to be led by your word. You know me and you love me. I place my trust in you and I put my whole life into your hands. I want you to be the power that strengthens me and the joy which never leaves me'."

"Dear young friends," he continued, "… let me urge you to strengthen this faith which has been handed down to us from the time of the Apostles. Make Christ, the Son of God, the centre of your life. But let me also remind you that following Jesus in faith means walking at his side in the communion of the Church. We cannot follow Jesus on our own. ...

"I ask you, dear friends, to love the Church which brought you to birth in the faith, which helped you to grow in the knowledge of Christ and which led you to discover the beauty of his love. Growing in friendship with Christ necessarily means recognizing the importance of joyful participation in the life of your parishes, communities and movements, as well as the celebration of Sunday Mass, frequent reception of the sacrament of Reconciliation, and the cultivation of personal prayer and meditation on God's word."

Friendship with Jesus will also lead you to bear witness to the faith wherever you are, even when it meets with rejection or indifference. We cannot encounter Christ and not want to make him known to others. So do not keep Christ to yourselves! Share with others the joy of your faith. The world needs the witness of your faith, it surely needs God. I think that the presence here of so many young people, coming from all over the world, is a wonderful proof of the fruitfulness of Christ's command to the Church: 'Go into all the world and proclaim the Gospel to the whole creation' (Mk 16:15)."

The Pope's words were addressed to the young people at Madrid, and around the world, but they are the basic program for each and every Catholic: to make Christ, the Son of God, the centre of our lives; to walk at his side in the fellowship of the Church; to love the Church that brought us to birth in the faith; and to share with others the joy of that faith.

As a parish, we pray that each of our young pilgrims will live deeply and fully this awesome challenge; but you can be sure that our young pilgrims pray the same for each of you.

Random (and final) WYD thoughts

2011-08-22T09:14:00.000-07:00

As I pack and prepare to leave Madrid (not for home, but for Toronto en route to the annual general meeting of Catholic Christian Outreach in Ottawa) I have mixed feelings. World Youth Day was simultaneously everything I hoped and feared, and it will take some time to process.
One thing stands out: I'm more convinced than ever that the Eucharist must be the center of all our efforts to keep young people connected to the Church. Specifically, WYD (and Youth 2000 in Ireland) have me thinking that Eucharistic adoration is the way to a deeper understanding of, and participation in, the Mass. Can we not do more of this in the parish?
Serendipity abounds at times like this! Today was frustrating: the events are over, but the museums are closed, and the cathedral packed with pilgrims. I wandered unsuccessfully looking for a church in which to pray. Feeling a bit sorry for myself, I headed home--only to bump into Archbishop Miller on the street. He bought me a nice lunch!
Many lessons learned from the youth. Here's one: As we trudged (and I mean trudged!) from the Cuatro Vientos site yesterday, I noticed one of our group carrying a large green garbage bag, along with several heavy bags of food, so asked if I could take it from her. I carried it for an hour or so before asking what it contained. Turned out she'd collected sleeping bags and tarps abandoned around our sleeping area so she could give them to homeless people she'd spied around our hostel. Ditto all the food.
On a similar note: while we were sometimes as crabby with one another as ordinary tourists (I rather fear these young parishioners now know me better and like me less!), in times of particular discomfort or disappointment, there was never a grumble to be heard.
We also had a few laughs, some from the speakers, others from behind the scenes. When the ultra-jovial Archbishop Dolan of New York spied one of his seminarians carrying boxes towards him after Mass, he exclaimed "Doughnuts?!" When the young man said, "Pizza," the archbishop put his arm around his shoulders and said "Just perfect... Monsignor," as they headed down the hall.
While giving an address in the large sports stadium, Archbishop Dolan looked up at the large TV screen above him and said "Oh, I really do have to lose weight!" And then motioning to the wide sash around his ample waist (held in place by Velcro), he added "If this baby blows, it'll take out the whole front row!"
It was also rather funny to see the Pope's white beanie sail (and I mean sail) through the air when the storm blew up.
One of my friends is a priest not known for his love of clerical dress or for dressing up, period. He says he'd have certainly come to WYD if he'd known he could have got a photo of me at Mass with the Pope--unshaven, unwashed, and in the clothes I'd worn to bed!
Apart from the sight of crowds beyond imagining, one particular image stands out: the young religious (Sisters, Brothers and priests). They were numerous and extremely visible in their religious habits. Reports of the end of religious life may have been premature; the revival, however, seems to be mostly with newly-founded communities, with the interesting exception of the Dominicans. Both male and female branches were very well-represented, especially Americans.
Sorry this is rather rushed, but I haven't time for editing. Perhaps this is the great attraction of Twitter! By the way, I made my debut on Twitter yesterday, when one of our pilgrims tweeted that I would be distributing Holy Communion at the cathedral. Thousands came when this message was swiftly passed along. (Just kidding.)
Thanks for reading; over and out.

No More Complaining!!!

2011-08-21T08:30:00.000-07:00

While my comments about overbooked sleeping bag spaces and underprovided bathroom facilities weren't really grumbling, I just now learned how lucky we were!

On his blog, Archbishop Prendergast reports the following, the first we've heard of it:

"With the rain at the opening ceremonies for the 2011 World Youth Day,we can certainly feel the frustration of our Spanish friends at Saturdayevening's vigil, having experienced similar moments of Mother Nature at World Youth Day in Downsview Park in 2002 and at the Eucharistic Congress on the Plains of Abraham in Quebec City in 2008!

"Both the Toronto and Ottawa groups were among many groups that were not allowed entrance into the Cuatro Vientos Airfield tonight due to overcrowding.

"The police announced that no one would be allowed into the site on Sunday morning, and asked people to attend mass in a stadium in downtown Madrid.

"Cardinal Ruoco Varela cancelled all parish masses for Sunday as well! The Spanish Civil Protection Senior Officers reported that there were about 1.4 million people at Cuatro Vientos long before the event started. The area had been prepared for 750,000. Some police said that close to 200,000 people were not allowed into the area. Large national groups did not get access to the site, including many Australians."

So we pilgrims from Christ the Redeemer, wet, sweaty and dirty as we are, have arrived back at our hostel with much to be thankful for!

Calm After the Storm

2011-08-21T08:05:00.000-07:00

If you compare this photo with the one in my previous post, you'd hardly think they were taken just twelve hours apart! This picture looks like it was taken on a nice beach somewhere!

Actually, it's a photo of me with Bishop Cornelius Sim of the diocese of Brunei (technically, he is the Vicar Apostolic of Brunei, which is not yet formally constituted as a diocese).

This cheerful and kind man proved something of a saviour to us at WYD, and to me in particular. He has family in Vancouver, and took a personal interest when he heard us being turned away from our section for the third time. With a slightly mischievous grin, he invited us to hop the fence and try to find some space with his group.

There truly was none, but somehow we pulled off a loaves and fishes miracle and managed to squeeze in with the Brunei youth--and with the bishop himself, because he had chosen not to be on the stage with the Pope for the vigil, nor to stay with the bishops in their hotel! He had bunked down with the rest of us! It was a great thing to see, and his good humour kept us going.

It also kept me going, to be a little bit blunt! The toilets were virtually inaccessible from our camp because zealous volunteers were blocking roads. They simply wouldn't let us pass, and I needed a bathroom in the worst way.

The bishop grabbed my arm and said, "we'll go together." The same volunteer barred our way until another caught sight of Bishop Sim's official ID badge and said "O! Obispo!" at which point the lad moved aside quickly. The bishop gave him a big smile and a hug, and after that we moved freely past the checkpoint!

WYD 2011 Storm

2011-08-21T07:46:00.000-07:00

It's now official--even though our Madrid accomodations had air-conditioning, I'm a full-fledged member of the World Youth Day fraternity, entitled to the secret handshake and all! All I need is the T-shirt: "I got soaked at WYD."

It wasn't the first experience of hardship: we arrived at the site of the vigil and Mass with the Pope to find our allocated section was full--overbooked by 300. We literally had nowhere to lay our heads, (More on that in the next post.)

Then we (well, mostly I) discover that the toilets are as few as they are far away. Outrageously bad planning. On the other hand, lots of food in our "picnic packs," which four of us collected for the group.

As we headed back with our heavy load, we came across a poor lady who had collected the same number of picnic sacks and was unable to carry them. Our young adults sized up the situation much quicker than I, and we divided her load between us--just as the wind began to blow a la the opening scene of "The Wizard of Oz," followed swiftly by lashing rain.

The first gusts blew the Holy Father's zuchetto (beanie) right off his head, and his hairstyle looked something like Harry Potter's for a few moments.

The prayer vigil had to stop because of the tempest, but after about ten minutes or so someone said from on stage "The rain has really slowed down. Pray some more and it will stop!" We did, and it did!

For the rest of the evening we had just some occasional showers. I slept in a waterproof sack which was large enough to hold my backpack, another pilgrim's backpack, and my runners, the only articles of clothing I bothered to remove.

Throughout there was nothing but cheerfulness and acceptance: really a living lesson in how to maintain peace of heart--and of the power of WYD.

WYD 2011

2011-08-20T06:34:00.001-07:00

As I mentioned in my last post, blogging is harder than it looks when you're running around in every direction and using an ancient laptop (six years old is now almost antique!). Actually, it's a shame that neither I nor my younger fellow pilgrims have been sending despatches from Madrid, because there's lots to report on.* World Youth Day is anything but boring, to say the least.

For instance, the epicentre of the demonstrations against WYD (and government expenditures related to it) is less than two blocks from our hostel. A huge square filled with protestors greeted us on our way to an evening prayer service, while an empty one ringed with riot police was what we found on our way home.

Happily, signs of joy and faith completely overpowered the negative impressions of the protests. The crowds welcoming the Pope are very difficult to describe: there's literally a football stadium of people lining every avenue.

The number of people makes it difficult to move about, and often uncomfortable, yet the easy manner and good cheer of the young people is a wonderful thing to see. In a crowd so tight that I felt the stirrings of panic, I was surrounded by people who looked as contented as if strolling through a park.

The English-language presentations--given in a massive indoor stadium seating (I'd guess) close to 20,000--have been stellar. Cardinal Pell of Sydney (who came to dinner at the parish with our pilgrims before the last WYD), Archbishop Dolan of New York, and our own Archbishop Miller have all given great talks to the throng, and celebrated Mass for us.

The heat is less oppressive than I feared. It's not as humid as, say, Washington or Toronto on a bad day, and air conditioning is more common that I'd expected. But I say that just an hour before heading out on foot to the papal Mass site, where we will spend the night outdoors!

Time for one last shower before heading off on our pilgrim walk!

*For much better blogging, check out http://www.vanwyd.blogspot.com/

Ireland

2011-08-17T09:21:00.001-07:00

Blogging during my World Youth Day trip has proved technically daunting... my tired old laptop is not performing well, and internet connections are spotty—so the post below was written more than ten days ago! Since then I have been to Valencia for Days in the Diocese and am now in Madrid. But chances of another post are slim.

I call this my blog, but that's not honest advertising! The dedicated bloggers I know work much harder at it than I do, with Archbishop Terry Prendergast winning the prize. On our World Youth Day trip, Meghan and Chris plan to file regular reports (though I haven't seen any yet! (More about Rob Fuller's blog below.)

What I'm offering today is a quick recap of nine days in Ireland. Just the itinerary would tire most readers, so I'll stick with some highlights.

I was met in Dublin by a Rome classmate and dear friend who I won't name because I intend to praise him below, which he hates; he was a spectacular host throughout and a terrific guide.

We weren't out of the airport before I sat down to the first of many Irish breakfasts—also known as a fry or fry-up, as near as I could tell! From there we went directly to All Hallows College. The college has trained many hundreds of Irish priests, mainly for the service of the Church outside of Ireland.

At All Hallows I shared two days of a retreat called "The Intercession for Priests." This annual event brings priests from all over Ireland, and elsewhere, to pray with and for their brothers. An Irish Vincentian priest, Father Kevin Scallon, began the Intercession 35 years ago with the help of a very gifted religious, Sister Briege McKenna. Both were on hand and I enjoyed seeing them again—they had visited Vancouver some years back.

I'm not going to report much about the priests' conversation in order to respect their privacy, but I can certainly say they are profoundly shocked and saddened by the clergy abuse crisis that has engulfed their country. It can't really be compared to the similar tragedy experienced in Canada, because the size of Ireland, the position of the Church in society, and the political implications have all combined to make the scandal vastly more pervasive than it was here.

What I will say is that the two priest friends with whom I spent time during the holiday, along with others I met at All Hallows and elsewhere are among the finest priests you'll meet anywhere; their willingness to bear the weight of others' sin and failure is Christ-like. I felt very sad for them, yet confident that grace will abound despite it all.

The enormity of the sins of some, and the woefulness of the official response in some quarters, can't be denied or minimized. But I formed the clear impression that some of those who do not support our mission have seized on the crisis as an opportunity to weaken the Church.

It's out of sequence, but I want to tell you here about a second experience of prayer that left me full of hope for the Church in Ireland—and elsewhere—even if it's to be a smaller, holier Church.

On Saturday night my host and I went out to a gathering near the ancient monastic ruins of Clonmacnoise to take part in the annual national gathering of young people organized by a lay-led movement called Youth 2000. The festival depends entirely on donations despite the huge cost involved—the young people attend without charge. It felt a lot like Catholic Christian Outreach's annual Rise Up event (which will be held in Vancouver this year, incidentally).

Twenty or so of us started to hear confessions around 8:30 p.m. We finished well after midnight, and then stayed on to adore the Blessed Sacrament with the 500 or so participants (which included an impressive number of young priests, Brothers and Sisters, from both the ancient orders like the Dominicans and newer ones like the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal). The whole thing was very moving for me... and joyful.

At Clonmacnoise I bumped into an old acquaintance, the dynamic young Irish Senator Ronan Mullen, whom I'd met in Vancouver some years ago. He is a solid Catholic, involved in politics in the tradition of the great Catholic statesmen of old, and is doing great things in the upper house of the Oireachtas, the Irish parliament.

Speaking of great things, I was first introduced to Senator Mullen—then the press spokesman for the Archbishop of Dublin—through my old friend from Prince George, Rob Fuller. I met Rob more than twenty years ago when he was a seminarian. After leaving the seminary, he met a lovely school teacher from Galway who was working as a lay missionary in Prince George. They married in Galway (I concelebrated on the occasion) and now live there with their four children.

Anything witty that I tell you about Rob—who would be a true "character" if only he were Irish by birth rather than adoption—will bring wittier-still retaliation on his blog, I will limit myself to his remarkable gifts as a Catholic layman. He writes elegantly and eloquently on his blog about faith and life, where he is quick to point out weaknesses in the Church, while arguing cogently in person and on his blog Faith and Life for what he believes would make things better. But he does more than offer opinions—he has the courage of his convictions, and a while back he defended his own bishop to the point of handing out flyers on the steps of the cathedral.

(All of this is accomplished with a certain cheek, as the English—and perhaps the Irish?—say. Rob is, after all, a forty-something year old man who has managed to surreptitiously short-sheet my bed in three countries over a period of two decades!)

Being with Rob and Mary and their brood was another sign of hope for me; a strong lay spirituality and identity is an essential ingredient of reform in the Church, and they are fine examples of that.

There's much more to say, but I think this is enough for now. Suffice to say I arrived in Valencia for the start of our World Youth Day pilgrimage having already experienced the power of the Holy Spirit working in the hearts of young people (and of priests of all ages!).

The Wisdom of Solomon: Sunday 17A

2011-07-23T21:43:00.001-07:00

Fifty years ago, John F. Kennedy gave the most-quoted presidential inaugural address since Lincoln. Even those in church today who weren't born in 1961 probably know its most famous line: "Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country."

In today's first reading, God takes the opposite approach. Instead of asking something from Solomon, he asks Solomon, "What can I do for you?"

It's quite a question, isn't it? But it's something of a trick question, since God makes it clear He wasn't expecting to be treated like a genie in a bottle. He's pleased with Solomon's request for wisdom, for the gift of knowing what is good and what is bad.

What's the message for us, here? I don't expect God to appear in a dream tonight and ask what He should give me—it's not really the way He works.

But one thing is very clear, not only from the story of Solomon but from all that the Gospels tell us about God: He wants very much to give us "a wise and discerning mind." Has it ever struck you that four of the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit—namely wisdom, understanding, counsel, and knowledge—all have to do with our intellect? All four are related to knowing God and knowing what He wants us to do.

So in Confirmation we've been given the same thing that God gave King Solomon—not so we can rule over Israel, but so we can make good decisions in our lives and help others to do the same.

We can, however, take this gift for granted. We can be like Henry Ford, who said "Exercise is bunk. If you're sick you shouldn't take it, and if you're healthy you don't need it." Even the most robust person needs to maintain good habits to stay healthy; the same is true spiritually—we must both safeguard and strengthen the wisdom God has given us.

So how do we do that? First of all, we live good lives. St. Paul points out in more than one place that sin darkens our understanding (see 2 Thessalonians 2:10-11; Ephesians 4:19-19). Every week or two we read in the paper about some public figure behaving in ways any sensible person would realize were doomed to end in disgrace—but in almost every case, sin (usually lust) had taken away the knowledge of the inevitable consequences.

The second answer, almost as important as the first, is to think about—to fill our minds with—what is true. That's St. Paul's last word as he bids farewell to the Philippians (4:8).

Today I'd like to talk about one of the easiest ways of filling our minds and hearts with the truth—one of the most effective ways of acquiring and developing the wisdom and understanding that God wants us to have and to use.

But before I do, I want to ask you a question. Don't raise your hands (it could be embarrassing)—just answer honestly to yourself.

When's the last time you read a spiritual book? I don't mean a pamphlet or the BC Catholic, or even a good article on the internet. When did you last pick up and read a Christian classic or a modern spiritual writer?

Perhaps some of us will answer: never. Others will recall leafing through a musty old book from childhood.

The fact is: spiritual reading is one of the most pleasant and productive ways to grow in faith—and to grow in holiness. You can, with a little help, find a book that suits where you are on the Christian journey, and that fits your taste as well. Very often the right book leads directly to prayer; often enough it can even be a source of conversion.

Spiritual books come in all shapes and sizes. There are lives of the saints and other holy Christians, journals, autobiographies, letters, sermons, and works of theology—although only some theological works make good spiritual writing.

There are classics suited to just about everyone, and other books that are particularly helpful to those struggling with a particular issue or at a certain stage of life. Modern writers continue to produce excellent books that connect readily with the problems we face today.

I'm always happy to suggest spiritual books to those who call or visit, and the volunteer librarians in our small parish library can help you find something to your liking.

Today, though, and not for the first time, I am recommending a modern and easy-to-read book that will appeal to many. It's called Rediscovering Catholicism by Matthew Kelly, a dynamic young Australian writer and speaker who lives in the U.S.

Rediscovering Catholicism is a remarkable book filled with insights about what our faith means and how to live it. I'm not pretending it is a modern classic, but Matthew Kelly has made it available at such a low cost that there's simply nothing out there we can make available to you so easily.

There are copies on the table to the left of the church doors, and I'm suggesting a donation of $5 per copy. That's less than they cost the parish, so if you're young or poor or simply tight with money, just take one—so long as you'll read it.

Continuing with the summer reading theme, our librarians have put out a selection of spiritual books on a table on your right as you leave. These books may be borrowed, but we ask that you check them out by signing for them with your phone number.

Finally, there's a sheet listing some of my favourite spiritual books. Most of them are easy to order through Amazon or Chapters.ca. I usually find Amazon has the better stock. If you have trouble ordering on the internet, just call the rectory and we'll get it for you.

Ask yourself today "What can God do for me?" and then go looking for the treasure that's waiting for you, hidden in a book.

Summertime Spiritual Reading: Some Suggestions

2011-07-23T21:35:00.001-07:00

Searching For And Maintaining Peace: A Small Treatise On Peace Of Heart, by Father Jacques Philippe has proved a source of strength and consolation for many parishioners since Westminster Abbey began to promote it a few years ago. It's also inexpensive—about $8 if part of a $25 order shipped free. He has also written several other fine small books, though only one—Time for God—seems available on the internet at the moment.

Anything by the late Father Thomas Dubay is well worth reading, but his Deep Conversion: Deep Prayer is particularly wonderful and shorter than his masterwork, Fire Within, which explores the teaching of Sts. Teresa and John of the Cross in the light of the Gospel.

The Protestant writer John Eldredge paints a dramatic picture of the Christian journey in Waking the Dead: The Glory of a Heart Fully Alive. It's a wake-up call to those who are unaware of the perils of that journey, but offers hope and courage to the reader. Written for anyone, it makes frequent reference to modern culture so appeals particularly to younger readers, especially men.

One of the most helpful books I have read about prayer is Ralph Martin's Hungry for God: Practical Help in Personal Prayer, recently revised and reissued. It can kick start prayer in those who don't know where to begin, or encourage a return to prayer in those who need a boost. He has also written a much heavier book (in more than one sense) called The Fulfillment of All Desire. This instant classic lives up to its subtitle, A Guidebook for the Journey to God Based on the Wisdom of the Saints, offering an excellent overview of the spiritual masters we call the Doctors of the Church, in language anyone can follow despite its depth. Although a solid introductory work, The Fulfillment of All Desire turns the reader towards prayer, not just study.

Enter Father Benedict Groeschel's name in the search box on Amazon or Chapters, and you'll find a host of books that will deliver what their titles promise. Particularly helpful to those facing great challenges are the recent Tears of God: Persevering in the Face of Great Sorrow or Catastrophe and his Arise from Darkness: What to Do When Life Doesn't Make Sense.

Not to be forgotten are classics like The Imitation of Christ and the Confessions of St. Augustine, widely available in many different (though not equally good) translations. The Introduction to the Devout Life by St. Francis de Sales, especially in a good translation, is food for thought and prayer. St. Teresa of Avila, despite her lofty reputation, is not hard to read; the Way of Perfection is excellent spiritual reading.

"Do the right spiritual reading, and prayer will look after itself." Abbot Eugene Boylan

Weed and Wheat: Sunday 16A

2011-07-16T16:34:00.001-07:00

I became a fan of Dietrich Bonhoeffer's when I was barely out of my teens. If we canonized Protestants, he'd be my first choice.

Bonhoeffer was a Lutheran theologian who was executed by the Nazis just three weeks before the end of World War II. He'd been part of the plot to assassinate Hitler and active in the German resistance.

It's no wonder he fascinated me when I was young—the exciting title of a recent biography tells it all: Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy. But as I get older, I get more interested in him as a young man, standing up to the liberalism of German Christianity years before he stood up to the Nazis.

Although he was born into the intellectual establishment—you might say the scholarly elite of pre-war Germany—Bonhoeffer understood early on that much of the theology he was taught had little connection with real Christianity. Basic truths of the Gospel, and the person of Jesus himself were routinely robbed of their power and their true meaning.

One reason why Bonhoeffer was able to stand alone was his considerable experience ministering to those who weren't typically pious. He taught a confirmation class in Germany that almost required him to have a bodyguard; in New York he worshiped mainly with African-American congregations; and while serving briefly in Barcelona he wrote that he had to deal with people he'd otherwise never have said a word to: bums, vagabonds, criminals, lion tamers who'd run away from the German circus on its Spanish tour, music hall dancers, and murderers on the run.

Yet he wrote to a friend that he was meeting people as they are, far from the masquerade of the so-called "Christian world." Using typically Protestant language, he observed "that it is just these people who are much more under grace than under wrath, and that it is the Christian world which is more under wrath than grace."

In terms more familiar to us, the young pastor had learned the truth of these words of Jesus: "I tell you, tax collectors and prostitutes are making their way into the kingdom of God before you."

Now what does all this have to do with us? Well, it's a way of reminding ourselves not to jump to conclusions when we read the parable of the wheat and the weeds.

My first reaction to this parable is always "Ah yes. Put up with those thorny weeds in the Church and let God take care of them in his own way." The parable thus is reduced to a means of coping with the people whom I judge don't belong in the harvest of the Lord.

But what if I myself am a weed among the wheat? What if I'm the one whom the Lord is leaving alone until the day comes for the harvest?

There's no reason to assume that weeds will never be transformed into good wheat. The Letter of James says "Be patient, therefore, beloved, until the coming of the Lord. The farmer waits for the precious crop from the earth, being patient with it until it receives the early and the late rains. You also must be patient."

The Lord is patient with us, so we should be patient with one another—in the family, in the parish, in our workplaces and schools. To make this clear, St. James adds "Beloved, do not grumble against one another, so that you may not be judged."

It's true that God himself will sort out the weeds from the wheat, the bad from the good. But since in this life we can never be absolutely certain which plant we are, we must imitate his patience—with one another, and with ourselves.

Perhaps I am stretching the point, but I feel sometimes that the field of my own heart contains both wheat and weeds—that virtues and vices coexist, waiting for the purification that may come only in Purgatory.

Maybe that's what the poet Gerald Manley Hopkins was thinking when he wrote "My own heart let me have more pity on; let me live to my sad self hereafter kind."

Last Advent, Pope Benedict spoke of the need to strengthen our interior persistence, the resistance of the soul that keeps us from despair ... and to prepare for Christ's coming with hard-working confidence.

That's the best way to approach this parable—with hard-working confidence in God's mercy and help. As for judging the others alongside of us, we can best remember the old line "There's so much good in the worst of us, and so much bad in the best of us, that it hardly behooves any of us, to talk about the rest of us."

The Sower and the Seed: Sunday 15A

2011-07-10T07:37:00.001-07:00

In the parable of the sower, Jesus tackles one of our greatest hopes and one of our greatest fears.

We hope that our lives will take root in good soil, that we will be fruitful and productive people. And we fear—at least many of us do—becoming shallow, and failing to hang on in the long run.

Is anyone so steady or so sure as to feel there's no risk of falling away, or of a mid-life crisis that makes us prey to the birds that devour the seed of faith?

Many years ago I was at Mass in a convent chapel with a wonderful Sister, still very active at 92 years of age. When the intercessions came, she prayed "Lord, grant us the grace to persevere." At 92, she still lived each day by the grace of God, knowing the race isn't over till it's over.

A fruitful life, a life rooted in the teachings of Christ, isn't something we want only for ourselves; if we have children we both hope and fear for their future; if we have grandchildren it is much the same. Will those youngsters who received their First Holy Communion stay close to the Lord they welcomed so eagerly? Will the gifts of the Holy Spirit at Confirmation lead them to be true disciples amid all the temptations of the world?

A pastor, too, worries about the good seed being snatched from the hearts of his parishioners, young and old. Even the prophet Isaiah [Is 49:4] and St. Paul himself [Phil 2:16] admit to being afraid that their work was all for nothing.

It's not hard to be a little pessimistic when we see so many young people turning aside from their Catholic upbringing—or even when we see in ourselves more weeds and thorns than abundant grain. The scorching sun of work and worry beats down on many of us, leaving us barely enough time or energy for the spiritual life.

And when we do make a little progress in prayer or scripture reading, or just when we've finally managed to make it regularly to Mass, our team makes it into the finals, or an elderly parent needs care, or there's a tough assignment at work. The good seed we'd planted is snatched away.

What's the answer to this timeless predicament, one that seems particularly tough in our times?

We find an answer from Isaiah, the very same prophet who said "I have labored to no purpose; I have spent my strength in vain and for nothing." [Is 49:4, NIV] Because no sooner did he says those words than he added: "Yet surely my cause is with the Lord, and my reward is with my God."

In other words, Isaiah confronts his fear of the future with the virtues of faith and hope.

And that's exactly what we must do: we will persevere in our own struggles, and pray properly for those we love, only with faith and hope in God's promises.

One of those promises comes to us from Isaiah himself, in today's first reading. It's a good deal cheerier than today's Gospel, and the two really need to be read together.

Isaiah's prophecy uses an example we all know. The rain and snow that falls on the earth eventually returns to the skies. Water evaporates and returns to the atmosphere—after it has given life to dry soil. The cycle may be interrupted by flood and drought, but otherwise it is continuous and unfailing.

God's word—that word that the Letter to the Hebrews calls "alive and active, sharper than a double-edged sword"—is also unfailing. The truths taught to our young people, the truths we ourselves have learned from the Christ, never become sterile seeds; they will bear the rich harvest of abundant life if we will cooperate even minimally with God.

The parable of the sower and the seed is a bit scary; between the rocky spoil, the hungry birds, and the choking thorns you might almost think that failure is our default setting. But we know that's wrong: Jesus said clearly "I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly." [Jn 10:10]

In the same chapter of St. John's Gospel, Jesus adds "I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand." [Jn 10:28]

Not much room there for pessimism or for too much fear of those birds.

Still, how do we reconcile the clear warning we've heard—and the failures we've seen and experienced—with the promises we're made and the hope we are meant to have?

One answer is given by the Lutheran theologian and martyr Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who warned against what he called "cheap grace."

Cheap grace is grace that costs us nothing, that invites no disciplined response, and not even the least sacrifice. It's an utter contradiction, since something won at the price of Christ's blood cannot be cheap.

Even though God has freely poured out his grace on us, we must still treasure and respect it. Though we can't earn it, we can and must respond to it.

What does that response require?

As I did last week, I'd like to offer a "take-out," or as they say in some places, a "take-away" homily. You'll find it on the second of the two cards I printed as souvenirs of my ordination anniversary, which I hope you'll pick up after Mass. The card is headed "Holiness," and it quotes Pope Benedict.

The Holy Father states the essentials of a holy life in very few words—proving, I'd say, that we can live fruitful lives without heroics and that overcoming the rocks and thorns of life isn't too much for any of us.

He lists just three things:

1. Never let a Sunday go by without meeting Christ in the Eucharist.

2. Begin and end each day with at least a brief contact with God in prayer.

3. Follow the Ten Commandments, the "signposts" of Christian life.

Pope Benedict says that "this is the true simplicity and greatness of a life of holiness." Nothing more than Sunday Mass, daily prayer, and making all our decisions according to the law of love.

Small wonder that St. Paul tells us that the word is very near to us—on our lips and in our hearts. [Rm 10:8]

That word will not return empty to God the Sower; it will not leave us hungering for the Bread of Life, but will accomplish all God wants—if we respond to Him in the very simplest of ways.

Here is the text of the card to which I refer in the homily above:

What is the essential?

The essential means never leaving a Sunday without an encounter with the Risen Christ in the Eucharist; this is not an additional burden but is light for the whole week.

It means never beginning and never ending a day without at least a brief contact with God.

And, on the path of our life it means following the “signposts” that God has communicated to us in the Ten Commandments, interpreted with Christ, which are merely the explanation of what love is in specific situations.

It seems to me that this is the true simplicity and greatness of a life of holiness: the encounter with the Risen One on Sunday; contact with God at the beginning and at the end of the day; following, in decisions, the “signposts” that God has communicated to us, which are but forms of charity.

– Pope Benedict XVI

Thanks and More Thanks

2011-07-03T10:29:00.001-07:00

The post that follows is a letter to parishioners and others who made my 25th anniversary such a joyful celebration. You can also click on the following links for: 1) my grateful thoughts about all who have supported me in my vocation, and 2) Archbishop Miller's homily at Mass on June 25.

All the attention I received during my anniversary celebrations was put into perspective by what someone said when I exclaimed how beautifully the church was decorated. "Don't worry Monsignor," I was told. "This is all for Jesus; only the party is for you!"

When all is said and done, I think the 'party' was for all of us—because the celebrations, particularly the two jubilee Masses, surely brought many graces to the entire parish, even those who could not be with us. This week I felt the intense spirit of communion that unites our parish, and I saw the dedicated stewardship that makes it strong.

We were united in communion by the presence of Archbishop Miller on Saturday, and reminded of the courage of the apostles by having Bishop Monroe with us on Tuesday. The presence of newly-ordained Father Bryan Duggan and Deacon Pablo Santa Maria reminded us to pray for priests and for more vocations. I am grateful to them and to our devoted altar servers, and to Amina Storch, who arranged the magnificent flowers that graced the church.

After one of the Masses someone exclaimed to me "I am just so glad to be Catholic!" It wasn't an offhand remark. I felt the same way myself, as I took part in such intense and beautiful liturgies. Both Masses were planned and prepared in every detail by Robert Hickson, and the music drew us wonderfully into the sacred mysteries with the talented help of the Curalli family on Saturday, and of Chris Chok, Karen Dy, Michelle Keong and our other talented musicians on Tuesday—aided on both occasions by the beautiful violin of Karen Teufel. I was delighted by the presence of students from St. Anthony's School, who offered a beautiful song at Communion time under the direction of Mr. Peter Abando.

If you weren't at the Saturday Mass, I hope you will take a look at Archbishop Miller's homily—and if you didn't get a copy of the Mass booklet handed out on both Saturday and Tuesday, I hope you'll read my words of thanks from those programs.

The head of the organizing committee for the celebration, Karen Lerner, was efficiency and patience personified! I cannot possibly thank her enough. Her hard-working committee—Maureen Giefing, Mari-Ellen Martin, Nicole Bitelli and Helen Minshull—were also wonderful. Maureen and Arlene Boreham's work decorating the gym with flowers was another visible act of the stewardship of time and talent; less visible was the tireless and thankless work of the wonderful Mary Forristal—ironing 65 tablecloths—and the efforts of Anita Callahan to make sure we obtained enough glasses and cutlery for a large crowd.

Those who attended the dinner on Saturday night were treated to a wonderful meal thanks to the talents of John Carlo Felicella and his capable crew. On both Saturday and Tuesday, generous volunteers worked very hard setting up and cleaning up—they are too many to name.

I am very grateful to the lively MCs—Angela Sargent and Chris and Meghan Chapman—and to those who spoke so beautifully—Rolly Waechter, Barbara Dowding, Sister Josephine Carney, and the representatives of parish groups. I'm not so sure that I'm as grateful to those young people who skewered me so effectively in their clever video, but I certainly admire their comic talents! The same is true for the musical duo of my brother Kevin and nephew Neil!

For their many hours of work on the video presentations I must thank Alex Buhler, Marilyn and Stefanie Elliott, my sister Sheila and particularly Father Xavier, who more importantly has been a brother, a friend, and a help in so many ways. We are richly blessed by his presence in the parish.

The beautiful program cover, and the invitations sent to people outside the parish, came from the talented hands of Jean McCarron.

I'm very grateful to an anonymous donor who provided wine for Saturday's dinner, to Tim Lack who made sure the proceedings were legal, and to Cecilia and Bill Curtis who helped with the bar.

All the members of the parish staff, particularly Robert Ibanez and Lenny Silva, were caught up in the preparations for these celebrations and gave generously of their time, but I have to single out our parish secretary Marilyn, who served as the ringmaster of a three-ring circus while remaining unfailingly patient and kind.

I know there are names missing, but they are known to God, who will—I hope and pray—reward you all for your love for the Church and your kindness to me.

So much time, talent, and treasure can only come from a deep spirit of communion and stewardship—and of love for the priesthood. I can never thank you properly, and I recognize that much of what you do is done for the Lord. But I can at least say that your love is returned, in full measure.

I'd like to repeat and underscore something I wrote in my words of thanksgiving in the programs for Mass:

I thank you, dear parishioners, for your astonishing generosity, acceptance, confidence and love. If I am a good pastor, it is in no small measure because you have taught me how.

Archbishop Miller’s Homily

2011-06-29T19:22:00.001-07:00

Archbishop J. Michael Miller has kindly allowed me to post the text of his homily at the Mass on the Solemnity of Corpus Christi at which we celebrated my 25^th anniversary of ordination.

Dear Monsignor Greg, dear brothers in the priesthood, Deacon Pablo, seminarians, Sisters and dear family, friends and parishioners of Christ the Redeemer Parish:

Introduction

This evening we gather to celebrate one of the most beautiful feasts of the liturgical year, when "the Church relives the mystery of Holy Thursday in the light of the Resurrection." The solemnity of Corpus Christi or the Body and Blood of Christ reaffirms our faith in the Eucharist, the Mystery that constitutes the heart of the Church, the source of her life, the summit of her worship. Through the Eucharist we do indeed, by our sharing in the one Bread, become one body, one spirit in Christ (cf. I Cor 10:17).

Today is also an especially blessed occasion for us because we are giving thanks to the Lord for the gift of priesthood to the Church as lived by Monsignor Gregory Smith for the past twenty-five years. Twenty-five years ago, through the hands and prayer of Archbishop Carney, the Lord laid claim to young Greg Smith so that he would be his ambassador, his minister chosen to perpetuate his presence among his people. Through no doing of his own, but as sheer grace, he "possesses the ministry through God's mercy" (cf. 2 Cor 4:1). At his Ordination Father Greg was transformed by the power of the sacrament to share uniquely in the priesthood of Christ, the one, eternal High Priest, to become a "dispenser of the mysteries of God" (1 Cor 4:1).

Monsignor Greg was ordained for you, for us, for the Church: to perform a specific service for the Lord and for the People of God. The essence of this service has probably never been better expressed than by the Letter to the Hebrews, which tells us:

Every high priest is taken from among men and made their representative before God, to offer gifts and sacrifices for sin. For this reason, he is bound to offer sacrifice for his own sins as well as for those of the people. And one does not take the honour upon himself, but is called by God (Heb 5:1,3-4).

In the Rite of Ordination, the bishop gave to young Greg the following charge, indicating clearly that henceforth he was to be "above all a man of the Eucharist": "The sacrifice of Christ will be offered sacramentally in an unbloody way through your hands. Understand the meaning of what you do; put into practice what you celebrate. When you recall [celebrate] the mystery of the death and resurrection of the Lord, strive to die to sin and to walk in the new life of Christ."

Today, then, we are celebrating the graciousness of God in giving us two great sacraments which are profound interconnected. The Eucharist is the principal reason for the sacrament of the priesthood, which "came into being at the moment of the institution of the Eucharist, and together with it." Indeed, as Blessed John Paul II observed: "there can be no Eucharist without the priesthood, just as there can be no priesthood without the Eucharist."

The offering of the Sacrifice of the Mass draws us into the most profound mystery of God, the mystery of his redeeming love. "The Eucharist proclaims the mystery of the God who dies, who experiences human suffering and death out of love." In the Mass we are confronted with a God who reaches out to us with wounded human hands and gives us his own flesh, the Bread "for the life of the world" (Jn 6:51), so that we might abide in God and live forever (cf. Jn 6:56, 58).

Father Benedict Groeschel, a priest much admired by Monsignor Greg, once replied to the question "What does the Eucharist mean to you?" with the simple response, "It means everything." So, does it mean everything for our silver jubilarian.

Eucharist and Transformation

At the Last Supper, on the eve of his passion, Jesus thanked and praised God and, with the power of his love, transformed the meaning of his upcoming death from defeat to victory. The fact that the Sacrament of the altar is called the "Eucharist," which comes from the Greek word meaning "thanksgiving" expresses this transformation. The change in the very substance of the bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ is the fruit of the gift that Christ made of himself to the Father, a gift of a love stronger than death. Because of this eternal love of Christ we can share in his eternal life. From the heart of Christ, from his "Eucharistic Prayer" on the eve of his Passion, flows the dynamism that transforms reality in all its cosmic, human and historical dimensions.

The commonly used expression "to receive Communion" is both beautiful and eloquent. It refers to the act of eating the transformed bread of the Eucharist. In fact, when we do so, we enter into communion with the very life of Jesus; we become engaged in the dynamism of his life given up for us. From God, through Jesus, to us: a unique communion is transmitted in the Holy Eucharist. We have heard as much, in this evening's second reading, from the words of the Apostle Paul to the Christians of Corinth: "The cup of blessing that we bless, is it not a sharing in the Blood of Christ? The bread that we break, is it not a sharing in the Body of Christ?"(1 Cor 10:16-17).

St. Augustine helps us to understand what happens when we receive Holy Communion. In his Confessions, he refers to a vision he had, in which Jesus said to him: "You will not change me into yourself like bodily food; but you will be changed into me." What is the Saint getting at? He means that while the bodily food is assimilated by the body and contributes to its nourishment and maintenance, the Eucharist is a different kind of bread, the "living bread that came [comes] down from heaven" (Jn 6:51). We do not assimilate it; rather, it assimilates us to itself, so that we become conformed to Jesus Christ and members of his Body, one with him, abiding in him. This is decisive: it is Christ who, in Eucharistic communion, transforms us into him. Our very self, in this encounter, is opened up; it is freed from its elusive and slavish self-centeredness and placed in the Heart of Jesus, who in turn is himself immersed in the communion of the Triune God.

The Eucharist unites us intimately to Christ and, at the same time, it opens us to others, making us members one of another: divisions are overcome as we are one with him. Eucharistic communion unites me to the person next to me, and with whom I might not even have a good relationship, but also to my brothers and sisters wherever they may be, in whatever corner of the world. As Pope Benedict wrote in his first encyclical, "union with Christ is also union with all those to whom he gives himself. I cannot possess Christ just for myself; I can belong to him only in union with all those who have become, or who will become, his own."

Those who recognize and accept Jesus in the Eucharist recognize and accept their brothers and sisters who suffer, who are hungry and thirsty, who are strangers, naked, sick, imprisoned (cf. Mt 25:31-46). They are attentive to every person, committing themselves, in a concrete way, to those who are in need. From the gift of Christ's love in the Eucharist comes our special responsibility as Christians in building a just and fraternal society, a culture of life and a civilization of love.

The Eucharist is an urgent call to holiness in the midst of everyday life. That call contains within it a call to action. It bids us who adore and receive the Lord to make a similar gift of self to our brothers and sisters. Together with Jesus, we are called "to be bread broken for the life of the world" – to nourish others as we have been nourished.

A Sign of Contradiction

The Lord does not leave us alone on our journey through this world. He is with us, just as he said: "Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in him" (Jn 6:56).

At this announcement, however, the people, instead of rejoicing, started to murmur in protest: "How can this man give us his flesh to eat?" (Jn 6:52) – a question repeated endlessly in the course of history. This seemed to them a hard saying, and many of his disciples withdrew from Jesus' company when they heard it. "Then, as now, the Eucharist remains a 'sign of contradiction' . . . because a God who makes himself flesh and sacrifices himself for the life of the world throws human wisdom into crisis."

Commenting on the wonder of this amazing gift, and why it caused such consternation among those who heard it, the Holy Father has said that perhaps the reason is our fear of a God who is so close to us. Listen to his words:

One might say that basically people do not want to have God so close, to be so easily within reach or to share so deeply in the events of their daily life. Rather, people want him to be great and, in brief, we also often want him to be a little distant from us.

But God wants to be close to us. He wants his presence with us to continue through time and space; and so he gave us the Holy Eucharist and the priesthood to perpetuate his presence.

Conclusion

As we continue this Mass, let us pray that we will allow ourselves to be taken into the Mystery of the Eucharist, the treasure of the Church where Christ "abides" with us (cf. Jn 6:56), and let us renew our gratitude for the gift of the priesthood through which the Lord continues to embrace the world which he loved so much that he sent his Son to redeem it (cf. Jn 3:16).

Amen.

J. Michael Miller, CSB

Archbishop of Vancouver

Twenty Five Years of Priesthood

2011-06-26T07:57:00.001-07:00

On Saturday night we had the formal celebration of my twenty-fifth anniversary of priestly ordination, which occurs this Tuesday, June 28. Archbishop Miller presided at Mass for the feast of Corpus Christi, followed by a dinner in the parish centre attended by many parishioners and dear friends.

The following is what I wrote in the program for Mass.

Just about everyone knows that I choke up when I count my blessings, so it should come as no surprise that I can't express personally my gratitude to the people who have shaped my life, guided me to the priesthood, sustained me in my labours, and brought me so much joy. These written words will have to do, but they come directly from my heart.

A verse of Scripture keeps running through my head : How can I repay the Lord for His goodness to me? And how can I repay so many of you for the years of love, prayer, support, and friendship—not to mention forbearance?

The simple answer is that I can neither repay, nor fully acknowledge, the many people who have made my twenty-five years of priesthood so happy and so blessed.

I don't dare to name most of them for fear of missing even one among the dozens I hold in my grateful heart tonight. (When our new deacon and new priest were ordained recently, I was touched that both mentioned me by name at the back of their ordination booklets. But Deacon Pablo and Father Bryan are much younger than I, and it won't be long before their debts of gratitude increase to the point where they won't be able to fit everyone in at the back of a program, either!)

Some names, of course, must be mentioned. After God, my parents were the source of my vocation and the force that sustained it. Some years ago I wrote my vocation story for a Catholic paper, and Mom mentioned (without complaint) that she and my father seemed to play a fairly small role! I promptly wrote a second article—my failure to highlight my parents was simply a failure to state the obvious. Their sturdy faith, reflected in our regular attendance at Sunday Mass, involvement in parish activities and devotions, was the foundation of all that I am as a Christian and a priest.

On this feast of Corpus Christi, I also cherish the memory of my mother taking me to Benediction as a youngster; I've often thought that my love of the Eucharist first began to grow during those evenings.

My parents' beliefs and commitment are reflected in the fact that my four siblings all practice the faith; they and their spouses have been to me both a strong support and a fine example of family life; the love of my nieces and nephews has meant I never felt deprived by not having children of my own.

Much to my surprise, I am not especially grieved that my Dad is not here to share this anniversary with us—because I believe he is sharing it. The Eucharist we celebrate tonight bridges the gap between this world and the next, and I very much feel his presence. Thank you, Dad, for everything.

Of course my parents were themselves the product of wonderful families, and tonight I can't but think of the love and faith of my grandmothers, great-aunts, great-uncles, aunts and uncles. It's a special joy to have my father's sister Denise with us tonight, the last of that large group of beloved relatives.

Blessed as I am by my family, I hardly deserve the further blessing of a small army of friends who have enriched my life not only in Vancouver but in Rome and Washington. I don't have words to describe the love and loyalty of my devoted friends, many of whom go back more than the 25 years we're celebrating tonight.

Though I am dodging the risk of naming names, it's impossible not to mention Sister Josephine Carney, who throughout my priestly life has been a constant "voice" telling me of the Lord's love, and Maria Micallef, who when I arrived in West Vancouver decided I needed more of a mother's love (and cooking) than I could get long-distance from Ontario—and who now shares her loving kindness with my mother as well.

And I'm sure I offend no-one by singling out Lawrence Pillon and Father Stanley Galvon, the two stalwart friends who have kept me on an even keel since seminary days (or who, at least, did their best!) and my fellow jubilarian Father Don Larson, whose friendship and wise counsel has been a gift since the day we entered the Beda College together.

To the rest of you—and you know who you are—I can only say that I can't imagine life without you. Your affection, example, faith, guidance, generosity, and support is a major reason why my years of priesthood have been fruitful years of peace and joy.

Of course there would be no anniversary to celebrate tonight had I not been encouraged in my diocesan vocation by Father (now Bishop) David Monroe, who preached at my first Mass and will graciously preach again at the anniversary liturgy on June 28. There would certainly be no anniversary had I not been called to the priesthood by the late Archbishop James F. Carney, and prepared well for ministry by the priests and sisters who staffed the Pontifical Beda College. Women religious—the Franciscan Missionaries of the Divine Motherhood at the Beda, the Grey Sisters of Pembroke, the Sisters of St. Joseph at St. Patrick's, the Cenacle Sisters, the Sisters of St. Ann, and more recently the Dominican Nuns at Queen of Peace monastery—have been a constant inspiration and source of friendship in my priestly life.

The Oblates of Mary Immaculate played a key role in the early development of my vocation, and the close friendship and constant encouragement of the late Father Brendan Megannety was a precious gift from God for which I will be grateful forever. I owe a great debt also to the Jesuits, having received both high school and doctoral diplomas from their schools—about 35 years apart!

The Benedictines at Westminster Abbey and Mount Angel Abbey have offered me spiritual guidance and example along with treasured friendships and peaceful oases for prayer and rest. The friendship and spiritual wisdom of priests of Opus Dei has also been a big help in recent years.

The dedicated people with whom I worked at 150 Robson, and the parishioners at St. Patrick's, St. John the Apostle, St. Ignatius and Star of the Sea parishes, supported and encouraged me for nearly twenty years; many of them are my close and valued friends.

This long litany of thanksgiving should help to explain why I have been so happy during the past quarter-century. Yet I have never been happier than I am now. For this, I want to thank the parishioners of Christ the Redeemer. What can I say to express my appreciation to you? Sharing your joys and your sorrows has been the greatest of the many privileges of my priestly life.

Since arriving here as pastor, I have often felt like the middle-aged man who became a father for the first time: elated, even if a bit exhausted. I thank you, dear parishioners, for your astonishing generosity, acceptance, confidence and love. If I am a good pastor, it is in no small measure because you have taught me how. And a special word of thanks to those who worked so hard organizing the liturgies and dinner for my anniversary. You are certainly exhausted, but I hope you are elated as well.

Finally, a word about Archbishop Miller. I've been blessed to serve under four bishops, all of whom I admired and loved. The first three were fathers to me. Archbishop Miller, though no less a father, has been a brother as well. His fraternal kindness and understanding have greatly eased my recent sorrow. For that and much else I am deeply grateful to him.

Thankful to have been ordained a priest during the pontificate of Pope John Paul II, I will close with words from the psalm proclaimed at Mass during his visit to Vancouver in 1984: My soul give thanks to the Lord, all my being bless his holy name. My soul, give thanks to the Lord and never forget all his blessings.

Four Years Ago

2011-06-21T22:04:00.000-07:00

Four years ago, on June 20, 2007, I defended my doctoral dissertation at the Gregorian University. The wild biretta--the academic headgear for the degree--is being placed on my head by Archbishop J. Michael Miller, secretary of the Vatican's Congregation for Education--and now, happily, Archbishop of Vancouver. It was a great night and it's hard to imagine four years have passed so swiftly.

The Mystery of Suffering

2011-06-18T21:11:00.001-07:00

Two tragedies have made me think long and hard about the problem of human suffering this month. I experienced one first-hand; I only read about the other.

Let me tell you first about the tragedy I read about. The current issue of the New Yorker magazine has a story by the father of a nine-month old girl who had a very rare kind of brain tumour. The writer, an acclaimed novelist, describes the child's illness and death—and the effect on her family—in words that broke my heart.

But pain wasn't the only emotion in the article. There was, it seemed to me, a repressed anger towards God. Here's what the author said: "[W]e stayed away from anyone who we feared might offer us the solace of that supreme platitude: God. The hospital chaplain was prohibited from coming anywhere near us."

After little Isabel died, her father takes his non-belief to a sharp conclusion. He wrote "One of the most despicable fallacies is that suffering is ennobling—that it is a step on the path to some kind of enlightenment or salvation. Isabel's suffering and death did nothing for her, or us, or the world. .."

"And Isabel most certainly did not earn ascension to a better place, as there was no better place for her than at home with her family."

Our local tragedy is already familiar to many of you: the sudden death of Patty Delesalle less than a year after the loss of her daughter Murphy. After Patty's death, a number of parishioners asked me to help them to deal with their confused feelings. One person put it bluntly, telling me she is angry with God because He has been so cruel to this family.

At the funeral Mass, I said straight-out that I did not have a neatly packaged answer to the questions posed by these awful events. I tried my best to honour the confusion and hurt of the congregation, recognizing that a funeral may not be the best time to wrestle with issues so complex that even great minds have problems dealing with them.

But I knew I would need to tackle some of them sooner rather than later—partly for my own sake, but partly for yours. As Father Benedict Groeschel writes in his book called Tears of God and subtitled Persevering in the Face of Great Sorrow or Catastrophe, "We all have sorrow, but we don't all have the horrible in our lives. But it does come. It comes to people we know, and maybe some day it will come to us, and we will have to be prepared."

And I need to say more than I could say at Patty's funeral, where many of those attending were not of our faith or perhaps of any faith. I need to present to you at least the outline of the Christian answer to the question "How can a good God let bad things happen?" In other words, if God really loved us, would He not shield us from the worst of tragedies, or even from all tragedies?

What I say today would bring no comfort to the poor father of that poor child, because I begin with an assumption he cannot accept—namely that God is real and not a platitude, and that there is a better place than here. But even without belief in God, I cannot agree with what he says about the uselessness of suffering. One of the conclusions of Father Benedict's book "is that we grow when we experience catastrophe by becoming more sympathetic and concerned about other people." I don't think it was a coincidence that one of the most heartfelt expressions of sympathy I received after my father's death was from a member of the Delesalle family.

Before turning to the specifically Christian response to the question of God's supposed "cruelty," let me say that there's nothing wrong with asking the question. St. Paul says we see God "in a mirror, dimly" and "only in part" [1 Cor 13:12] and the Catechism of the Catholic Church states that "faith is often lived in darkness and can be put to the test." Tragedies "can shake our faith and become a temptation against it." [CCC 164]

But the difference between us and the New Yorker writer is that we're still looking for answers. So let's see what the Word of God and the wisdom of the ages can offer.

The only place to start, today at least, is with the words of Jesus we just heard in this morning's Gospel: "God so loved the world that he gave his only-begotten Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life."

Father Benedict says that once we've lived through the immediate period of grief and disorientation after a catastrophe—once we've had some time to pick up the pieces—there's only one thing to do. At this point, he writes, "people of faith must embrace their belief in God. There's no way around this."

You can look for an answer to the problem of pain without looking for God. Philosophers were doing that long before Christ. But you can't call God on the carpet without letting him explain a few things in his own way. Both the New and Old Testaments describe God's love and concern; the Catechism says that "the witness of Scripture is unanimous that the solicitude of divine providence is concrete and immediate; God cares for all, from the least things to the great events of the world and its history."

But… and here's a big "but"—this does not mean that God is the author of our misfortunes, willing evil so that he can rush in and help out. He does not treat anyone "cruelly" or take away children from their parents.

When we speak of divine providence, we mean our belief that God can bring a good from the consequences of an evil. We don't mean that evils aren't evil; they are. But God permits them and uses them for his sovereign purposes—which are not, and I can't stress this enough—always clear to us.

We don't always see what God is accomplishing in us and for us at times of great sorrow or suffering. One of the reasons for that, of course, is that he may be accomplishing our salvation, something we won't understand until we meet him face to face. Other times we can actually see his footprints, and recognize the good that came from something we could not accept or understand when it happened.

In either case—whether we can see God at work or not—we must cling to—maybe even memorize—these words of St. Paul to the Romans: "We know that in everything God works for good for those who love him" [Rom 8:28] This is not an "answer"—it's a promise.

There's a line in the Catechism so important that it's printed in italics. It's not an answer either, but it tells us where to look for one. Here's the sentence: There is not a single aspect of the Christian message that is not in part an answer to the question of evil [CCC 309].

Today we celebrate the central mystery of the Christian faith, the belief in the Holy Trinity. This doctrine stands before us as the perfect example that there are truths—essential ones—that we can trust without fully understanding, that we can accept without fully grasping.

So too with suffering. We want a simple answer to a complex question, but what God offers us instead is a mystery—a journey into our hearts, and into his heart. We want to understand him, but he wants us to love him first.

Patricia Joan Delesalle 1960-2011

2011-06-11T10:36:00.001-07:00

I preached the following homily today at the funeral of a 51-year old mother who succumbed to a massive infection less than a year after the death of her teenage daughter in a tragic accident.

I thought seriously about just standing here for six or seven minutes, without opening my mouth. In some ways, that would be an appropriate and eloquent sermon. Mere words can't answer the questions we ask in the face of this tragic and painful parting, so soon after Murphy's untimely death.

There would be a kind of truth and eloquence in the silence; it would admit that glib answers are worse than none at all.

But I soon realized that the easy way out would be unfair to Patty's memory. Because Patty had been searching for answers after Murphy's death, and if she had the courage to confront these difficult questions, so must we.

One of the ways Patty went looking for light in the darkness is called the Alpha course. It's a series of serious but light-hearted talks on DVD given by an Anglican minister with the unlikely name of Nicky Gumbel. She came to the parish on Friday mornings to talk about the meaning of life with other women, and to face the same tough questions we bring with us today.

The hardest question of all, for Patty and for us, is why God allows suffering and evil. St. Thomas Aquinas said that this problem is why most people who don't believe, don't believe, and why most people who do believe, do believe.

Great minds have wrestled with the question for thousands of years. The words of the 23rd Psalm that we just heard sung are wonderfully consoling, but just flip your Bible one page back to Psalm 22, and you'll read "My God, my God, why have you forgotten me?... I call by day and you give no reply; I call by night and I find no peace."

Let's be clear: the question "How could God let this happen?" is a good question, asked by good people. And there are good answers—not simple ones that resolve our anguish with a neat argument, but answers to be found along the long path that Patty was following in search of truth.

That path is a bit like climbing a mountain. If we get lost in a fog, we don't start then to learn survival skills. If we've got them, we use them; if we don't, we do our best to live through the nightmare and resolve to learn the skills before we climb again.

Everyone in church this morning, especially those most deeply grieved by Patty's death, needs to draw on whatever strengths they have to get through the next hours, days, and weeks. Only when the worst of the fog has lifted can we really start seeking answers that will satisfy.

One of the most shocking crimes of the twentieth century was the kidnapping and murder of the 18-month old son of Charles Lindbergh, the first man to make a solo non-stop flight around the world. Many years later, the baby's mother, Ann Morrow Lindbergh, wrote that it was a long road before the tragedy could be buried and "overlaid with new life." She concluded that "the long road of insight, suffering, healing and rebirth is best illustrated in the Christian religion by the suffering, death and resurrection of Christ."

What this brave woman discovered by experience is what I preach by conviction. Before a Christian can say there is no answer to the Delesalle's sorrow, no possible meaning in their tragic losses, he or she must stand before the cross and remember how that terrible tragedy ended, which can be summed up in just two words: resurrection and life.

For some here today, the Christian answer will not suffice. They will need to look for answers in the compassion and love that even something as terrible as the deaths of mother and daughter have drawn forth from so many people.

They will need to read the living Bible of love that has opened its pages during these dark days—and perhaps to recall the love that Patty herself poured out on her friend Kerry during her long illness.

Patty's care for Kerry and her children will make Christians think of what Jesus said: "I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."

Christian or not, everyone here can catch a glimmer of the light that confronts the darkness when the suffering of others is met with love.

Patty died before the Alpha course was over. But at her passing all her doubts, issues and questions were answered: not by an argument or a sermon, but by a person, Jesus, who said "I am the Alpha, and the Omega, the First and the Last, the beginning and the end."

Patty and Murphy have reached their journey's end; the rest of us must keep on walking, one step at a time. May each of us—wherever we are on our spiritual path—find the courage to seek serious answers to the mystery of pain and suffering, even while we do our best to help one another bear it in peace, hope, and love.

I would like to close with a humble suggestion to everyone here—Christian, non-Christian, seeker, or not; whether you are angry or accepting, in turmoil or in peace. Look for answers in prayer: pray to the God of your understanding for greater understanding of these sorrows.

And I will end with a prayer, written by my friend Father Benedict Groeschel after he nearly died in a terrible accident that led him to write a book called Tears of God: Persevering in the Face of Great Sorrow or Catastrophe. His book, and this prayer (which I have slightly adapted here), has helped me a lot this week:

"Lord Jesus, we come to You to lament the deaths of Patty and Murphy, so dear to so many. How terrible and final these deaths would appear if we did not have hope. But You have given us hope, and You have promised that You will come and bring us to where You are.

You ask us not to let our hearts be troubled or afraid, and You promise us Your Father's home. In our desperation, in our sorrow, in our complete grief, we turn to that promise now. There is nothing else we can hold on to.

Give us faith and hope based on Your Holy words, and trust that You will lead us through this dark valley so that we may meet again those who are dear to us in Your Kingdom. Amen."

Stewardship II: Treasure

2011-06-05T06:34:00.001-07:00

What would you say if I told you that winning the Stanley Cup is all about money—that the players, coaches, and owners are only thinking about the bonuses that come with victory?

What would you say if I suggested all those fans on Granville Street are just celebrating the benefits to our local economy that comes with the playoffs?

You'd say, of course, that I was crazy. And you'd be right. The financial side of carrying home the cup is not the first thing on anyone's minds.

But what if I said that the Stanley Cup had nothing to do with money? Would that be right?

Of course not. Saying money plays no part in the playoffs would be silly. Many millions of dollars are involved, and among many other things, our national sport is a business that employs countless people.

The Church is not a business. Our parish is not a business. No-one would suggest we're all about money. And yet sometimes we forget that finances are important to our life of faith, even though the Scriptures point this out again and again.

Today, as I promised last week, I want to focus on the third "T" of the stewardship trio "time, talent, and treasure." What role does financial stewardship play in our lives and the life of our parish?

The only place to begin is with a word of gratitude. The proof of the generosity of many of our parishioners is all around you—beautiful improvements to our sanctuary, meeting space, and entryway were all paid for by your contributions to Project Advance.

Even at this early stage in the campaign, two of our regular major donors chose—without being asked—to double the large gift they give each year.

I have never had to ask anyone for money. Out of the blue I get asked "what can I do?"—a question to which I always have an answer. One very generous parishioner has a heart for young people, and has been a quiet patron of our youth programs; for instance, she paid the cost of introducing LifeTeen in our parish.

In four years I have sometimes lost sleep over parish worries, but never about money. The first reason for this is that we've always had enough both to pay our bills and to help those in need. The second is that the wise and prudent advice of our six-member finance council, and the expert work of our accountant, make sure that I can be a responsible steward of parish finances.

Again, on behalf of the whole community, and on my own behalf, I thank you for your faithful generosity—in many cases, for your generosity over many, many years.

I wish, though, that I could ask some of our more generous contributors to stand up and speak to those who may not yet understand the blessings stewardship brings. They'd be a bit reluctant, of course, since it could sound like bragging. But I've talked to them privately, and I know they feel great satisfaction in sharing what they have with this community; they feel deeply connected to the parish, and they feel a part of all that we accomplish, especially our work to spread the Good News through faith formation and youth programs.

Given these benefits—and the moral obligation to help provide for the needs of the Church, which is one of the five precepts of the Church [CCC 2043] why wouldn't every active member of our community want to hear the call to stewardship?

In particular, what keeps us from taking seriously our call to be stewards of the treasure—the financial means—that God has entrusted to us?

I really don't think it's stinginess, and it's certainly not poverty, because we're asked to support the parish only in accordance with our means. We know from the parable of the poor widow who contributed her little coin that God is pleased with whatever we give so long as it is proportionate and sacrificial.

I suspect there are two reasons why some active Catholics aren't committed to serious stewardship through the Sunday collection and Project Advance.

My Dad, who was always very generous with the Church, told me one reason. He said that people confuse giving to a need with needing to give.

He understood that even if there was no need, people need to give. It's part of human nature and part of Christian life. We may not know it, but God created us to give not to receive, and those in a parish who are receivers rather than givers short-change themselves.

This is the truly important point. I'm preaching about stewardship partly so that the parish has enough of your time, talent and treasure to really fulfill its mission. But what matters most to me—and to you—is that you fulfill your mission, as a Christian. Stewardship, as the American bishops have written, is a "disciple's response" to God's call. And nothing matters more to each of us than becoming disciples.

Still, the second reason people don't support the parish meaningfully is that they don't see the need. One of our faithful parishioners has been counting the collection for a dozen years. He told me yesterday that the number of five dollar bills has hardly changed in all that time. Many people, I'm sure, just got in a habit and saw no need to change.

Like most priests, I don't like to talk about money, so people may assume we're rolling in it. Well, as you'll see from the 2010 financial report that will be handed out in a couple of weeks, the truth is somewhat different. Our operating income—from regular collections and the like—was just $41,000 more than our operating expenditures. That, in the opinion of the parish finance council, is a bit too close for comfort. For one thing, we have a second priest now, and the cost of an additional salary, benefits, and board is about… $41,000.

In other words, the parish could slip into an operating deficit this year without strong support from you.

But that's just part of the story. As you know, we're celebrating the Ascension today, when Jesus gives what might be called His final orders. They're brief and to the point: make disciples and teach them. To do this, we need many more stewards of time and talent who will share the faith not only among fellow parishioners but with those who come to inquire. But, secondarily, we need resources—and with more financial support, we would do more, plain and simple.

What can we do to grow in stewardship? You'll see many ways of sharing time and talent next week, when we celebrate Stewardship Sunday with a huge display of parish ministries and activities after all the Masses, complete with refreshments.

Sharing your treasure, which is our concern this week, can mean three simple things. The first is to ask for envelopes if you don't have them, or to use them if you do. We're kidding ourselves if we think we can take stewardship seriously without Sunday envelopes—for one thing, they ensure we get a tax receipt, for another they give us an accurate picture of our support.

One parishioner, a well-paid professional, was very upset to discover he'd contributed a total of $85 to the parish last year—in his own mind he'd been generous, but the facts told another story. And of course when I talk about using envelopes, I include our convenient dedicated giving program which allows you to contribute directly from your bank account or bank card.

Step two is to reflect prayerfully on the amount of your weekly or monthly offering. Has your income increased since you began to contribute that five dollar bill? Is your gift a sacrifice? There's really no rule of thumb, but it's often suggested that the equivalent of one hour's pay is a good starting point. And we don't have too many parishioners working for five dollars an hour. If you signed up for dedicated giving, might this week be a good time to review the amount and to see if your family finances could handle something more?

Step three is to move beyond the regular expenses of the parish and to think about the future. Certainly we all have a big responsibility to pay our fair share of running Christ the Redeemer. But as you know, we are a community that supports two schools, and we can't do this only through the Sunday collection. Project Advance is what allows us to meet our big commitments; and this year we're looking down the road to a rebuilt high school.

Apart from the duty of regular parish support, we are called as stewards to make a sacrificial gift for future needs. At the Ascension, Jesus gave us the missionary mandate to teach, and in part this means schools.

I worry that some folks think that Project Advance is only for the affluent who can make major gifts. In fact, it's intended as a normal part of parish life, and your participation is a sign of full engagement as a parish steward.

But thinking about the future can also involve what's called planned giving or estate planning. When the financial statements come out, they'll show a bottom line that reflects a major gift from the estate of an unmarried parishioner who lived in nursing home. One person left a legacy that will one day build a science classroom or complete a library, or which might replace our roof if times get tough.

Early in the fall, the parish pastoral council has proposed a seminar on planned giving that will explain more to those interested in this form of stewardship, which can provide significant tax benefits to donors.

Looking back, we have so many people to thank, so many who will get their proper credit only in heaven. But there's a good reason why our annual fundraising campaign is called Project Advance: with the challenges we face in education, and with the opportunities we have for evangelization, we look ahead.

Let me end by proving the point I made at the beginning of my sermon, where I said the Stanley Cup wasn't about money but did involve money, and that the same's true for the Church.

Yesterday's paper reports that there's a bet on between Archbishop Miller and Cardinal O'Malley of Boston. If the Canucks win, the Cardinal gives a hundred dollars to Project Advance—and if the Bruins win, the Archbishop owes the same to Catholic Charities of Boston. It'd probably be wrong to pray we win the Stanley Cup—but surely there's nothing wrong in praying our bishop wins a bet?

Stewardship - Part 1

2011-05-29T06:34:00.001-07:00

It's only fair that I tell you that my homily's a long one today. I'm a bit nervous about that, because I heard the other day about a parishioner who came up to her pastor after Mass and said "Father, your homily today reminded me of the peace and love of God!"

He was thrilled, and replied "No one has ever said anything like that about my preaching before. Tell me why."

"Well," she said, "it reminded me of the peace of God because it passed all understanding and the love of God because it endured forever!"

The fact is, a short sermon on stewardship is pretty near impossible: because stewardship is, quite simply, a way of life. It touches all that we do, inside and outside of Church. Today, we're going to take a look at half a dozen ways that stewardship matters to us as Christian men and women, but that's really just a beginning.

But let's get started with these six stewardship truths.

Number one: we are stewards of the sacraments.

In the first reading St. Philip encounters Christians who had been baptized without receiving the Holy Spirit; they hadn't been fully initiated by the apostles. Today, most adults have been confirmed—but have we allowed the graces we received to bear fruit in our lives?

We speak, in fact, of the baptism of the Holy Spirit, which is not a sacrament but rather a conscious decision to allow the power given us in baptism and confirmation to make a profound difference in us. To welcome and use the spiritual gifts we received in baptism and confirmation is the beginning of all stewardship.

The final sacrament of Christian initiation, the Eucharist, calls us in a particular way to stewardship. A true steward values what has been entrusted to his or her care; a true steward guards what is precious.

To eat the Bread of Life thoughtlessly or unworthily is the direct opposite of a steward's response. To receive the Eucharist in a state of unconfessed grave sin is an irresponsible act, sinful in itself. When we receive the Eucharist without preparation or thanksgiving, we don't maximize the blessing God wants to give us in the Body and Blood of His Son.

Stewards know that they are not owners. We are not entitled to receive Holy Communion on our terms, but according to the law of Christ and His Church.

Other sacraments also invite us to stewardship. The sacrament of penance requires we give an accounting to God, the owner and author of life. Requesting the sacrament of the sick in a timely fashion when we are sick or face surgery, and doing the same for our loved ones, is a way of taking care of ourselves spiritually and making sure we have the strength we need to face illness.

Stewards need to be forward-thinking: a good steward always has a prudent eye on the future. So we need to approach the sacrament of holy orders with a spirit of stewardship, working and praying for sufficient priests to meet our needs.

And we don't need to get too spiritual to see the connection between marriage and stewardship: every family knows the need for careful financial planning and so on. But there's much more involved when the couple are Christian stewards, because they know they have a responsibility for each other's salvation, and a very special responsibility for their children.

Children are not the property of their parents; that idea went out with the Middle Ages. But nor are they independent: parents who know that their children belong to God care for them as stewards, as God's agents.

Just this week there were two stories in the paper about what happens when this relationship between parent and child is not understood. One couple in Toronto are raising their child without reference to gender. They will not say whether the child is a boy or a girl—he or she can make that choice whenever he or she is ready.

A second couple are practicing "unschooling," where children learn whatever they want to learn. They are also in Toronto, by the way, which is probably doing a lot to help BC shed its reputation as Canada's most far-out province.

Catholic schools exist because parents and many others believe we have a duty to share truth with the young. They survive because adults make sacrifices to build and run our schools as stewards of the truth and in a relationship of stewardship towards the younger generation.

Our parish religious education program exists to help parents meet the same responsibilities to children who don't go to Catholic schools.

I've spent so long on our stewardship of the seven sacraments that I'm going to have trouble fulfilling my promise to look at six ways of stewardship. But it's important to talk about our role as stewards of the sacraments, because stewardship of the riches flowing from them is the kind of long-term investment any wise person understands. As St. Augustine has written, "no one can be ready for the next life unless he trains himself for it now."

So let's move to number two: we are stewards of our bodies. We hear more and more about people having a right to their bodies. It began, of course, as an argument for abortion, and has now become an argument for assisted suicide. The assumption, of course, is that we own our bodies and can dispose of them as we please.

The fact is, of course, that we didn't create our bodies, and we don't own our bodies. We're stewards precisely because God is the author of life and the Sovereign owner of all creation—which includes us.

Stewardship of our bodies means more than rejecting abortion and suicide, of course. It means caring for our health by positive means like exercise and a proper diet, and striving to overcome addictions and habits like drugs, smoking and excessive drinking that don't show a steward's respect towards the precious gift of life entrusted to us by God.

It means, of course, using the gift of our sexuality as intended by the Creator, which is to say only within marriage and in a way that is open to the transmission of life.

We might even say that paying attention to funeral planning is a final act of stewardship towards the body God has given us. In our secular society, we can't assume that our heirs or executors will arrange a Catholic funeral with the body present for the funeral Mass. That's one of the reasons we will have a funeral information evening here on Wednesday; the details are in the bulletin.

A third form of stewardship is becoming more and more important: we are stewards of creation. In this area, the Christian understanding of stewardship is crucial to a right use of our natural resources.

Just yesterday I saw a bumper sticker that read "Trees are the answer." Instantly I thought, "But what is the question?"

Stewards know that they have a solemn obligation to conserve what's been entrusted to their care. We can neither neglect nor squander what God has provided. Forestry and mining practices of the past are now clearly seen as inconsistent with our duties as stewards of the environment.

At the same time, a wise steward must know the reason for his stewardship. Who would want to manage a vineyard where the grapes were never picked? The world is not our property, but God gave it to us for a purpose—and that purpose is the good of humanity.

The good of humanity requires sound environmental policies and practices, but in recent times there has been some confusion about what comes first—the good of the planet for its own sake, or the human good. Scripture and the Church teach that all that is exists for the good of man, recognizing always that this good is ill-served when the earth is not respected.

We use this earth and its resources humbly when we know ourselves to be stewards rather than owners.

We can pick up some speed now, since numbers four, five and six are a related trio: as you've heard it said many times before, we are stewards of our time, talent and treasure.

What does it mean to be a steward of your time? First and foremost, it means recognizing that every moment comes from God. In the second reading, St. Peter calls us to keep our hearts holy—to be spiritual all the time, not some of the time.

On a very practical level, a steward understands that time is a limited resource. We only have so much of it. We must give God his proper share by planning our week and our day in a responsible way. This means assigning time every day for prayer, making sure we get to Mass each and every Sunday, and doing our level best to arrive on time.

We all have excuses, of course. There was even one persistent latecomer who told the priest "I'm just following the Lord's example. If Christ can rise up early in the morning just one Sunday a year, that's good enough for me!"

Someone said "if you fail to plan, you plan to fail." That's a truth everyone who misses Mass or regularly arrives late should spend some time thinking about. Stewards are planners.

Stewardship of our talents comes straight from the Gospel. We all know the parable of the slaves who were given money to invest—by a happy coincidence, in many translations the currency was called talents—and we know that the Master wanted to see an increase on his investment.

We provide that increase before God when we use our talents for His glory. There are as many ways as there are human gifts. As I was thinking about my homily yesterday afternoon I looked around the church, and I was dazzled by the beauty of the flowers—not only on the altar but in the side chapels. Do you know how our flowers get arranged? By one dedicated and gifted parishioner, who gives a return to God every week.

The efforts to beautify our church would not have been half as successful if I had been in charge. Instead, parishioners who are architects and designers and simply insightful all donated their time and talent to direct the work.

A young parishioner has spent countless hours working on our new website in recent weeks, while countless parishioners serve on the many committees and councils that keep our parish strong.

Not many like to hear about the stewardship of treasure—about financial generosity—and yet it too is inescapably biblical. Priests usually apologize for speaking about money; yet Jesus never apologized. Neither did Paul. There are a remarkable number of places where the New Testament deals with the need to be generous.

The subject of our assets, and the blessings that come when we no longer think like their owners but as their stewards, is so important that I'll devote the entire homily to it next week. So you can't say you weren't warned.

Following the Way All the Way

2011-05-21T22:22:00.001-07:00

Every so often I try to offer some very down to earth advice in my homily. So here's some wisdom to remember: don't buy a cheap GPS.

I had a good GPS, but I leant it to Father Xavier, and it soon became clear that he needed it a lot more than I did. So when I was in Oregon last month I picked one up for a mere $99, with no HST.

Ever since, this useless device has told me to turn down one-way streets, directed me to drive to Surrey via Horseshoe Bay, and once even brought me back where I started after ten minutes of driving according to the instructions of that unpleasant voice that lives inside a GPS.

Not much point in having an unreliable GPS, is there? If we're not sure of the way, we need to be confident in the directions.

So we can understand the confusion of Thomas and Philip in today's Gospel. They want to know exactly how to get to this place where Jesus is going. And yet they don't need directions at all—because the one they're asking is Himself the way to the Father.

Think how important this is to us. No road map, no guidebook, and no GPS can take the place of having someone beside you in the car who knows the way. It takes away all the worry about getting lost or stranded.

Jesus, of course, helps us further still. He not only shows us the way, He is the Way, "the very incarnation and expression of the Absolute which we human beings seek and for whom we were made" [Glenstall Bible Missal, 301].

In other words, in His own person he guarantees that the journey we are making is the right journey: it's no good having the right directions to the wrong destination. As Christians, we're not only on the right road, we're heading to the right place. His Resurrection is all the evidence we need to confirm our decision to head towards the Father's house.

In the face of Jesus, who appeared on earth, we recognize the loving face of the Father, and we long for the Father's house, where the Risen Lord has prepared a place for us.

No-one has perfect faith, but the sure and certain directions that Jesus offers his followers really should relieve our troubled hearts from much of their distress.

Of course the journey to the Father isn't like a non-stop flight to Toronto or Montreal. We are pilgrims and travelers, and there are stopping places and turning points. The first reading shows the Spirit helping the Church at one important turning point. Traditionally, the seven men on whom the apostles laid hands are identified as the first deacons.

In our local Church we have high hopes that the ministry of permanent deacons will help many to know the Father better, and to reveal to the world the face of Christ His Son.

As you know, Archbishop Miller has asked me to direct the new permanent diaconate program in the archdiocese. It's been a big challenge to meet with many interested men and their wives, and to try and answer their questions.

One of the big questions I get asked is 'why are only men called to the diaconate.' There's not one short and snappy answer, but part of the answer I offer appears in the second reading of today's Mass. The diaconate is a ministry, not an honour. The greatest source of honour and dignity in the Church is not Holy Orders but baptism. It's our baptism that makes us all members of a chosen race and a royal priesthood.

Citizenship in the holy nation of God's own people comes from our rebirth by water and the Spirit.

This came home to me very forcefully yesterday when I officiated at the marriage of Meghan Magee and Chris Chapman, our parish's first youth ministers. In my homily I talked about the recent royal wedding to make the point that Chris and Meghan's was no less royal because of their baptismal dignity.

What I didn't mention was that their wedding was not an act of my priesthood but of theirs. I was only a witness to the sacrament that they celebrated with each other. And even the happiest Christian marriage is a holy sacrifice offered to the Father by virtue of the couple's share in the common priesthood of all believers.

What is true of our newlyweds is, of course, true of all of us. By living our baptism fully—by proclaiming the mighty deeds of God and living lives that reflect our royal dignity—we do the works that Jesus did, in the power he shares with us through His Holy Spirit.

And that, of course, is what it means to follow the Way, the Truth, and the Life, all the way to the Father's house.

Chris & Meghan’s Wedding

2011-05-21T22:14:00.001-07:00

Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.

The words belong to Saint Catherine of Siena, but if they sound a bit familiar, it's because you heard them at the start of the homily at the recent marriage of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, better known as Prince William and Kate.

The homilist, Bishop Richard Chartres, continued: "Marriage is intended to be a way in which man and woman help each other to become what God meant each one to be, their deepest and truest selves."

Now let me admit that the royal wedding might seem an odd starting place for a homily at the marriage of a young woman named Meghan Magee!

But between the Queen's recent visit to Ireland and the fact that the streets of Dublin and Cork were empty as thousands of Irish republicans watched the royal wedding on TV, I think I can get away with it.

Because, you see, this afternoon we are celebrating another royal wedding. Even though Chris isn't wearing a bright red uniform, and Meghan won't be a princess when we're finished, they stand before this altar with truly royal dignity.

In the first place, as Bishop Chartres explained, "in a sense every wedding is a royal wedding with the bride and the groom as king and queen of creation, making a new life together so that life can flow through them into the future."

But Chris and Meghan were royalty long before their wedding day, not from an accident of birth, but from baptism. We know this from the First Letter of St. Peter, who declared the dignity of all believers when he wrote "you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood."

And when you combine the natural nobility of marriage with the supernatural dignity of the baptized, you end up with a reality so awesome that all the glass carriages and pageantry in the world can't add a thing to it.

Alas, the reality is not always recognized. We began this wedding with a greeting from St. Paul—"the grace and peace of God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you." At all too many weddings nowadays, the greeting to the couple might as well be "very pleased to meet you."

Some couples want two readings at the ceremony, to keep it short and allow more time for pictures. Others want three so that there's something to do for the cousin from Chicago who showed up unexpectedly.

But Meghan and Chris, you needed three readings just to share the basic outline of your faith with us.

You chose the shortest and the simplest Gospel reading in the book. It details the Creator's plan for man and woman, already created in His image and likeness. It is a plan that makes you one, even as Jesus and His Father are one.

The full richness of this plan emerges from the other two readings. The first reading, from the prophet Jeremiah, proclaims that your vows are not a contract, but a covenant—a covenant with each other and with God, who has already made a covenant with you.

Unlike Melissa and Joe a few years back, you didn't ask me to talk at your wedding about the complex topic of Pope John Paul's theology of the body—for which I thank you! But I must point out that Jeremiah's words point to a related subject, the law of God written on your hearts—what some call the natural law—and to your desire and willingness to follow all aspects of that law in your married life.

The second reading is a bold response to something Bishop Chartres mentioned in his homily: "We stand looking forward to a century which is full of promise and full of peril." The truth is that every life in every century is full of promise and peril; but you have embraced St. Paul's bold answer to the fears the future brings: nothing in all creation can separate you from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Nothing can, and—I believe—nothing will. For Chris and Meghan, you yourselves are really a homily on the readings you have chosen, because the plan for Christian marriage that you have welcomed is obviously part of a bigger plan that you have allowed to shape your lives long before today.

You have not "crammed" for this day; you have worked steadily to be who God meant you to be.

You will not slacken after this day; you will strive daily to be who God means you to be.

And I haven't the slightest doubt: you will set the world on fire.

That fire may burn brightly or glow gently—how your lives warm the world is up to God. But to paraphrase the words of Blessed John Henry Newman that I chose for my ordination card, 25 years ago:

God created you to do Him some definite service.
He has committed some work to you,
which He has not committed to another.

In the Sacrament of Marriage, God now consecrates you for that service, and unites you as you work to build His kingdom in your home and in the world.

Blessed John Paul, Pray for Us!

2011-05-01T07:19:00.001-07:00

Instead of a homily on this Sunday when the Church rejoices in the beatification of Pope John Paul II, I made a few changes to an article I'd written for the Vancouver Sun just after his death and turned it into a sermon.

Follow me. These two words are the key to understanding the message of Pope John Paul II, according to his successor, Pope Benedict.

But the words don't belong to our newly-beatified Blessed John Paul. In his funeral homily, Cardinal Ratzinger pointed out that they belong to Jesus, who says "follow me" no less than eighteen times in the gospels.

Pope John Paul wasn't trying to make disciples for himself. For him, "follow me," meant only one thing: follow Christ.

Many modern celebrities cry out "look at me." John Paul proclaimed "look at Him!" Even by means of his personal charisma, the Pope directed our attention to Christ. At World Youth Day in Toronto he told young people to listen for Jesus speaking to them with "his gentle and urgent voice," just like the first disciples.

To even begin to understand the impact and appeal of Blessed John Paul, we must look at Jesus. If that sounds a bit odd or pious, it can only be because we have let Christ grow pale in our minds. Bad preaching or teaching can strip him of his compelling appeal and radical message. Pope John Paul was convinced that his chief task was to reintroduce the world—especially youth—to friendship with the real Jesus, the most attractive personality who ever lived, to the blessings that friendship with him offers and to the demands it makes.

For the late Pope, to know Christ was to know how to live and how to love, in good times and bad. It meant being loved, by God himself. Knowing Christ was like breathing the crisp air of the mountains that Karol Wojtyla loved to hike; there was nothing stuffy about it.

And of course John Paul taught without words. He forgave and embraced the man who tried to kill him, he accepted disability with good humour, and he carried on with determination and patience through pain and illness. No-one who saw the broadcast or the photo of him clutching a crucifix as he watched the Way of the Cross on his final Good Friday will ever forget the image.

Right to the moment of his noble and very public death, he was "a living gospel for all to hear," in the words of the preface from the feast of apostles.

These actions were not original: they imitated Christ, who forgave his executioners and who made his death a symbol of ultimate victory, much as the dying Pope did. Again, John Paul's wordless "follow me" meant "follow the one I am following."

I had the privilege to be in Rome for the papal funeral. Nothing in my experience begins to compare, not even the Pope's 1984 visit to Vancouver, in which I also took part. Picture what the streets look like downtown just after Rogers Arena or B.C. Place empties after a game—but then imagine the crowd doesn't stop surging by for four full days.

No-one was prepared for what happened. A young friend, a former seminarian married and living in Ireland, called me shortly after the Pope died asking where I'd recommend he stay in Rome.

"That depends," I said. "Are you coming on business or holiday?"

I really didn't get it! And if that wasn't enough, when he said something about wanting to pay his respects, I thought he meant... to me!

It wasn't long before I finally understood what was going on around me. Everyone I met had a story. A hasty flight from Medicine Hat. A fifteen-hour trip from Sicily by bus and boat—and an immediate return after filing by the Pope's body.

After nine hours in line, one young Italian said simply "how could I not say a last good-bye?"

But the big story was not fondness—it was faith. A senior Vatican bishop told how he'd met a young man the night before who pleaded to be admitted after the doors of St. Peter's had closed. The bishop explained to that it had proved impossible to accommodate everyone. Still the young fellow pleaded.

"I came here for the youth celebration during the Jubilee year 2000," he said. "I was a convinced atheist and I came to mock.

"But in the Pope's presence I was moved to think—and I found my faith."

Touched by the story, the bishop let the man into to St. Peter's through a side door. He knelt beside the Pope's body and sobbed for ten minutes.

Despite the joy we feel at today's beatification—and our hope for his eventual canonization—the lasting contribution of Blessed John Paul to the Church and to the world will not be determined by how well or how often he is remembered. It will be found in the sprouting of the seeds of faith he planted, in hearts young and old. In this sense, his work has not ended but is just beginning.

The good news that he proclaimed—messages of hope, of peace, of love, and of human dignity—did not originate with him and did not die with him. We need to respond to his enduring teachings with the courage and conviction that he himself showed.

There lies the challenge offered to us by the life and death of John Paul II: to admire or to imitate?

The challenge confronts, of course, every Catholic, and other Christians as well.

Will bishops and priests of the third millennium be formed by the example of Pope John Paul, and strive with all their energy to live the Gospel without compromise, preaching as much by what they do as by what they say?

Will each member of the Church attempt to live what we believe, even when the tide's running against us? Will we step out of the "cafeteria line" of individualistic faith, and embrace the uncompromising Catholic teaching that was the hallmark of his pontificate?

Other Christians as well, pressured to conform to the world's ways, can find strength from the example of the new Blessed. Will the legacy of Pope John Paul—whom a Protestant friend of mine called "the best Evangelical I ever knew"—encourage them to maintain unpopular positions that are faithful to the Gospel's more difficult teachings?

Already there are signs that the late Pope's willingness to carry on a humble dialogue with the members of other faiths has borne fruit. The numerous representatives of the Jewish and Moslem communities were impossible to miss in their places of honour at his funeral; will they, too, find the courage to persevere in a difficult task?

Throughout his long pontificate, John Paul II challenged all of us—Catholics, Protestants, Jews, Moslems, Sikhs, and all people of good will—to live our beliefs with greater charity, consistency and courage.

And at its end, without words, he invited all who suffer, who fear or face death, to live our trials with serenity and purpose, as he did.

John Paul II led—by following. And now may he intercede for the Church, the world, and for each one of us.

Neil McCabe Smith, 1929 - 2011

2011-04-30T07:37:00.001-07:00

This week I had the painful privilege of celebrating two funeral Masses for my father. One took place in my parish, for he died while visiting BC, and the other in his, before his burial in Ontario. The homilies are similar, but I am posting both.

May he rest in peace.

***

Friday, April 29, 2011

St. Ann's Parish, Ancaster, Ontario

When Mom and Dad moved back to Ancaster after almost half a century, I was very happy that they both liked the pastor, Father Ray Modeski, and was delighted again when they liked his replacement, Father Dan Miehm, just as much.

(Dad had also always spoken very highly of Father Loftus, who was here in the 1950s, so St. Ann's must attract great pastors!)

I had a very private reason to be pleased that Mom and Dad liked their pastor: it meant there'd be someone to preach when this sad day came, as I knew it must eventually. Because I knew for sure that I wasn't the man for the job—when my Great Aunt Dorothy died at 99, I managed to choke up completely two minutes into the homily.

I figured God was trying to tell me something!

But I guess I figured wrong. I've already preached one homily for Dad and I'm up here this morning trying to do it again.

In Vancouver, I spent a lot of time at the start of Mass preparing the congregation for our family's ability to break the world record for tears. I even quoted a line from Bob Hope: "I come from a family where they cry at baseball games."

The congregation laughed loudly when I said "at the wedding of my niece Jennifer there were more tears than at most funerals." They thought I was joking!

Many of you here this morning don't need to be prepared; you've seen me and the rest of the family in action before. But in fairness to my Dad, I do have to point out that this teary family trait didn't come from him:

A good eight months after her mother died, Mom started to cry at a family dinner when someone mentioned Gram's name. Dad said with some exasperation "Oh, Jane!" His sister, our Aunt Pat, was at the table with us, and she promptly came to Mom's defense. She said "Neil, you cried when Mother died!" ... to which he responded drily, "Once."

Since I take after my mother—who also choked up at Dorothy's funeral and was gracefully rescued by Aunt Denise—I may well falter today, which is why I asked Father Dan to stand in the wings with a copy of my homily and to give me hand when I need it.

But as things turned out in Vancouver, after I carefully explained how the family's tears shouldn't be taken too seriously, everyone, including me, held themselves together wonderfully. Now many of my parishioners think I was making it all up.

It's too early to guess how things will go today for me and the rest of the family. We might behave ourselves as we did in Vancouver, or we may decide that today's our day to fall apart.

Whatever happens, please don't mistake our teary family trait for more than it is. We know that Dad had a great life and a peaceful end, and we really do feel that peace. Our outsides just don't always match our insides!

So bear with me, and my kind understudy Father Dan, as I do my best to share some thoughts with you this morning.

During his ten weeks of illness, Dad was in two hospitals; for much of the time he was at the hospital where Sheila had worked for many years, and it was a real blessing that some of the doctors and nurses who cared for him in the intensive care unit knew Sheila well.

Another blessing was the hospital chaplain, a young Baptist minister from Estonia. (I didn't even know they had Baptists in Estonia, and never did figure out how he made it to Vancouver.) But this gentle man always seemed to be there when we needed him most, and he helped me personally more than once.

He said something to Mom when things got bad, and it's stuck with her and with me. Life is a circle.... with a beginning and an end.

Certainly I feel part of a circle this morning, preaching in this church right next door to the classroom where I started kindergarten!

A priest friend of mine also told me something connected to this idea of the circle of life. When I called to say that Dad had died, he quoted these words from a book he'd been reading: "mourning is a romance in reverse."

I nearly dropped the phone. There's the circle again. And listen to the rest of the quotation: "the meaning of life is connected, inextricably, to the meaning of death; and if you love, you grieve and there are no exceptions - only those who do it well and those who don't." [The Undertaking: Life Studies from the Dismal Trade by Thomas Lynch, page 25.]

For all our weepiness, I think these words describe what Mom and the rest of us are feeling. If you love, you grieve, and there are no exceptions; it's a romance in reverse.

We cry because we are so thankful to Dad for loving us so much and so well; and we cry because we are grateful for having so many years to love him back.

But that's still less than half the story. It's not only about human love. It's not only about married love or the love found in a family.

On the contrary, the circle is completed by God's love. God's love is very much a part of our grateful celebration this morning.

The family chose Scripture readings that connect Dad's life and death with the faith that sustained him and us. We may not be the most pious family I know, but it truly was faith that carried us through a long Lent, to a painful Palm Sunday, and now to an Easter that is hard but hope-filled.

The readings give us more than comfort; they give us strength.

We chose the first reading because it sums up what has kept us going since Dad died: first, our belief that eternal rest is the reward for a life well-lived. All of us are thankful today that he lived his life as a faithful Christian and can rightly expect that his good deeds will be seen by the just Judge.

And if I don't say more than that about Dad, you can blame him: he was very specific in wanting no eulogy, and I don't want to cheat by turning this homily into one.

The first reading also reflects our joy that Dad "died in the Lord"—that he died after receiving the sacraments of the Church, and in the full hope of salvation that they promise.

He began his final journey with the Sacrament of the Sick on the morning of his heart attack; he continued it with the Sacrament of Penance the morning of his surgery, and concluded it with the Eucharist just hours before he died. While these saving signs were meant to comfort and strengthen him in illness, their ultimate purpose was to lead him safely to heaven, which is what we believe they did.

I should mention that I was naturally terrified of administering what used to be called "the last rites" to my own father; I was quite sure I'd break down. So I arranged for a generous chaplain to visit him at bedtime the night before his open heart surgery.

"Thank you so much, Father," he told the young priest when he arrived, "but my son will look after me when he gets here in the morning!"

And I did, somehow!

I also managed to give Dad Holy Communion one last time (known as Viaticum) on the day he died. I brought along another priest as back-up, but I managed the main prayers myself. Mom and all five children were there, and since it was a Sunday—Palm Sunday, at that—it sort of symbolized my parents' faithfulness to Sunday Mass.

Many people in Vancouver mentioned how blessed our parents are to have five children who all regularly practice the faith together with their families. I explained that there are a number of reasons for that, but none more important than the fact that our family never missed Sunday Mass.

Even on camping trips Mom and Dad planned in advance and knew where we could get to Mass; at Lake Rosseau, we went to church in Uncle Jack's motorboat. That really impressed people out in BC, for a ride in a small boat over choppy waters can be a sacrifice. On the glassy waters of a Muskoka lake it was a pure treat.

In any case, I really am convinced that this commitment to the Sunday obligation was the chief reason we've stayed so close to the Church. It certainly wasn't our outstanding piety at home: when I was in university I brought a priest friend home for dinner one Friday, and when the meal was served, Dad turned to Mom and said "Well, Jane, shall we be hypocrites and ask Father to say grace, or shall we start dinner as usual?"

We did say grace on Sundays, and I have to say that in recent years we manage to do so on weekdays as well, so we've improved a bit.

Let's get back to the readings.... We chose the consoling words of the Twenty-Second Psalm for a number of reasons. One of the reasons is the beautiful picture it paints of the heavenly banquet to which our earthly Eucharist leads. Many a Sunday Mass might have been hot and crowded, but somehow we got the connection to the green pastures and restful waters that God promises.

Another reason we chose that psalm is that it doesn't pretend that the Good Shepherd spares us every struggle and sorrow. Instead, it says He leads us, and walks with us, even in the darkest valleys. There were some dark valleys as we prayed and hoped that Dad would recover. But just before he died, I asked Mom and several of the other kids whether they felt closer to God or farther away after such tough times; they all said "closer," and that's my answer too.

From what I've already said, it should be pretty clear why we chose the second reading, where St. Paul teaches that Christians must not grieve like those who have no hope. I think we were afraid we'd be weeping buckets, and would need St. Paul to shake some sense into us.

But I've already explained that the tears we've shed, and the grief we feel, don't mean a lack of faith or hope. Even with tears, we celebrated Easter this year believing those words of St. Paul: that Jesus died and rose again and that God will bring with Him all who have died in Christ—including our Dad.

The Gospel story that we chose for today is one of my favourites—and it's one of the most tearful passages in all the Bible. But it does more than make us feel better about being so emotional. The tears that Jesus wept for Lazarus show us his human nature; his tears draw us closer to Him; and they give us confidence in his deep compassion and love for us, especially in times of sorrow.

In the end, our own tears don't matter all that much, considering the wonderful promise in the last book of the Bible, the Book of Revelation: God himself will wipe away every tear from our eyes, "and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away." (21:4)

***

Easter Monday, April 25, 2011

Christ the Redeemer Parish, West Vancouver

[Introduction Before Mass]

I'd like to begin with a word of welcome to you all, and to introduce specially the priests seated in the sanctuary. We're blessed to have with us the pastors of all four of Dad's children who live here:

Archbishop Michael Miller, my pastor, Father Stanley Galvon, pastor of Sheila and her family, Msgr. Bernard Rossi, pastor of Nancy and her family, and Msgr. Pedro Lopez-Gallo, pastor to Kevin and his family.

Beside the archbishop is our Vicar General, Msgr. Stephen Jensen and Msgr. Mark Hagemoen, Episcopal vicar for pastoral services. Beside me is my good friend and seminary classmate Father Don Larson.

Also in the sanctuary is Deacon Bryan Duggan, soon to the be the newest priest in the Archdiocese of Vancouver, Seminarian Pablo Santa Maria, soon to be the newest deacon in the Archdiocese, and Seminarian Daniel Jodoin, who won't be the newest anything in our Archdiocese, since he belongs to the Archdiocese of Grouard-McLennan in North Alberta.

I am deeply grateful to the Archbishop, to all the priests, and to all of you for being here with us this morning.

But I didn't make you sit down just for introductions.

If I don't say a few words before Mass begins, I'm afraid we're all going to find this funeral harder than it needs to be, and less uplifting than it ought to be.

As you have probably already noticed, I come from a family that has taken public displays of weeping to almost unheard-of levels. At the wedding of my niece Jennifer, there were more tears than at most funerals.

To quote Bob Hope, I come from a family where they cry at baseball games. (I'm sure there's a Canadian version of that line, but I don't want to jinx the Canucks.)

We don't really know where this family trait came from; certainly not from my father. A good eight months after her mother died, Mom started to cry at a family dinner when someone mentioned Grandma's name. Dad said with some exasperation "Oh, Jane!" His sister, my aunt Pat, was with us, and promptly came to Mom's defense by saying "Neil, you cried when Mother died," to which he responded drily, "Once."

I will try to explain more in the homily how our tears do not mean we are as devastated as we may look; Dad had a great life and a peaceful end, and we really do feel that peace. Our outsides just don't match our insides!

So I want to forewarn you about my difficulty in keeping myself together, lest you be unnecessarily uncomfortable.

Please expect me to falter, and to need help getting through this; but don't mistake this family trait for more than it is. My family and I are so grateful that you are here with us, and we ask you to take us as we are.

[Homily proper]

This is the hardest homily I have ever had to preach—and the easiest.

It's hard for the obvious reasons I touched upon at the start of Mass. But at the same time, a priest who can't preach at a funeral the day after Easter should look for another line of work!

To make things easier still—and still more difficult—each of the readings the family has chosen connect my father's illness and death with the faith that has sustained us through Dad's two-month illness, the faith that we profess this Easter Monday morning.

We chose the first reading because it sums up in a very few words what we believe: first, that eternal rest is the reward for a life well-lived. We're thankful that our father lived his life as a faithful Catholic and could rightly expect that his good deeds will be seen by the just Judge.

But this short passage also allows us to rejoice that Dad "died in the Lord"—that he died after receiving the sacraments, and in the full hope of the salvation they promise.

He began his final journey with the anointing of the sick on the morning of his heart attack, continued it with the sacrament of penance the morning of his surgery, and concluded it with the Eucharist just hours before he died. While these saving signs were meant to comfort and strengthen him in illness, their ultimate purpose was to lead him safely to heaven, which is what we believe they did.

The same note of hope recurs in our Psalm, which paints such a wonderful picture of the heavenly banquet to which our earthly Eucharist leads. Many people have commented on what a blessing it is for my parents to have five children who all practice the faith together with their families. While there are a number of reasons for that, if some of the younger couples would like to know my parents' secret, I'll happily share it with you: our family did not miss Sunday Mass. Not rarely, never.

Even on camping trips my Mom and Dad planned in advance and knew where we could get to Mass; at one cottage we rented, we went to Mass by motorboat. I'm really convinced that this commitment to the Sunday obligation was the chief reason we have stayed so close to the Church. It certainly wasn't our outstanding piety at home: I brought a priest friend home for dinner one weeknight when I was in university, and when the meal was served, Dad turned to Mom and said "Well, Jane, shall we be hypocrites and ask Father to say grace, or shall we start dinner as usual?"

We did say grace on Sundays, and I must point out that in recent years we manage to do so on weekdays as well, at least when I'm home!

Another reason we chose Psalm 22 is that it doesn't pretend that the Good Shepherd spares us every struggle and sorrow. Instead, the psalm proclaims that He walks beside us, even in our dark valleys. And certainly there were dark valleys as we prayed and hoped that Dad would recover. But just before he died, I asked Mom and several of my siblings whether they felt closer to God after these tough weeks, or farther away; they all said "closer," and that's my answer too.

From what I said at the beginning of Mass, it should be pretty clear why we chose to read those words in which St. Paul teaches that Christians must not grieve like those who have no hope. Our emotional family may be weeping buckets, but our tears are not for lack of faith or hope. They flow, instead, from an abundance of gratitude. We are thankful to our father for loving us well; and we are grateful for having so many years to love him in return.

My family and I may be shedding more tears than you've ever seen in one place, but on this Easter Monday we fully and firmly believe that Jesus died and rose again and that God will bring with Him Dad and all who have died in Christ.

The Gospel today is from the funeral liturgy, but we also heard it read on the Fifth Sunday of Lent. I preached on the gift of tears at all the Masses that Sunday, hoping to prepare the parish community for the sight of their weeping pastor.

In that homily I mentioned how I wondered as a child why people got so upset when someone died, since Christians believed that they were going to live forever. Didn't tears show a lack of faith?

But when Jesus wept for Lazarus, cried at the sight of Jerusalem, and was torn by anguish in the Garden of Gethsemane he answered that question. Since Jesus had perfect trust in the Father, his emotions can't have been a weakness. They were, on the contrary, part of his human nature.

In fact, those tears help to reveal his human nature to us, and to strengthen our faith in his compassion and love.

And though my family and I weep today, we rejoice in the promise made in the Book of Revelation: God himself "will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away."

Running not Trudging on Easter Morning

2011-04-24T07:52:00.001-07:00

Did anybody here join in the Sun Run last week?

I would ask you to tell us your time, but if it was good you shouldn't be bragging in church, and if it was bad I don't want to embarrass you.

I entered a 10K race once, but I came in well behind a friend who ran with her baby in his stroller. So when reading the story of the first Easter morning, I can identify with St. Peter. He lost the race. This must have been so awkward for the first Pope that St. Luke's version of the story doesn't mention St. John! In Luke's Gospel, Peter was running alone; pretty hard to come in second if you're the only runner.

It doesn't much matter who reached the empty tomb first. What stands out is that Peter and John were running. But why? Why did the two apostles race to the tomb after meeting Mary Magdalene early on that dark morning? If someone had carried off the Lord's body, what were they supposed to do about it?

They ran to the tomb because Jesus challenged them to. Peter, the apostle who first recognized Jesus as the Christ, the Son of God, had the gift of faith. Not perfect faith—the Gospel says he wasn't sure what he'd find when he reached to tomb, since the two apostles did not understand that Jesus must rise from the dead—but faith nonetheless. Faith enough to run to the tomb.

John, the beloved disciple, had hope. Hope that came from knowing the love of Jesus. Love that would not—could not—abandon His friends, or "leave them orphans."

Was the race to the tomb a mere detail, something included in the Gospel to show another of the reasons why weak Peter was chosen to head the early Church? I don't think so, since he's only a runner-up to the spry St. John.

No, I think the racing apostles pose a challenge, a challenge to you and me.

Let's imagine ourselves huddled with the apostles that first Easter morning, still sick with grief. Mary Magdalene arrives with her news. What would be our reaction?

Would we have just a glimmer of hope, and tell her, "well, perhaps I'll just stroll over later in the day and take a quick look"?

Or would we run? Would we have enough faith in what Jesus had said to fly along the path, still uncrowded in the early dawn, panting with exertion, heart pounding with hope in God and His promises?

The truth, of course, is that we don't know. We don't know if, put to that test, we'd be Peters and Johns, or doubting Thomases.

But we do know how we came to church this morning. Did we race here in joy, eager to see and to believe? Or did we stroll in, just to take a quick look?

Maybe some of us didn't even stroll; we trudged! "It's Easter, so I guess we ought to go to church."

There may be reasons why some of us don't feel like celebrating this feast to the full. Perhaps we're feeling loaded down, like runners who've packed on the pounds since last Easter. We may even have turned away from God.

But think about Peter: three days earlier, he had denied Jesus three times. Who could blame him if he'd slunk to the tomb, or crawled to the tomb, or even just stayed put?

Yet he ran. He ran because he understood what an empty tomb could mean to him: that his failures could be forgiven. And that, dear friends in Christ, is what Easter means to us. However much we've failed, however many times we've denied Christ in word and action, our baptism opens the door to new life.

Now some of us aren't in Peter's running shoes. We've stayed more or less faithful, and we don't trudge to church on Easter morning. But have we raced here with the faith, hope and love that the good news of the Resurrection should bring?

In the second reading this morning, St. Paul offers us a spiritual energy drink. Easter is a time to get moving. He says "If you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above…" Set your minds on those things—focus on them—"for you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God."

What does this mean? Paul himself answered that question in his Letter to the Romans, which we read last night at the Easter Vigil: "Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death… so that just as Christ was raised from the dead… so we too might walk in newness of life."

Think of what he is saying here. Since we shared in the death of Christ through our baptism, we will share also in his victory over death.

Easter is, of course, an historic feast; we're celebrating something that actually happened. But it is also a very personal feast: we celebrate something that is happening to each of us.

Through baptism we went in to the tomb with Jesus; through baptism we rise with him. Most of us were baptized as babies, but this is not baby-talk; it's serious adult stuff, and gives us the answer to the deepest and darkest of adult problems.

In a few moments I will invite all the baptized members of this congregation to renew the vows of their baptism. Then I'll run through the church and sprinkle you with the water blessed last night at our Vigil.

This Easter morning let your hearts race with joy and conviction as we celebrate the central truth of our Christian faith: that the Lord has risen, and that "if we have died with Christ, we believe we will also live with him."