Resurrection and Life: Lent 5 A

In a quarter century of preaching, I have never had more trouble writing a homily than I did this weekend. What you’re hearing is my fourth try—assuming I don’t have to tear this up and try a fifth time.

I’m not sure why it’s been so difficult. Part of the reason, I think, is that death has loomed large in the parish this week. On Thursday night I got a call that an elderly parishioner had died without warning. A week earlier I administered the sacraments to another elderly woman; although she was not thought to be in any immediate danger, she died that night. And on Tuesday afternoon I anointed a 41-year old at the hospital, who died less than two hours later.

On top of that, someone I admire and like very much has been told that death is not that far away.

So the thought of saying one false word, of uttering platitudes, or failing to help people understand this crucial Gospel makes me shudder.

Last night I dropped in on the youth group as they watched the movie version of Narnia, the C.S. Lewis classic. It’s filled with special effects and all the wonders that modern technology can add to a children’s story. Right on cue I got a bit teary when Aslan, the slain lion, rises from the dead.

The story of the raising of Lazarus, by comparison, is tame. Jesus doesn’t roar like the victorious Aslan; he simply calls Lazarus from death to life.

Yet it’s the raising of Lazarus, not the lion, that should make us weep for joy. Because this story isn’t about Lazarus at all. It’s about me, and you, and everyone we’ve loved and lost or will ever lose.

In just two weeks we’ll once again be celebrating Christ’s victory over death. But the Church wants to make sure—even before Easter—that we know what this victory brings to us. The raising of Lazarus shows us that Jesus brings life. This is so important that Jesus allows his friends to suffer just so they—and we—would get the point.

The mourners would prefer Jesus to prevent death. But he shows a power much greater by conquering death.

Death, I believe, is an almost-universal fear. From childhood to old age, we worry about dying or losing those we love. From childhood I worried about losing my father too early, as he had lost his. On her engagement day, a dear friend confided to me her fear that the man she loved so much would one die have to die.

And as we age, death is never far from our thoughts.

To some extent, this is natural. Jesus recognizes ordinary human worry and sadness. He doesn’t scold Martha and Mary for their tears—he joins them. So don’t get me wrong. Christians have emotions, and those emotions include anxiety and grief. But we must balance those emotions with our faith in two things: first, the presence of Jesus in all our sorrows, and second, his promise of life that never ends.

Jesus had to permit Martha and Mary to suffer for the sake of his mission. But does he abandon them? Hardly—he’s right beside them in their grief. He consoles them and brings them to understand the mystery they are living out.

Jesus says “come out” to Lazarus. Come out of the darkness of your tomb. But most of all, come out to the light of faith your sisters and friends have found while you lay dead. Come out into the light that will never end, and receive the life that no illness can ever take away from you.

Jesus says the same to each of us. “Come out from your fear of death into the light of faith that overpowers fear with hope. Carry on the same heart to heart conversation with me that Mary did; tell me how you feel. Talk to me like Martha did, and learn from me that I am the resurrection.”

Christians bleed, and Christians die. But the Son of God did not come into the world to give them temporary relief or to patch them up. He promised instead no more death and no more weeping, in the Kingdom that even now has begun.

Jesus said to Martha “I am the resurrection.” When we see that proved at Easter, let’s remember the whole sentence. He is not only “the resurrection” but “the life.” Life for the world, life for the dying, and life for the dead.

If we can just carry that thought—Jesus, our resurrection and our life—I won’t need to try a fifth homily.

Growing in Faith: Lent 4A

On the first night of our parish mission, Father Daniel Mahan talked about gratitude. He said that being thankful is one of the keys to a rich and meaningful Christian life.

He sure got me thinking about the many things for which I’m grateful. One of which is my life at Christ the Redeemer.

Actually, I didn’t really need the mission to realize how thankful I am to be here. Having to be away in January and February was all it took. Considering that my travels were pleasant enough—if you consider Ontario and Saskatchewan pleasant in the middle of winter—I was surprised by how much it bothered me to be away from you.

I was torn between my desire to be celebrating the Sunday Eucharist at home with you and my other callings and obligations.

So why, you might ask, didn’t I simply stay home?

The answer is in those word “callings and obligations.”

Even though my primary work is right here with you, I have a calling beyond our parish boundaries. Even though my heart’s desire is to stay, sometimes my obligation is to go.

Sometimes the obligation to be away relates to serving the Church as a canon lawyer or using my abilities to support such national groups as Catholic Christian Outreach, as was the case one weekend in January.

But just as often, I have to answer a call to continue to grow as a person and a priest. As part of my call to be pastor, I spend time in continuing education, on retreat, at congresses and other gatherings.

Why? Because I’m committed to keep growing, despite the personal cost of being away from time to time. I recognize that I must continue to grow in order to serve you well. That’s why I attended the stewardship conference at which I first met Father Mahan. That’s why I made a retreat last month, at one of my busiest times. There’s an old saying: you can’t give what you ain’t got.

I studied in a seminary for four years, and in top-flight Catholic universities for five more. Yet I can’t deepen in faith and in my vocation without continuing intellectual and spiritual learning. Pope John Paul called this ongoing or permanent formation “the natural and absolutely necessary continuation of the process of building priestly personality” (Pastores Dabo Vobis, 75 and 76).

More to the point, for me at least, he said it was “a duty also for priests of middle age”! (PDV, 77)

Why am I telling you all this? Simply because it’s not just me who needs outside stimulation in order to grow. It’s not just priests who need ongoing or permanent formation. It’s every Christian—every one of us.

In today’s Gospel we read about the healing of a blind man. Notice how the blind man’s sight develops: not in a flash, but rather in stages. First, he meets Jesus. Then he is sent off to wash. Only then does he see.

But of course the story isn’t only about the gift of sight. Most of all, it’s about the gift of faith. And look at how the healed man’s faith develops. Again, it’s in stages. At first, all he knows is the basic facts. Jesus told him to wash, he washed, and he saw. But as he speaks with the Pharisees, he moves past the basics and recognizes Jesus as a prophet. By the end of the story he worships Jesus as Lord.

We read this Gospel on the fourth Sunday of Lent in order to instruct those preparing for baptism. Their faith too will come in stages. But there’s message here for cradle Catholics as well. We can’t expect our faith to be fully formed just because we grew up Catholic. At every moment in our lives there is something more to learn, and some area in which our faith needs to be fostered.

Growth in faith comes from experiences, from reading, from absorbing solid Christian teaching, and from reflection and prayer. We need to be nourished constantly.

Yet many Catholics stopped their religious education at the end of grade school. In what other area of our lives would we be satisfied with what we learned as youngsters? In what other area would we assume that there’s nothing left to learn after 13 or at best 18? Usually it’s only teenagers themselves who think that, not the grownups!

The parish mission was a great success. The teaching was solid, practical and inspiring. And it was inspiring to see so many committed parishioners attending.

Still, no more than one parishioner in four attended the parish mission, and that’s well more than we usually get for teaching events. Maybe we need to ask ourselves whether we’re really making the sacrifices it takes to ensure our intellectual and spiritual growth in the faith.

Perhaps those who missed the mission might want to think about some of the other opportunities for personal formation that are around. Although our mission is over, there is one this week at St. Anthony’s with the priest-psychologist Father Lucien Larre. Those who missed Father Mahan may want to give this opportunity some serious thought.

In the foyer there’s a rack of excellent Catholic CDs that offer serious intellectual and spiritual formation inexpensively and conveniently. Our parish library is filled with classic and modern spiritual books that can really nourish our spiritual lives.

This week’s bulletin announces the annual CWL weekend retreat, and news of a retreat for single men in early April came in after we went to press. There’s a spiritual evening for women right here in the parish next Monday, March 22, and a half-day of recollection for women at St. Pius next Saturday, March 20.

And you’ll be hearing in the weeks ahead about a presentation in May on the Theology of the Body by the renowned speaker Christopher West.

In fact, just about every week the bulletin promotes an educational or spiritual opportunity somewhere in the diocese, not to mention all that happens in the parish, from Bible studies to youth events.

Our parish mission was about stewardship—stewardship of the gifts with which God has blessed us. It almost goes without saying that the most precious of all gifts is our faith—the gift of knowing Jesus is truly more precious than silver and gold.

When Father Mahan spoke about the stewardship of our spiritual gifts I heard echoes of St. Paul, who urged his friend Timothy, “Do not neglect the gift you have” (1 Tm. 4:14).

In his second letter to Timothy, Paul writes “I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you” (2 Tm. 1:6). Timothy must stir into flame the divine gift he has received, much as we might do with the embers of a fire. (see PDV, 70).

The apostle wasn’t just speaking to Timothy when he wrote those words. As stewards of the gift of faith, each and every one of us has the duty and the privilege to fan it into a flame that burns brightly within us.

One way we do this, practically speaking, is by taking adult faith formation seriously at every moment of life’s journey, despite the sacrifices it requires.

I'm grateful to hear that people say they miss me when I’m away. But I’d be happier still if my absences caused you to wonder whether it’s time for you also to travel outside your comfort zone in order to be challenged and inspired.

Living Water: Lent 3 A

Close your eyes and let your imagination take you back almost two thousand years.

You’re a Roman soldier—or perhaps his wife. You were raised in a respected family, raised in the traditions of ancient Rome and its empire. Caesar, the emperor, was venerated as a god both in military ceremonies and in the home.

But a friend, or a neighbour, or maybe a relative began to talk to you about a different God: not the emperor you see pass by on his chariot, but an all-powerful God who came to earth—as a Jewish man, of all things.

The more you learn about this Jew, killed by soldiers of your own army, and the more time you spend with his followers, the more sure you become—this is what you want. Freedom from the fear of ruthless pagan gods, a promise of life that will never end, a way of living that’s rooted in the good, the true, and the beautiful.

Eventually, you are ready to join this new and wonderful religion. Your new friends—they call themselves your brothers and sisters—say they will get you ready to take the plunge. And they mean that literally: to become a Christian you must be submerged in water in the dark of night. Baptism, they call it.

It’s exciting and terrifying at the same time. Not that many years ago your regimental sergeant was executed when he refused to pay homage to the divine Caesar. The persecutions come and go, but at the very best your career is finished. For the family, things will likely become very tough as relatives and neighbours turn away.

You’re not entirely sure what all it will cost you, but it doesn’t really matter. You’re ready to die if that what it takes.

Do you have the picture in your minds? Now let’s ask ourselves: what did those Romans expect from baptism, at that price?

Would they have put their lives on the line for a “membership card”? For a friendly community in which to network? As an excuse for a party or a chance to put their children in a good school?

You know the answer as well as I do. The early Christians put their lives on the line because they were convinced that after baptism nothing would ever be the same again.

They expected something marvellous would happen as they arose from the baptismal font. They knew they might have to pay a great cost, but they anticipated something truly priceless.

Now fast forward from ancient Rome to Vancouver in 2010. What do we expect from baptism, that sacrament most of us received as infants, not as free-willed adults? Has it made all the difference to our lives? Can it?

Hope abounded in the hearts of catechumens partly because of the catechesis—the instruction—that the community provided them during their intense preparation. One of the key texts used was the Gospel we have just heard.

Today the Church still reads this Gospel to help our catechumens prepare for baptism. But the rest of us are not ignored. We may have been baptized as infants, but the life-changing grace of the sacrament must be welcomed throughout our lives if it’s to make all the difference.

Catechumens, candidates and Catholics: today we’re all invited to step into the sandals of the woman of Samaria.

Perhaps that seems strange—she lived long ago and far away. And yet few figures in the Bible are more universal, more modern, than that Samaritan woman. She’s not satisfied with things as they are, and she wants to know the truth. Isn’t that the human condition? St. Augustine certainly thought so, because he said “You made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until the rest in you.”

The problem is, some of us have been shoving aside our doubts and fears and desires for so long that we no longer think about our deeper hungers and thirsts. That’s why Jesus takes his time with the woman at the well. First, he awakens her thirst. Second, he offers to quench it.

The Samaritan woman does her part. She doesn’t turn and run—or argue or get defensive— when Jesus starts talking about her personal life. She asks the right questions. Step by step she lets Him explain that there is living water no ordinary well contains. But most of all, she admits her hunger and thirst for truth.

This is exactly what goes on in the lives of our catechumens as they prepare for baptism. They encounter Jesus. They acknowledge the truth about their lives. They ask the right questions. And they allow themselves to feel their hunger for truth and their thirst for the living water that wells up to eternal life.

But what about the rest of us, baptized as infants? Are we just onlookers as Jesus speaks to the woman of Samaria, as He speaks to our brothers and sisters preparing for their baptism?

Yesterday I hiked up to the Cleveland Dam with Daniel, our visiting seminarian from Alberta. I thought he would be impressed by the sight of the water cascading into the canyon, but it wasn’t that successful—he compared it to the waterslide at the West Edmonton Mall!

Well, wherever the water is gushing, it’s a perfect symbol of the abundant grace that flows into the hearts of the baptized. But torrents of water are probably not what come to mind when we think of our own baptism—more like a trickle: enough to keep us going, but not exactly Niagara Falls.

As Lent progresses, Jesus calls us to drink deeply of the living water. He wants us to admit that we’re parched most of the time, preoccupied with daily life, not the abundant life.

The Lord speaks to everyone here just as personally as he spoke to the Samaritan woman: If you knew the gift of God—the gift you have received, or are offered, in baptism—you would ask for living water. Water that washes away the daily grime of sin, water that refreshes, water as peaceful as a mountain creek and as powerful as a cascading falls.

Perhaps the image doesn’t quite work for us, accustomed as we are to indoor plumbing and plenty of fresh clean water. Then think about the biblical understanding to get the message: “Water is first of all the source and strength of life: without it the earth is nothing but an arid desert, a land of hunger and thirst, where men and beasts are doomed to death.” (1)

We drink deeply first of all that we may not die. The water of life is just that. But we drink deeply—that is to say we let the graces of baptism flow freely in our lives—that we might not live unsettled lives, lives of unfulfilled longing and fear. We’re meant to live with confidence, abundantly and fully; that was promised us in baptism.

God is faithful to his promises; the only question is whether we’re opening our hearts to the spiritual gifts we’ve already received—gifts and blessings that are dormant until we join the woman of Samaria in crying out “Give me this water so I may never be thirsty again.”

One of my favourite preachers says that if we don’t take the call of Lent to heart, then we can be like someone who is thirsty and reads about water, listens to talks about water, sings songs about water, and joins discussions groups about water—until finally one day, he or she dies of thirst. “What happened? He or she never drank the water.”

“Jesus has living water that will bring life to your life.” (2)



1) Dictionary of Biblical Theology, new revised ed., 644.
2) S. Joseph Krempa, Captured by Fire, Cycle A, p. 34).

Lent Lite or Lenten Transformation? Lent 2

Life is full of challenges, big and small.

Anyone disagree with that?

Travelling with small children is one of life’s small challenges that can seem enormous. I had to fly down to Portland this week, and across the aisle was a couple with a baby who screamed almost non-stop.

At least the mother was a model of calm. She spoke very gently “Keep calm, Albert. No need to be upset, Albert. We’ll be home soon, Albert.”

As we were getting off the plane I gave the young parents an encouraging smile, and asked the husband how old little Albert was.

“Oh, no,” he said,“His name’s Michael. I’m Albert.”

On the surface, today's Gospel seems miles away from such daily challenges. That mountaintop is about as far away as you can get from my fears and my issues—obviously it’s about Jesus preparing his friends for the scandal of his crucifixion, arming them in advance with a preview of his glory.

But if that’s all it’s about, why does the Church present us with the transfiguration every year on the second Sunday of Lent? This year we read St. Luke’s account, next year St. Matthew’s, last year St. Mark. Obviously it’s important, but why? After all, we don’t need a preview of Christ’s resurrection; it has already happened.

I can suggest one good reason why: the transfiguration strengthens our hope that we will be transformed.

Let’s shift our focus for a moment from Jesus to ourselves. Do we believe that there’ll come a time when our faces will be changed, when our clothes will be dazzling and white?

There’s every reason to believe that: St. Paul writes “He will transform the body of our humiliation so that it may be conformed to the body of his glory...” (Phil 3:21a). We’re offered a personal share in that mountaintop experience.

Which leads to the big question: are we on our way up the mountain to share in Christ’s glory, or are we standing at the base of the hill scratching our heads? Are we expecting personal transformation during these days of Lent, or just ‘more of the same’?

Because the road to glory doesn’t start at the end of our days; it starts right now.

We all know how hard our Olympic athletes trained, and their discipline is an excellent reminder of the demands of Christian discipleship. In fact, in one of his most memorable passages, St. Paul uses running, and races, and even boxing to remind us that we need to train and discipline our bodies. (1 Cor 9.24-27)

But competitors know there’s more to winning than physical training: attitude and expectation are crucial. An athlete who expects to win has a much great chance of victory than one who doubts or fears.

What about us? Do we expect Lent to transform us? Are we really looking for visible changes in our daily lives? More patience, less selfishness; more insight, less anger; more generosity, less self-indulgence. Are we anticipating victories, large or small, over some of the things that enslave us or hold us back?

If we’re settling for “Lent lite,” today might be a day to think again. God offers real change and deep renewal to those who pick up the torch at Lent and run with it.

We’ve already talked about three ways to run the Lenten race—prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. We do these things to please God, certainly, but each of these aims at transforming our hearts: in other words, if prayer, fasting and almsgiving don’t change us, we’re not getting them right.

Ask yourself: do I expect to be the same old me at Easter? Is the journey from Ash Wednesday to Holy Week a Sunday drive or a bold climb up the mountain?

Your answer won’t come in words. St. Josemaria Escriva said “Love is deeds, not sweet words and excuses.” So what are your deeds?

Last week I proposed a practical way we might approach prayer, fasting and almsgiving on the Fridays of Lent. It should work for most people, but it’s by no means the only way of taking Lent to heart. (By the way, in last Sunday's homily I promised something more on fasting this week; you’ll find some wise words on the subject from Matthew Kelly in the posting below.)

This week, I suggest a different kind of fast: fasting from our plans and over-scheduled lives, and making space for things of the spirit.

A week from Wednesday, we will have a parish mission. For three nights our community will gather to hear Father Dan Mahan preach on the topic “More than Silver or Gold,” which you have to agree is a pretty timely title! His talks aren’t about becoming a better parish, or about feeling good about ourselves, or even about feeling bad about ourselves: they’re about personal change, from the inside out.

Father Mahan will be talking about stewardship, one of the most transforming themes in the Church today. He’s asking: do I want my Catholic faith to drive everything I do? He’s asking: am I ready to be a full-time and full-out Christian? And he’s telling us one way that can happen, if we make stewardship a way of life.

The mission is offering something more precious than silver or gold, because it’s offering a way of living life in Christ.

I am as busy as the busiest parishioner, new parents excepted. I understand the reasons you have for missing the mission. Soccer practice. Tennis lessons. Homework. Business pressures. Kids.

But I also understand—as I know you do—that the disciples had to go up the mountain to see Christ’s glory and the promise of their glory. I’m sure when they came down the mountain their friends were full of stories of all the fish that got away while they were away being dazzled by the Lord.

A second way to make space for the spirit is to enter into the kind of personal prayer that can transform us. One of the most ancient forms of prayer is making a big comeback nowadays—it is called lectio divina, Latin words that mean “sacred reading.”

Lectio divina uses a text, usually from Scripture, as a doorway to a conversation with God. It’s a four-step approach to prayer: reading, meditating, praying, and contemplating.

In his Lenten letter, Archbishop Prendergast of Ottawa makes the great suggestion of using the Sunday readings of Lent—or even the daily ones—for this kind of prayer. He also offered a very helpful and uncomplicated guide to lectio divina, using last Sunday’s readings as an example; I have made copies of it that you can pick up as you leave church today.

We have it on good authority that sacred reading has the power to transform us: Not long after he was elected, Pope Benedict told a group of biblical experts that if lectio divina is effectively promoted, it will bring “a new spiritual springtime” to the Church. In fact, he added “I am convinced of it.”*

You don’t need to be any kind of an expert to know that a prayer that can change the Church must be able to change each member first. So give Lenten lectio a thought if you’re prepared to make the commitment.

In the end, it’s about expectations. Those who ask, receive. Those who seek, find. Our Lenten program, whatever we’ve chosen, should give us fresh hope of meaningful personal change here and now, the beginning of our glorious transformation in the life to come.

* Address to participants in the international congress on “Sacred Scripture in the Life of the Church,” September 16, 2005.

Fasting

In my homily last Sunday I promised to say more about fasting this Sunday. But I've been working on my homily and it's going in another direction!

Accordingly, I decided to run with an excerpt from Matthew Kelly's excellent book Rediscovering Catholicism: Journeying Toward Our Spiritual North Star. He has a lengthy section on fasting, including its biblical basis, from which I have digested the following:

"I pray we can rediscover the value of this ancient spiritual practice as modern Catholics. Not for God’s sake, but for our own. I am utterly convinced that if we are to develop the inner freedom to resist the temptations that face us in the modern world, we must learn to assert the dominance of the spirit over the body, of the eternal over the temporal. If the spirit within each of us is to reign, then the body must first be tamed. Prayer won’t achieve this, works of charity won’t achieve this, and power of the will won’t achieve it. This is a task for fasting, abstinence, and other acts of penance.

There is great wisdom in the Christian practice of fasting. Though Christian fasting has been largely abandoned, the one penitential practice that seems to have survived the turmoil of this modern era is that of Lenten Penance. Although, I suspect it is hanging on by a very thin cultural thread, which will break unless we can make people aware of the great beauty and spiritual significance of these acts.

There is a war taking place within you. It is the constant battle between your body and your soul. At every moment of the day, both are vying for dominance. If you wish to have a rich and abundant experience of life, you must allow your soul to soar. But in order to do that, you must first tame and train the body. You cannot win this war once a week, or once a year, or even once a day. From moment to moment, our desires must be harnessed.

Penance, fasting, abstinence, and mortification should be a part of our everyday lives. For example, if you have a craving for Coke, but you have lemonade instead. It is the smallest thing. Nobody notices. And yet, by this simple action you say “no” to the body and assert the dominance of the soul assisted by the will. The will is strengthened, and the soul is a little freer.

Or, your soup tastes a little dull. You could add salt and pepper, but you don’t. It’s a little thing. It’s nothing. But if it’s done for the right reasons, with the correct inner attitude, it is a spiritual exercise. You say “no” to the body. In doing so, you assert the dominance of the spirit. The will is strengthened, and the soul is a little freer.

It is these tiny acts that harness the body as a worthy servant, and strengthen the will for the great moments of decision that are a part of each of our lives.

Beyond these moments of mortification, we should each seek encounters with fasting and abstinence if we are serious about the spiritual life. Not because the Pope says to or because our local bishops conference advises it, but because it will help us to turn away from sin and turn to God. Fasting helps us to turn our backs on the-lesser-version-of-ourselves and embrace the-best-version-of-ourselves.

Perhaps you can fast one day a week—two small meals, one full meal, and nothing to eat between meals. Perhaps you can fast one day a week on bread and water. Or maybe all you can manage at this time is to give up coffee for one day. Maybe you can’t even give up coffee for the whole day, maybe just for two hours. Friday has always been a traditional day of fasting, and I would encourage you to employ this tradition in your own way. Only you can decide what is right for you in this area.

Try not to be prideful about it. Come humbly to God in prayer, and there in the Classroom of Silence, decide upon some regular practice of fasting and abstinence. Then, from time to time, review this practice. If you feel called to add to it, add to it.

...

It is also important to recognize that not all forms of fasting and mortification involve food. You can fast from judging others, or criticizing, or cursing.

Two powerful forms of mortification that helped me to grow tremendously were the practice of silence and stillness. Sit in the silence for twenty minutes. It isn’t easy. That is why so few people pray. After you have become comfortable in the silence, be still for twenty minutes. Completely still. It is difficult. Yet I am convinced that silence and stillness are two of the greatest spiritual tools.

Fasting is a simple yet powerful way to turn toward God. If there is a question in your life—fast and ask God to lead you. He will. If you have a persistent sin that you just cannot seem to shake—fast. Some demons can be cast our only by prayer and fasting together.

Fasting is radically counter-cultural, but so is true Christianity."

From Rediscovering Catholicism: Journeying Toward Our Spiritual North Star, by Matthew Kelly.

Church Scandals: An OT Perspective

Way back in December, I promised some thoughts on scandal in the Church, particularly that caused by clerical sexual misconduct. It’s something I have been reflecting upon since such scandals erupted in Canada in the late 1980s, and current events in Ireland (and elsewhere) have brought the tragic subject to the fore again.

I promised more than I can deliver—January and February have turned out to be almost bewilderingly busy—but I want to honour my promise with a few reflections at least.

For some reason, I view these tragedies through an Old Testament lens. Israel has a deep sense of collective sin and collective shame that is eclipsed, understandably, by the New Testament's vision of the Church as the spotless bride of Christ. But since the Church remains sinful in her members, even though not in her Head, I think we can make the laments of the Psalmist and the prophets our own prayer of sorrow.

The Psalms are particularly appropriate because they recognize three aspects of the crisis of clerical misconduct: the sins of individuals, the sins of leaders, and the exploitation of these by those who wish harm to the People of God. To recognize the last is not to shift blame to the media, or to blame the messenger, but to acknowledge truthfully that sin in the Church weakens our witness and is artfully used by enemies of the Gospel, both on earth and elsewhere.

Consider Psalm 35. The Psalmist acknowledges that he has stumbled, even if without the element of remorse shown in other psalms. But he also laments that his fall has caused his enemies to rejoice, and he asks the Lord to rescue him from the destructive attacks that his failures have permitted.

Other consequences of sin are detailed in Psalm 38, which conveys the full effect of sin: the Psalmist’s whole body is sick from it; he is dazed and humiliated. While Catholics need to mount legitimate defences against unjust and malevolent attacks, where they exist, we need first to mourn what has happened.

Psalm 44 helps us to admit that some aspects of the current disaster, though not God’s will, have been used to chastise and purify His Church. Psalm 44 says “you have made us an object of ridicule among the nations; all day long...” God has permitted this even though the one who prays protests his fundamental faithfulness.

In all this, the psalms offer hope. “Our record of sins overwhelms us,” Psalm 65 admits, “but you forgive our act of rebellion.”

To conclude: these and other texts can lead us to pray for healing in these painful moments with truthfulness about the sins of others, our own sins, and the deep collective wounds of the Church as the new People of God, all the while begging God’s mercy.

Historically, they can place this crisis within a broader context—the plan of salvation, which continues to unfold against all the odds.

Penance a Christian Duty: Lent 1

The goal of this homily is neat and simple. I would like to convince you of one fact, and to invite you to act on it.

Here’s the fact: penance is not an option for any Christian.

I’m not going to argue the point, at least not today, because the popes have declared it with authority. The shortest statement comes from Paul VI, who declared “By divine law all the faithful are required to do penance” (Apostolic constitution Paenitemini, I. 1).

The fact that the duty to do penance is God’s law, not just the Church’s, is clear enough in the Scriptures. Jesus tells us to pick up the cross and follow him, and gives us an example of penance by his fast of forty days recounted in today’s gospel.

The essential character of penance is also stated in the Catechism, which teaches that the People of God can extend Christ’s reign only by way of penance and renewal, the way of the cross (n. 853).

But somewhere along the way we’ve suffered a disconnect. We’ve put penance in the category of ‘optional extras,’ partly by connecting it exclusively to the Lenten season. I’ll be honest with you if you’ll be honest with yourselves: I do very little penance outside of Lent and not enough during Lent.

A young parishioner asked me on Thursday what I thought he should do for Lent. Since there was another young adult standing close by, I turned and asked him what he was doing this Lent. He answered very simply “I gave up red meat, hot showers, and I am doing good to my roommate without being detected.”

I very quickly said a prayer: “Dear Lord, please don’t let him ask me what I’m doing!”

The reason I’m not doing enough penance is probably the same reason you’re not doing enough penance: I didn't quite make the jump from the practices of my childhood to adult self-denial.When the Church stopped telling us exactly what penance to do, sometime in the sixties, many weren’t quite ready to take on the responsibility. We interpreted the end of mandatory abstinence from meat as the end of Friday penance; the end of legislated fasting meant no fasting at all.

No-one’s to blame for all this—the change in the law was a serious invitation for Catholics to grow in personal responsibility. But the results are obvious. Even the most devout people think nothing of heading to the Keg for a steak on Friday, and meaningful Lenten penances are seen as something rather quaint.

I can’t turn this around in a single sermon. I said at the beginning that my goal was simple: to convince you that penance is a duty of each and every Christian, and to invite you to act on that.

I’d like to make that invitation concrete by suggesting that everyone who hasn’t chosen a meaningful Lenten penance should choose one before leaving church today.

There are many forms of penance. Certainly one must admire those who undertake tough penances like that committed young man. A parishioner closer to my own age practices a form of self-denial that I admire even more than giving up hot showers: he abstains from both coffee and alcohol, and buys nothing at all for himself during Lent. I could manage two out of three, but I almost shudder at giving up coffee.

And for some people, prayerfully accepting present trials or health problems, uniting them to the sufferings of Christ, is more than sufficient penance.

Penance is therefore very personal—indeed, the Code of Canon Law adds something to those words I’ve quoted from Pope Paul. Canon 1249 states that “The divine law binds all the Christian faithful to do penance each in his or her own way.”

But I would like to offer one specific choice for those who want to take the divine command seriously, but who can’t quite figure out what’s too much—and we can indeed do too much penance, although it’s not been a problem for me!—or too little.

I’m going to propose a Lenten resolution that involves all of the three most traditional ways that Christians have used to express their spirit of penitence: fasting, prayer, and almsgiving. Ideally, a Lenten program should involve all three of them, because fasting helps convert us in relation to ourselves, prayer in relation to God, and almsgiving in relation to others (see CCC 1434).

Here’s the proposal. Every Friday for the rest of Lent, do these three things: observe a simple fast, pray the Stations of the Cross, and give a small sum of money to the poor.

And here’s how it could work some Fridays: Eat your usual breakfast and a slightly smaller than usual lunch. Then join us around 6:15 for “Soup and Silence,” a hearty meal of soup and bread served by members of the St. Vincent de Paul Society. Believe it or not, that’s all that fasting demands—eating at three meals what we would usually eat at two. The “Soup and Silence” fare is extremely tasty, but it’s modest enough to fit into a Friday fast, without undue hunger.

“Soup and Silence” is free of charge, but the St. Vincent de Paul Society provides an opportunity to make an offering to the poor. That, of course, is almsgiving.

The meal is followed by the Stations of the Cross, the most popular of all Lenten devotions. Obviously, it’s a real time of prayer.

How much simpler could it get? Fasting, prayer and almsgiving—on Fridays, the most penitential of days. All rooted deeply in Catholic tradition.

You’re a traveler or otherwise unable to spend an hour at the church on Fridays? No problem. Fasting is never out of reach when it is understood in this moderate sense of eating a normal meal plus two smaller than usual ones. We have Stations of the Cross prayer booklets you can buy for a dollar or two, allowing you a truly Lenten time of prayer wherever you are. And almsgiving is never out of reach for anyone, rich or poor.

I hope you’re convinced: penance is a Christian duty, year-round. And Lent’s the perfect time to take that duty seriously, with a serious but simple plan.

Next week I’ll try to say a bit more about fasting, the most ancient of our penitential practices. Unless, of course, I decide to turn off the hot water instead!