Christmas 2020

 I wrote three homilies for this Mass. The first two didn’t mention the coronavirus or anything else to do with the difficult circumstances of Christmas this year.

We needed a break from the pandemic, I thought. And Christmas is a time for cheerful thoughts, not heavy ones.

My idea was completely wrong. It took only a few days for the Word of God to set me straight and I tossed out the other two tries.

Our first reading says, “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” Isaiah tells us that light has shone on those “who lived in a land of deep darkness.”

Who are those people in 2020? Aren’t they those living in this gloomy time in history, especially those suffering most from the isolation of the lockdowns and those most vulnerable to the virus?

And I was going to give a homily without mentioning that?

At first glance, the Gospel seemed perfect for the cheery homily I had planned. It’s the best known and best loved story of the birth of Jesus. The full cast of characters are there, including the angels and the shepherds.

 But here, too, harsh reality intrudes. There is no room for Mary and Joseph at the inn. Jesus is born to parents who are temporarily homeless. There is some possibility that the shepherds, the first to hear the good news, were even permanently homeless if they were “living in the fields.”

The first Christmas night didn’t feel much like a Christmas card. The shepherds weren’t just afraid: St. Luke says they were terrified. There was terror alongside the shining star, the angelic choir, and the child lying in the manger – just as there is fear in our world today, probably as much as there’s been in recent history outside of wartime.

Once I took all this in, it didn’t take long to realize that a Christmas homily in 2020 must not – cannot – ignore our present situation.

Jesus came to earth in the very real circumstances of the world in which He was born. We should celebrate His birth in the very real circumstances of our world today.

And those include a worldwide epidemic. A few people have asked me why God permits such things. I don’t have an easy answer, but history tells us that the Church is no stranger to plagues and pandemics.

An American sociologist has even argued that the  courage and compassion of Christians during plagues in the first centuries of the Church helped the faith to spread. Some of those who were helped personally or who witnessed Christians in action decided to convert (Rodney Stark, The Rise of Christianity, quoted in Stephen Bullivant, Catholicism in the Time of Coronavirus.)  

During these historic plagues, charity certainly motivated Christians to care for the sick. But it wasn’t just charity: faith gave them strength to overcome their fears. Today, we usually don’t need volunteers to look after the sick, but I can’t help but think about the Filipino and Filipina caregivers, many of them Catholics, who have stayed on the job in nursing homes despite the presence of COVID outbreaks.

People of faith are not people without fear. But they have a kind of vaccination against it. By consistently placing their trust in God, seeking his peace, and accepting his will, we develop antibodies against the attacks of excessive anxiety and paralyzing fear.

In a preface to Catholicism in the Time of Coronavirus, Professor Stephen Bullivant’s helpful new book, which you can find in the Faith Resources page of our website, Bishop Robert Barron wrote that the coronavirus has reminded us of something we don’t usually think about: namely, that everything in life is unstable. Nothing about our human experience is certain, not health or wealth or life itself.

When we are shaken up, “this truth manages to break through our defenses.” And then we start to look for what is ultimately stable – for something that doesn’t depend on circumstances.

Where can we find that stability but in God himself, God with us, whose coming we celebrate tonight?

I’m not trying to make a pun here, but someone did in the caption to a cartoon I saw the other day. The cartoon shows Mary, Joseph, and Jesus in Bethlehem under the words “the world needs a stable influence.”

The world needs it more than ever, and that is the promise of Christmas: stability that can’t be shaken by anything; a peace that the world cannot give.

The word stable turns my thoughts to the manger immediately behind me. I wasn’t that keen when our talented decorating team proposed moving the Christmas crib to the front of the altar so it could be seen on the livestream. I thought it might be distracting during the liturgy.

Thank heavens I came around to their idea. I knew it was the right call the minute I walked into the church. But I didn’t know what a truly brilliant idea it was until I found out St. Augustine had made a connection between the altar and the manger some 1600 years ago.

If that isn’t authority enough for placing our Christmas crib against the altar, I should tell you that I discovered what Augustine said thanks to a little book by Pope Benedict.

The former Pope says that Augustine’s idea “at first seems almost shocking.” But he points out that it contains a profound truth: “The manger is the place where animals find their food. But now, lying in the manger, is He who called Himself the true bread come down from heaven, the true nourishment that we need in order to be fully ourselves. This is the food that gives us true life, eternal life.”

And so, the manger turns our thoughts to the altar, at which we are fed, from which we receive the bread of God. (Pope Benedict XIV, Jesus of Nazareth:The Infancy Narratives p. 68-69)

Many people who are not Catholic love to come to Mass at Christmas. It may be that they intuitively make this connection even if they are not themselves ready to partake of the Eucharist, the heavenly food.

For those of us who are Catholic, it is especially painful that we cannot be nourished this Christmas from the table of the Lord. But let’s not forget that we’re invited to receive other spiritual food, and to concrete actions that can bring us as close to him as the shepherds were.

The second reading says that the coming of Christ brought salvation to all – therefore, to saints and sinners, the devout and the doubters, the strong and the weak. But it’s a gift to which we must respond.

The grace of God, St. Paul tells us, changes how we live, trains us, redeems us, and purifies us from our sins. In other words, we need to let God work with us and in us.

This once in a lifetime Christmas offers opportunities that many of us did not have the time or inclination to pursue in the past.

The next few quiet days might give time to read the first chapter of all four Gospels and to reflect on what we’re celebrating. Evenings without parties may be a chance to watch the remarkable life of Jesus and his disciples presented in The Chosen films, described in this week’s bulletin. “Watching parties” begin on Saturday.

From time to time, I’ve met Catholics who wanted to know more about the faith, and non-Catholics who were sincerely interested, but just couldn’t find the time.

The slower pace of life in January and February might be exactly what you need to explore the answers that Catholic faith gives to life’s big questions. The Search is a series designed to be watched in small groups and to help viewers grow deeper in their relationships with each other and with God.

The Search begins in our parish January 14, as described on our website and in this week’s bulletin.  

Over the years, we’ve had a few folks who were seriously interested in becoming Catholics themselves, but who had serious difficulties attending our weekly RCIA gathering for those looking at joining the Church. Some had regular business travel while others had family obligations.

No one’s travelling for the next few months and I think many kids’ sports have been cancelled! On top of that, our RCIA program is online so you don’t even need to have the car Tuesday nights.  

We know that Christ has brought salvation to all. But we are all at different stages on our journey. At Christmas, God finds us where we are: watching and waiting like the shepherds, singing hymns to his glory, like the angels, kneeling before the stable, or still on the road.

Wherever we are, in the gloomy shadows or beneath the shining star, we are invited to “see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.”

So, “let us go now to Bethlehem.”

Remember the Fleas!

Some remarkable women filled my thoughts as I looked at the readings for this third Sunday of Advent.

The first woman, of course, is in a category all by herself: our Blessed Mother. You may have missed her appearance in today’s readings because what looked like our responsorial psalm was actually Mary’s great hymn of praise, the Magnificat, from the Gospel of Luke.

Mary is our model of gratitude for the past and hope for the future. She looks back as she proclaims that the Mighty One has done great things for her, and she looks forward since not only will all generations call her blessed, but his mercy is from generation to generation.

My homily today is about how we can do that. I want to suggest that we can do what Mary did and what our second reading teaches. It’s possible, if not always easy, to rejoice always and to give thanks in all circumstances.

The other two women we’ll talk about today give amazing examples of this, even if no one can compare with Mary’s total trust as she rejoices in what God has done and what God will do.

These two 20th century women show that it’s possible for ordinary people to give thanks and rejoice in every situation, replacing anxiety with deep hope and reliance on God.

Corrie and Betsie ten Boom were Dutch Protestants who, together with other members of their family, were sent to the infamous Ravensbruck concentration camp for the crime of protecting Jews against the Nazis. If I could speak about them for an hour, I could tell you some of the most powerful stories of the Second World War, but since I can't, let me tell you just one. It's a story I read more than 40 years ago which has stayed with me ever since.

When Corrie and her older sister Betsie first found themselves in Barrack 28 at Ravensbruck they were appalled by the conditions. Nice middle class women—they worked as watchmakers—they were horrified by the cockroaches, lice, and non-existent sanitation.

In her book The Hiding Place, Corrie recounts the moment that fleas were added to their miseries.

After her first of many fleabites, she wailed “Betsie, how can we live in such a place?”

 Betsie bowed her head. “Show us how,” she prayed.

Within moments she looked up and urged Corrie to find the Bible passage they’d read that morning and read it again. It included the words we just heard in today’s second reading, Paul’s command to rejoice always and give thanks in all circumstances.

“That’s what we can do,” Betsie cried. “We can thank God for everything about this new barracks.”

Looking around the foul-smelling, vermin-infested room, Corrie responded “Such as?”—with or without sarcasm, she doesn’t say, but I can guess.

Her faith-filled sister answered immediately: “Such as being assigned here together,” to which Corrie replied with a prayerful “Yes, Lord Jesus.”

Betsie added that they were richly blessed to have a Bible with them. Again, Corrie joined her in thanking God, and she added a prayer of gratitude for being in such close quarters with so many women with whom they could share the Gospel.

But when Betsie thanked God for the fleas, that was too much for Corrie.

“Betsie,” she said, “there’s no way even God can make me grateful for a flea.”

Her sister was not backing down. “’Give thanks in all circumstances,’ she quoted. Fleas are part of the place where God has put us.”

And so, they gave thanks for the fleas.

There the story could end, a remarkable story of taking God at his word, of taking God’s word seriously. But it wasn’t the end of the story.

As Betsie and Corrie shared their faith with the hundreds of women in the barracks, it became one big ecumenical Bible study. For some reason, their prayer services were never interrupted by the guards. In fact, the guards never set foot in the barracks. Eventually, the sisters figured out why: the fleas. The guards were afraid of the fleas.

The thing for which Corrie so reluctantly thanked God became a tremendous blessing.

St. Paul’s words are timeless, advice in good times and in bad, in each and every circumstance. They are sound scriptural advice in this time of pandemic; an antidote to the discouragement and fear so many are feeling; a great comfort in whatever misery we’re experiencing; and a way of magnifying the joys that are by no means absent.

Grateful prayer is also a remedy for our anxiety. In another letter, Paul puts his teaching in these words: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God” (Phil. 4:6).

Dear friends if you know me you know I don’t always practice what I preach. I talk about scriptural teachings I’m not very good at—for example, I am very poor at “praying always,” which is something else St. Paul tells us to do in this reading.

But I’m pretty good at giving thanks in all circumstances, the pandemic included. It’s probably because this verse is a cousin, if not a sibling, to Romans 8:28, where Paul writes that God works for good in every circumstance, that God can bring good even from the greatest evils.

Throughout these difficult months, I have done my best to thank the Lord for his work in our parish despite the many unhappy aspects of the current crisis.  I have thanked him for the technology that allowed me a final visit by iPad with Jim Pocklington, our first and only parishioner to die from the coronavirus. The iPad also allows Father Jeff or me a weekly visit with an elderly parishioner who calls us from her care facility.

I have thanked God for your astonishing generosity, which has kept our parish afloat despite the church closings and limited congregations. The virtual collection baskets have never been empty.

God does not want his people to be sad.  Not now, not ever. There’s something much greater than our circumstances.  As we heard in Mary’s song of praise, no sadness can obscure the Lord’s mercy, the mercy he offers so freely, to generation after generation—to young and old, to every one of us.

Would yesterday’s Day of Mercy have been the same a year ago? I doubt it. Father Jeff and I heard confessions for a combined total of 13 hours. God filled the hungry with good things and looked with mercy and love on our lowliness and need.

Maybe you felt too low or discouraged to take part in the Day of Mercy yesterday. But maybe the Word of God this morning will give you the courage to come to confession next Sunday when both of us will be waiting in our safely distanced confessional spaces at the usual times of Saturday at 9:30 and Sunday at 4.

In some sense, the trials of the pandemic have drawn some people closer to Jesus as they experience the loss of other things on which they used to rely. We’ve all heard wartime stories of the same thing.

Of course, the restrictions on parish life may lead to some people falling away, despite our best efforts; there are those who aren’t unhappy that they don’t have to go to Mass; there are likely some who won’t return when things get back to normal.

That’s a very disturbing thought. But like the ten Boom sisters, I will find a way to give thanks even for that. God works for good in all things, and perhaps those parishioners who will no longer walk with us on Sundays will come to realize their need to walk with greater purpose on the discipleship path and will be granted a deeper conversion down the road.

As I have said before, perhaps God is allowing the smaller but holier Church that Josef Ratzinger spoke about long before he was Pope Benedict.

And let’s not forget that we’re called to rejoice in all circumstances, not just the trying ones. God also wants us to rejoice in the good things around us. Although the pandemic has been hard for me in many ways, to date it’s been bookended by joyful events hard to describe without getting emotional.

The last weekend before the lockdown in March, I officiated at the marriage of my niece in this church. And three days ago, I was one of the ten people attending the priestly ordination of Richard Conlin at Holy Rosary Cathedral Friday night.

My niece’s wedding wasn’t the first family wedding I celebrated here. Thirty years ago, I married her parents at the brand-new Christ the Redeemer Church. But in thirty years we haven’t seen the ordination of a parishioner; Father Richard, the son of Brian and Monica of our parish, was the first.

To have an ordination during the pandemic, when so many family members and friends could not attend the ordination, was sad. But as a thirtieth anniversary gift from God to the parish, it made 2020 “a year of the Lord’s favour,” not just a time of discouragement and loss.

I’ll be thanking God for the sight of the newly ordained Father Richard shining—I mean shining—with joy long after the clouds of the pandemic have lifted.

And I’m grateful for the tears that rolled down his cheeks as he magnified the Lord for his goodness during the homily at his first Mass.

I’ve spoken about some of the things for which I’ve given thanks during the pandemic. What about you? What are the hardships you can bring to the Lord this morning, praying with thanksgiving in obedience to his word, even if you don’t feel like it?

Can you give thanks for some negative things that have been turned to positives in your life? Has the impossibility of travel allowed more family time this Christmas? Is the impossibility of Christmas parties making the season more reflective and calm?

And are there some clouds that simply have no silver linings? A loved one in a hospital or care home you can’t visit? There’s no positive to be found there. But Paul doesn’t say “give thanks in most circumstances” or “give thanks for almost everything.” We pray in thanksgiving as a way of handing it all to God, in whom we trust, in whom we hope.

I leave you with three words of advice for your next experience of hardship, whatever it may be: Remember the fleas.

But most of all, let’s not forget what the Mighty One has done for us, that God has come as one of us, ready to give meaning to whatever joy and whatever sorrow we face at this most unusual moment our journey together as a family of faith.

The watercolour image at the top can be purchased at https://society6.com/product/give-thanks-in-all-circumstances_print while The Hiding Place is available at Indigo and Amazon (in a slightly more expensive, anniversary edition).

Advent Leads Us Out of the Wilderness (Advent 2.B)

 

Two very famous figures are on my mind this morning. Both have long beards and unusual wardrobes. The first, of course, is St. John the Baptist, who appears in today’s Gospel, dressed in camel hair and proclaiming the message already prophesied by Isaiah in our first reading.

The second is Santa Claus.

I wonder how many of our younger parishioners know that Santa Claus is really St. Nicholas? Santa is just St. Nick with some extra pounds from all the cookies and milk left for him on Christmas Eve.

Even the name of Santa Claus comes straight from his Dutch name, Sinterklaas.

Long before children received gifts at Christmas, they got their presents on the eve of the feast of St. Nicholas, which just happens to be today, December 6. And in some countries, such as Holland, this continues to the present day.

It reminds all of us, young and old, that everything about Christmas has roots in our faith and that we need to water those roots if we’re to experience fully the joys of the season.

The opening prayer for today’s Mass encourages us to stay clear of those things that obscure the real meaning of Christmas. We prayed “may no earthly undertaking hinder those who set out in haste” to meet the Son of God.

Of course, if we take Advent seriously, we are a lot less likely to get mixed up about Christmas.

And this year, we might be just a little more open to a serious message since we’re not heading out to premature Christmas parties all through the season.

We often hear that Christmas is for children, and certainly we all want to have a child-like wonder before the infant Jesus laying in a manger. But we don’t want childish attitudes to rob us of the power and purpose of the Advent season.

Both today’s first reading and Gospel take us to a scary place—the wilderness. The wilderness, or desert, is “a place of deprivation, loneliness, and stripping away of comfort” (Mary Healy, The Gospel of Mark, p. 32). It’s easy to get lost in the wilderness.

And “more than ever this world is a wilderness.” Over thirty years ago the great theologian Hans Urs von Balthasar wrote that this wilderness is growing—“artificially, through the clearing of rain forests” and even more “spiritually, as the religious landscape turns into a vast overgrown prairie where men can scarcely hear the cry ‘Prepare the way of the Lord.’”

He says that John the Baptist would have a much harder time of it today than two thousand years ago, trying to make his voice heard amid the cacophony of the media and the secularist agenda (Hans Urs von Balthasar, Light of the World, p. 151).

But even if the wilderness is scary, even if the desert is taking over more and more territory that once was fertile, the prophetic message is still lifegiving water for a parched generation.

Both Isaiah and John announce the forgiveness of our sins, and with that an end to fear and hopelessness. Isaiah promises Israel God’s compassion and tender care, despite her unfaithfulness.

This promise, of course, is fulfilled by Jesus, whose name literally means “He who saves” and whom we know as our Good Shepherd.

The message of today’s Gospel is, very simply, “get ready.” Don’t walk around in circles in the dry land of anxiety, don’t get lost in the thorny bushes of the wilderness of confusion. Prepare for the coming of the Lord by walking away from sin.

Isaiah and John point out a straight path for us. It’s the path of repentance and discipleship that lead us to Jesus. It’s the way to the fullness of life, to the baptism with the Holy Spirit that John promised his disciples and which Jesus promises us.

There was a time when Western society was soaked in Christian culture. Customs and rituals, at home and at church, helped people encounter Christ at Christmas. As I mentioned at the beginning, even Christmas gifts have their origin in celebrating the memory of St. Nicholas, a bishop and martyr renowned for his generosity.

These days every parent, every priest, every teacher must work hard at recovering the truth and meaning of Christmas for the younger generation as they wander the wilderness of social media. We can take nothing for granted as society continues to drain the spiritual riches out of this annual celebration.

There are many things families can do, from Advent wreaths to Advent calendars. There’s the Christmas novena, nine days of prayer leading up to the 25th of December. And we can use the internet to learn about the glorious “O antiphons” connected to each of those days. Last week's bulletin had other fine ideas.

But there’s one idea better than any other: a good confession before Christmas.

Last weekend a father and his young son walked together to church so that they could both go to confession. The walk was five kilometers each way. How’s that for making a straight path for the Lord? Or at least a path straight to the Lord!

Archbishop Miller has declared next Saturday a “Day of Mercy” and asked parishes to make the sacrament of penance easily available—because, of course, we can’t hold penitential services this year.

Our plan at Christ the Redeemer is simple: on Saturday Father Jeff and I are going to station ourselves in safe spaces around the church at 10, 12, 2, 4, 6 and 8.

It’s a schedule I learned in the seminary: we will hear confessions at those times for as long as people come, then we will go back to the rectory. It allows maximum convenience for parishioners without the priests spending a whole lot of time with no one there.

Although good St. Nicholas takes a backseat to the Second Sunday of Advent this year, I want to end by letting his long history with Christian children remind us of the challenges young Christians face in the world today.

We owe our young people the priceless gift that can’t be wrapped or delivered by Santa Clause—the gift of faith. We can’t abandon them in the modern wilderness without water or a map. And so, our parish helps our children and youth grow in faith in many ways, in part through the largest youth ministry program on the North Shore.

Let’s take a moment now to meet some of the young people who are such an important and hopeful part of our parish family…

( Please watch the video here!)

Christ the same yesterday and today and forever (Christ the King 2020)

I had two American icons on my mind during this wild week. On Thursday, I thought about Yogi Berra, who I must explain for the benefit of the younger members of the congregation was a famous baseball player and coach in New York, not a cartoon character.

Yogi Berra said many memorable things, but my favorite was “It’s like déjà vu all over again!”

Déjà vu all over again. That sums it up. Hearing that Mass was again closed to the public brought back painful memories from last March. It also was a harsh reminder that our view of the pandemic was too optimistic.

I must have New York on the brain, because the second American I thought about was the Broadway actress Elaine Stritch. In one of my favorite YouTube videos, the elderly star sings Stephen Sondheim’s show tune “I’m Still Here.”

When she belted out, “Good times and bad times, I've seen them all. And, my dear, I'm still here” she could look back at a pretty rough life. But she sang the last line of the song like a survivor. “I got through all of last year, and I'm here.”

On our parish feast day, we can certainly join in that chorus. We haven’t got through a year yet but we’re still here.

We’re still a strong loving community, praying and serving in new ways. We’re still here for one another and for those in need. And we’re still here around the altar, even virtually.

Yesterday I baptized the first child of a young couple whom I’d married a couple of years ago. Their wedding was like no other: they had their own private pandemic! Almost everyone in the wedding party and many members of the family fell victim to a virus. 

It wasn’t, of course, the dreaded COVID-19 but good ol’ fashioned Norovirus. Which may not be as serious but is probably more infectious. People came straight from the emergency room to the church for a wedding that started two and a half hours late.

Yesterday, for a second time, the young couple were the victims of a virus – although perfectly healthy they were able to have only 9 guests at the baptism.

It would be easy to feel sorry for Damian and Erin. But don't be too quick to feel sorry. At both the wedding and the baptism, the circumstances required them to focus only on what matters most, the sacraments themselves. And that was a great blessing.

You’d think that was enough drama for one week. But before Dr. Bonnie Henry stopped speaking, I realized that the December 11 ordination of our own Deacon Richard Conlin might also face the 10-person limit. But there, too, is a challenge to go to the heart of the matter, however much we sympathize with his situation.

Like the young couple and their families, and Deacon Richard and his, our whole parish community has been challenged to focus on what matters most.

What does matter most? Is it the spirit of community? Is it the spirit of service? Is it the liturgy?

There can only be a one-word answer. That word is Jesus. Almost every aspect of church life can fall victim to external changes. But the King whom we celebrate today “is the same yesterday, today and forever.” (Hebrews 13:8)

We can be cut off from one another. We can be deprived of the sacraments. But no external force can exile us from the Kingdom of God to which we are called in baptism.

Our second reading provides ample scriptural evidence of the Lordship of Christ our Redeemer. It leaves us in no doubt that all of history, including our recent history, is moving toward the day when the Son hands over to the Father the work He has completed.

Elsewhere, St. Paul asks, “What will separate us from the love of Christ?” He answers, “Neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:35;38-39)

Brothers and sisters, we are being tested. So far it has not been the testing by fire that many endured in Britain and Europe as the bombs fell during the Second World War. It’s not an endurance test, at least not yet.

What’s being tested is our faith – not so much what we believe but how we live what we believe. How have we responded to our temporary freedom from the legal obligation to attend Sunday Mass? Has it been, at least some of the time, a relief? 

Have we renewed or relaxed our dedication to Christ during these past months?

It’s too early to predict the future of our parish. It’s difficult to know whether the numbers who have responded to our “Every parishioner, every Sunday” initiative when added to those watching the livestream equal the ordinary Sunday congregation for the pandemic.

We may, for all I know, be in the process of becoming the smaller but holier church that the future Pope Benedict predicted in 1969 when he wrote, “But when the trial of this sifting is past, a great power will flow from a more spiritualized and simplified Church.”

One thing I know for sure: we’re still here. Christ the Redeemer Parish continues to strive to bring people closer to Jesus. We’ve neither abandoned our enthusiasm for evangelization nor given up our dedication to forming intentional disciples.

Some of the things we did in the past have become more difficult during the pandemic but others, thanks to the wonders of online meetings, have become easier.

When we are convinced that Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever, we proclaim Him, one way or another.

When we are convinced that He is the King who will judge us on how we treated Him in our brothers and sisters, we serve Him, one way or another.

The expectations of Christ our King seem high. Who among us can feed the poor, welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, care for the sick, and visit the prisoner? I don’t know about you but if I did all that I would not have time to eat.

The marvelous thing about this parish community is that it does all those things, all the time. As our annual report makes clear, each one of these ministries is accomplished by one group of parishioners or another. And what some do with the support of all, all do.

Notice carefully that those on the left and those on the right hand of the Son of Man both ask Him, “When was it when we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink?” Both the sheep and the goats wonder when it was that they acted or failed to act.

You may not even have realized that you were caring for Christ in his brothers and sisters.

You may have been thinking only of refugees, shut-ins, children preparing for sacraments, men at the hostel, women in the downtown Eastside, lonely parishioners, or men and women in prisons. 

Yet all the while, it was Christ Himself whom you – we – were supporting, teaching, feeding, and encouraging. What a sacred enterprise a parish can be!

We did a fair bit of planning for this parish feast day and I was pretty disappointed that we could not be together. But it’s a blessing to the extent that these painful circumstances challenge us to keep our eyes fixed on Jesus, so we can “run with perseverance the race that is set before us.” (Hebrews 12:1-2)

Like you I am very sorry about the restrictions and limitations we are facing as a church community. But please don’t tell me any of this can make us lose sight of Jesus.

God has a plan. Not my plan, not your plan, not Dr. Bonnie Henry’s plan. It’s a plan to restore all things in Christ – to seek out the lost, to bring back the strayed, to bind up the injured. It’s a plan to draw us all into the Kingdom of God, where Christ is King forever.

 

 

Be Ready... Not Surprised (33.A)

There are few things less surprising than surprise parties. At least before the pandemic, if your fiftieth birthday is a day away and your wife hasn’t announced any plans, prepare to be surprised—or not!

I was given a surprise party once, and one of my friends said “you know, I was almost sure you’d figured it out, but when I saw the look on your face I knew we’d kept it a surprise.”

I’d known about the party for weeks. Appearing in all those school plays taught me a thing or two about acting.

The Scriptures today tell us that the end of the world—and the end of our lives—is something like most surprise parties: we know it’s going to happen, but we’re not sure exactly when. So even though our meeting with our Master will come as a surprise, it should not be a total surprise.

And that’s not all we learn from God’s word this morning. Although the connection between the readings isn’t obvious, taken together they tell us how to get ready and how to wait peacefully.

St. Paul tells us that the fact the world’s ending and our own death will come as a surprise doesn’t mean we should live in fear. We shouldn’t be anxious or worried, either about the day of the Lord or about our last days.

He reminds us “We are children of the light!” We’re not walking in the darkness but in the light of Christ. We are called to be wide awake and ready—ready even to be judged.

So how does this work?  How do we stay peaceful even in the face of God’s judgment?

With some help from the first reading, today’s Gospel answers the questions in a word. The word is stewardship.

In their magnificent pastoral letter Stewardship: A Disciple’s Response the American bishops wrote “Good stewards live with joy and gratitude for the blessings they have received—including those they have multiplied through diligence and hard work.”

And “good stewards live in communion with Christ and through Christ and the Spirit strive to return all gifts to the Father ‘with an increase.’”

That’s exactly what Jesus teaches about stewardship in this parable.

He’s telling us what the Master will expect on the day we stand before him. And knowing what he expects allows us to live with joy and gratitude, always eager to return God’s gifts to him, with interest.

Two points stand out. First, God does expect a return on his gifts. That shouldn’t surprise us. In the first chapter of the first book the Bible, God tells Adam and Eve to be fruitful and multiply—not because he needs that but because they do.

A narrow, nervous, timid, unproductive life is not for Christ’s disciples. If we live like the one-talent slave we will be weeping in the outer darkness when we realize what we have missed and how we failed, not because God is an angry master.

In a certain sense, stewardship is its own reward. And our failure to live as stewards of God’s gifts is its own punishment. We see that clearly when we fail to be stewards of the earth.

The second lesson, of course, is that the return God expects is in proportion to the spiritual and intellectual gifts he's given us. He doesn't expect the same homily from me as he does from Bishop Barron. (And neither should you!)

It’s a fluke that the money in our parable is called talents (it’s a weight, not a coin).  I don’t suppose the story works so well in all languages.  But that’s just as well since it's not just our talents and gifts that govern God’s expectations of us: it's our circumstances as well.

Does God expect the same amount of service to the Church and the poor from someone with five children as he does with one?

In the Introduction to the Devout Life, St. Francis de Sales points out that holiness is for everyone, although it will look different in different circumstances.

He says it’s laughable to think a bishop should live a solitary life like a hermit, or married people own no more property than a Franciscan.

But holiness is a universal, common, call. The Second Vatican Council taught that every one of the baptized, in every state in life, is called to holiness—holiness, which is the only return on investment God is concerned about.

Today's first reading and psalm show us that holiness can look quite ordinary.  Holiness is doing the little things well, for the love of God.  A famous architect said, "God is in the details," and that applies to holiness.

The capable wife in Proverbs is not Mother Theresa of Calcutta. True, she seems to get a lot more done in a day than I do, but it's ordinary stuff.  She's not leading Israel into battle or nursing the dying; she is simply industrious, generous, and wise.  She does the daily round perfectly and thus, in Christian spirituality, she is perfect, holy.

We don't find out as much about her husband in the psalm, but here too we see what holiness can look like: respecting the Lord and his law, making an honest living, and living family life in peace.

Whether you’re young or old, male, or female, married or single, the Word of God is telling us that the time for holiness is now, not later. God expects it. 

And the way to holiness is found in your circumstances, your trials, your opportunities, your challenges, and, yes, your talents.

All of this would be important to think about at any time of the year. But this is not just any time—we’re almost at the end of the liturgical year, closing in fast on Advent. The end of the Church year is the time when we hear about the last things, about judgment, about heaven and hell.

We heard these readings today for a particular reason: so we could take stock, so we could ask ourselves how we are doing as stewards of God’s many gifts—and think about the day when God himself is going to ask for our account.

Let’s not be taken by surprise.

 

Looking Forward to the Resurrection (32.A)

Restoration, the inspiring newspaper of Madonna House, has printed a remarkable letter in its November issue. It's written by a dying priest to his physician. Let me share some of it with you...

"Dear Doctor,

The other day, one of the staff related to me the conversation she had with you. She said that you expressed a concern that I do not seem to really appreciate the seriousness of my condition.

Because of my admiration for you, and because it makes a difference to me what you perceive, I would like to share with you a little of my philosophy of life. This philosophy has guided me through much of my 73 years of living.

It would require a book for me to fully describe this 73-year journey, but let if suffice to say that I have experienced, like everyone, alternate moments of discovery, of confusion, of misguided anger, of under­standing, of joy, of love, of frustration, and of hope.

Having experienced the succession of and repetition of all these emotions, I have arrived at a lesson that can be succinctly stated: “I am not afraid to die.”

The unawareness by others that I live by this philosophy, often causes them to misinterpret my reactions to life as nonchalance or denial.

It is not a surprise to me that you could interpret my actions in this way. I can imagine that when you have to give a diagnosis of an illness as potentially fatal or terminal, such news must often be received with great sorrow, disappointment, and fear.

I have not adopted my lack of fear of dying in defiance of life, nor have I arrived at it from a stance of defeatism or pessimism. Rather, I have come to understand in my “Walk” that this life is not all there is to Life.

Moreover, it is a truism that we all have to “walk the talk.”

When we Catholics celebrate the Mass on Sunday, we recite the Profession of Faith. To me, the closing line in this Creed is most pertinent in our journey through this life, for it says: “We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen.”

We humans are quick to hurl the epithet of “hypocrite” at one another, especially toward the ordained clergy who are often accused of not “walking the talk.”

However, I have always maintained to my congregation that I consider it to be a supreme hypoc­risy to boldly proclaim this line in the Creed and then proceed to live as though I am frightened as hell of death."

I'm perhaps still a bit too young and a bit too healthy to know whether I could sign my name to that letter. But I hope so. It may not be hypocrisy to live in fear of death but it certainly isn't what Jesus wants for his disciples.

And even if I'm not sure whether I fear my death or not, it's not the only death we fear. 

St. Paul makes this clear in the second reading today. He is writing more about grief for others than fear for ourselves. He tells us how the Christian should confront the death of loved ones. He doesn't want us to be "uninformed" about those who have died--he wants to us, like the dying priest, to understand what our faith teaches about God's promises of eternal life.

And because we are informed, because we believe, we are not to "grieve as others do who have no hope."

Notice Paul doesn't say "don't grieve." There are some religious groups that say that, denying the legitimate place of sorrow. He is speaking of how Christians grieve--looking "forward to the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come."

Long before I thought of my own death, I feared the loss of my mother and father. So this is something I can talk about without hypocrisy.

Despite my worries about the inevitable death of my parents,  St. Paul's words did sink into my heart : "since we believe that Jesus died and again" we believe that "through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have died."

When my mother and father reached the end of their lives, I really was comforted by the faith we will profess together a few minutes from now. And those experiences have strengthened the virtue of hope in me.

So when death comes closer, I expect I could write a letter at least close to what Father Sam Craig sent to his doctor. And in the meantime, I hope that you and I will encourage one another, as St. Paul tells us, with the promise that we will be with the Lord forever, together with all those who have died.

May they rest in peace--and may we live in hope.

+++

Although you can read the whole letter using the link to Restoration at the top, here is the inspiring conclusion that I did not quote in the homily:

"None of us can be certain of how others will eulogize or memorialize us once we have crossed over the “bar.” But I will be satisfied if I have left just one person with this agenda for life:

• Live with conviction: for the person who does not stand for something will fall for anything.

• Learn with an insatiable appetite, for he who thinks he has nothing else to learn is among the living dead.

•  Love with all the passion you can muster, for it was this for which we were all sent."

Countless Saints Befriending Us in Countless Ways (All Saints)

 

I think we have the most attractive parish bulletin in the Archdiocese and beyond. Which is why I wish more of you would click when it arrives in your inbox! Anyway, the bulletin for today’s feast of All Saints is particularly beautiful. It features a panorama of eleven saints and blesseds from the second century to the twenty-first. I showed the image to someone at the office and asked who the young man at the far right was. She hesitated for a moment and said, “your nephew?” My nephews are fine young men, but I don’t know that any of them have yet acquired a reputation for sanctity—besides, in words from one of the Monty Python movies, “they’re not dead yet.” Still, today reminds us that we’re all called to be saints, and that there are many saints in heaven “that we don’t know about! These saints are the countless good Christians who lived throughout the centuries, who are present to God and to us in the Church.” And though we may not know the names of this great crowd of saints, we know what they’re doing because today’s first reading tells us. It’s from the Book of Revelation, a book full of the Apostle John’s visions of heaven. St. John sees a numberless multitude of saints, standing before the throne of God, wearing white robes and singing a hymn of praise and adoration: ‘Salvation belongs to our God, who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb.’" An elder tells John and us who they are. These are the men and women “who have come out of the great ordeal; they have washed their robes and made them white in the Blood of the Lamb.” In a wonderful reflection on today’s liturgy, Abbot Jeremy Driscoll of Mount Angel Abbey reminds us that “This pattern repeats itself in every generation of Christians.” And this means something very important to each of us:  in these difficult times, he says “it’s our turn now… to survive our ‘great ordeal’ with the help of our friends, the saints.” Speaking mainly to his fellow Americans, the abbot is obviously thinking of both the trial of the pandemic and the social unrest in his country. But there are other ordeals that Christians face, or will face in the future. Is there any doubt that the humble sacristan at the cathedral in Nice is now among those “before the throne and before the Lamb robed in white,” with two faithful Catholic women standing beside him? We need to draw inspiration too from the holiness of the saints we have known. I have conducted the funeral Masses of parishioners who surely now stand around God’s throne, having made their baptismal robes white in the life-giving blood of the Lamb which they received at this altar beside me. The example of the holy people we have known is a big part of today’s feast, but it’s only part of the story. The rest of the story is the help they offer us through their prayers. The preface for today’s Mass puts it in a nutshell: through these “exalted members of the Church” God gives us, “in our frailty, both strength and good example.” This is what Abbot Jeremy means when he says we can “survive our ‘great ordeal’ with the help of our friends, the saints.” This is what the author of the Letter to the Hebrews means when he writes “since we are surrounded by so great a crowd of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely” and “run with perseverance the race that is set before us.” (12:1) Any sports fan knows the home team advantage that comes from the sound of the loyal crowd cheering the team on. We lose part of our own spiritual advantage if we don’t realize that the heavenly crowd is cheering for us, interceding for us on this glorious feast day. And so I’d like to close as Abbot Jeremy did, and express the same hope: “I pray that you will have joy in this feast and that you will feel the power and strength of our own destiny – to join the multitude in heaven, where we will praise God forever.” The Saints above, L-R: St. Thérèse of Lisieux, St. Felicity, Bl. Chiara Luce Badano, St. Kateri Tekakwitha, St. Charles Lwanga, Bl. Pier Giorgio Frassati, St. Gemma Galgani, St. John Berchmans, St. Elizabeth of the Trinity, St. Josephine Bakhita, Bl. Carlo Acutis

Solid Foundations for Moral Choices (30.A)

 

Two priests, the pastor and the assistant pastor, stood holding signs at a sharp curve on a busy road. The pastor’s sign said, “The end is near!”  while the assistant pastor’s warned, “Turn around before it’s too late!”

A jerk in a sports car passed by and yelled “Idiots” before raising one finger in what we can’t call a sign of peace and stomping on the gas. Moments later the priests heard the sound of screeching tires, followed by a big splash.

One priest turned to the other and said, “Maybe we should change our signs to ‘Bridge Out’.”

Let’s face it, there a lot of folks who don’t like the Church telling them what direction to take.

But there’s no room for this in our Catholic tradition. Faith—what we believe—and morality—how we act—can’t be separated.

We see this throughout the Bible, but never more clearly than in the teaching of Jesus. The Church has listened to that teaching for two thousand years, developing it and applying it under the guidance of the Holy Spirit.

So how do we get to know that teaching? Well, almost anything we study begins with fundamentals before we get specific. In the first year of medicine, future doctors don’t learn surgery but fundamentals. Before that, most students studied science as undergraduates to obtain the necessary knowledge of chemistry, biology and so on.

The same is true of the moral life. To understand and apply all the moral teachings of the Catholic Church—teachings that cover everything from the environment to human sexuality to business practices—you need to start with the fundamentals.

And today, the Lord gives us the two most important of them. He tells us that love of God comes before all else. And that close behind it comes love of neighbour.

Every other teaching of Christ and his Church rests on these foundations. Nothing that is opposed to love of God, nothing that fails to love our brothers and sisters, will ever be right for a Christian.

Yet it won’t always feel right, especially if we haven’t learned the basics of Christian moral theology. Sometimes we will feel that love of God conflicts with love of others.

But that can’t be true, since God does not contradict himself, and two rules cannot contradict themselves and both be true.

Just as mutually exclusive is the idea that what God wants of us and what our neighbour needs from us are opposed to each other.

If your son or daughter asks you for money so he or she can live with a girlfriend or boyfriend, it may feel more loving to reach for your chequebook as you sigh “oh, you young people.”

Speaking the truth will likely be a lot less pleasant. But speaking the truth in love, as St. Paul calls us to do in his Letter to the Ephesians, is what disciples who love God and want to love others must do.

Both the first commandment, the law of love, and the second, to love our neighbour as ourself, may require taking the harder moral road—because the neighbour, in this case the young adult child, needs the truth and deserves the truth. A shortcut from the moral road does not lead to the path of life.

Traditional Catholic moral theology has taken a beating since the 1960s, right alongside many other things on which society used to agree. Amid such confusion, it can be hard to sort right from wrong.

And yet these two great commandments provide infallible guidance—if you take them together. Loving God is the clearly the first and most important commandment, but it can’t be separated from loving others, and vice-versa.

In his first letter, St. John tells us all we need to know about how these two commandments are linked. He writes: “we know that we love the children of God, when we love God and obey his commandments.”

It’s easy to miss that point about obedience if we confuse love—whether for God or others—with feelings. St. John repeats himself in the very next verse “the love of God is this, that we obey his commandments.”

Loving the Lord with all our hearts and minds means doing what he asks. And loving others as ourselves means wanting them to love God as we do—which means helping them to obey his commandments.

We can certainly do things our way instead. But if we ignore God’s direction signs, we may very well end up… in the ditch.

A final thought before I close: When Jesus tells us to love one another, we tend to think about serving others, helping the poor, and so on. Yet we also love others by praying for them.

 ***

In the next two weeks we’ll be focusing on loving God and others through prayer. November is the month of prayer for the Holy Souls; what is more loving than to pray that the faithful departed, especially our friends and family, receive the fulness of life in the Lord?

The best way to do this is by coming to Mass on All Soul’s Day, Monday November 2, if you are able.  There will be one Mass at 7, but we will add another if it fills. You must register online or by phone.

And there’s another way to pray—we’re offering an online book of remembrance. You can add the names of loved ones and so the whole community will remember those inscribed in the book at every Mass during November.

Catholics, of course, have a long tradition of praying for the dead. But we can and should pray also for the living. The parish is launching a prayer ministry in the coming weeks that will help you to receive prayers for your intentions or for you personally.

You’ll be able to make your confidential prayer requests online, and if you wish we will connect you to members of the parish prayer ministry who will pray with you by ZOOM or over the phone. A dedicated member of the prayer team is available to pray with and for the dying, even at their bedside when it’s possible.

We’ll be telling you more about this by Flocknote and in the bulletin, so please stand by.