Yesterday, the Vigil of Pentecost, I baptized eight adults from our R.C.I.A. program and confirmed a ninth. Two children, a baby and a youngster, joined their parents at the font. A tenth member of the group will be baptized and confirmed thus week. The celebration was the first 'public' liturgy in the church since the pandemic began. Here is my homily.
Dear Brothers and Sisters,
What a joy it is to call you
that!
You probably know—or at least
you need to know—that I am famous for getting emotional when I preach. Gratitude seems to overwhelm me; it’s quite
beyond my control.
But in all my years of preaching,
I never teared up at the first four words of a homily—until today. However, when I typed “Dear Brothers and
Sisters” on my computer, that’s what happened. I’m afraid it’s a bad sign of
what’s to come as I speak to you today and to the whole parish tomorrow.
But it’s a good sign—a very
good sign—of what has happened during these months of preparation for your
baptism, during these weeks of waiting for baptism, and of what’s about to
happen at your baptism. Something worth grateful tears, something truly
earthshaking and momentous.
As I planned for our liturgy
this afternoon, I thought we might try to use some aspects of the Easter Vigil,
when we had all hoped you’d be baptized. I thought I might ask Nick Curalli to
hide in the choir loft and to sing the great Easter proclamation, the Exultet,
as I began my homily.
That was before I saw the
readings the Church provides for the Vigil of Pentecost. Although this liturgy
must take second place, it has the same power and glory and beauty as the one
we celebrated at Easter.
There’s more than enough drama
in the Bible texts we’ve just heard. There’s more than enough to set our hearts
on fire with excitement and gratitude.
Look at the first reading [Joel 2:28-32]. The Lord promises to pour out his spirit on all flesh—on all who call on his
name. Entire families will receive this gift—sons and daughters and elders. Isn’t
this what’s about to happen right here, right now? Two generations of one
family are here in church; three generations of another.
And what a time to receive
the gift of the Holy Spirit! I don’t think we are yet in the end times—the sun
has not yet turned to darkness nor the moon to blood—but we are in a time of crisis
and uncertainty. What better time to know that “everyone who calls on the name
of the Lord will be saved”?
What better time to know that
we can survive anything as long as we are among those whom the Lord calls?
The prophet Joel was sharing
God’s promises about 400 years before the birth of Jesus. We are blessed to
hear those promises from the Lord’s own mouth. In today’s Gospel, Jesus promises
another outpouring—rivers of living water, flowing out of the heart of the one
who believes in him.
But before the promise comes
a personal invitation: “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me and drink.”
Dear brothers and sisters,
you came to us with your thirst: with your thirst for God, for truth, for love,
for community. You came and you drank.
The third Sunday of Lent was
the last time we were able to gather in this church. We met for the First
Scrutiny of catechumens. It was the first and the last. But in the Gospel for
that celebration, you heard the words of Jesus to the Samaritan woman. Do you remember them?
In case you don’t, I’ll
remind you. They connect directly to the Gospel today. Jesus promised the woman
at the well that she would never be thirsty again if she would drink of the
water he offered her.
The Preface for Mass that
Sunday is beautiful. It says that when Jesus “asked the Samaritan woman for
water to drink, he had already created the gift of faith within her.”
“And so ardently did he thirst
for her faith, that he kindled in her the fire of divine love.”
That’s the story of the woman
at the well, and that’s the story of each one of you. Jesus approached you in
what might have seemed a casual way—after all, he just asked the woman for a
drink of water. But he already knew you, he had already given you the gift of faith.
You responded, and nothing
will ever be the same for you.
The sacraments you are about
to receive mean you will never again be dry. Sure, you may feel dry or a bit
dusty, but the desert will never be your home again. God’s word spells it out
beautifully: the first Psalm says you will be like trees planted by streams of
water, which yield their fruit in due season. The famous 23rd Psalm says God will lead you beside still
waters.
And if you’d been able to
attend the Easter Vigil, you’d have heard sung these words from the prophet
Isaiah: “With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation.”
In our second reading [Romans 8:22-27], St.
Paul speaks of groaning inwardly while we await adoption as sons and daughters
of God. I think I may have reached the
point in the homily when you are groaning inwardly! Your waiting for this moment of adoption has
gone on long enough. Let us now celebrate your baptism, the gateway to life in
the Spirit.
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