Looking Back and Ahead at Advent (

 

Talking about a pagan god is an unusual way to start a homily on the first Sunday of Advent, but at least his statue is in the Vatican Museum.

Janus was the Roman god of beginnings, gates, transitions, time, duality, doorways, passages, and endings.

He was obviously a busy guy. It’s no wonder that he’s usually shown having two faces, each looking in a different direction. Not right and left, but forwards and backwards.

As I thought about Advent this year, it struck me that looking in only one direction is not the way to prepare for Christmas. If we’re serious about this season, it must be much more than one of those billboards announcing how many shopping days left until Christmas.

Advent may have four weeks. But really it is beyond time. It is equally about what is, what has been, and what will be.

Moreover, it is just as connected to Easter as it is to Christmas.

I’ll get back to that, but let me point out something from this morning’s Gospel: if Advent is just a beautiful liturgical season preparing us for the joys of Christmas, why are we listening to Jesus tell his disciples about the end of the world?

Unless you’re a diehard pessimist, this Gospel doesn't help us get into the Christmas spirit.

But don’t worry: the next Advent Sundays offer us the more familiar prophecies and words of comfort. On this first Sunday, though, the Church is asking us to begin the journey in a circle, not a straight line.

Let me remind you of what I said at the blessing of the Easter candle just over seven months ago:

“Christ yesterday and today; the beginning and the end; the Alpha and the Omega; All time belongs to him and all the ages. To him be glory and power through every age and for ever.”

Do those words no longer echo? Has time narrowed to a four-week preparation for the Birth of Christ?

No, dear friends, Advent is not a straight line. It’s a circle. 

To quote a wonderfully wise Irish priest, Oliver Treanor,* the circle “draws to its inner self all mankind, all history, the very cosmos itself.”

Try doing that with a straight line!

“Because of  this,” Father Treanor says, “Advent is not only the celebration of God’s coming to us, but also of our coming to him.”

Our Gospel this Sunday does not talk about celebrating, but it has much to teach us about Advent. Even as Jesus looks to the end of time, he looks to the present moment and warns us to live good lives right now so we can greet his coming without shame or fear.

St. Paul does much the same in our second reading by encouraging us to live lives pleasing to God, as we’ve been taught.

The Church is wise to give us these readings, because they remind us that Advent, second only to Lent, is a penitential season.

Father Treanor again uses the circle to make this point: Advent “is a time to mend the broken circles of our lives by returning, as a circle does, to our point of origin.”

And what is that “point of origin” but our oneness with God, made possible not only in the stable but on the cross and at the Resurrection?

There’s no surer way to mend the circle than going to Confession.

When it comes to Confession, I am a bit like a man who loves sushi and can’t figure out why everyone doesn’t. I love the sacrament of penance—I truly welcome going to confession, even though I wish I felt the need a little less often.

And I love hearing confessions. But I am hearing fewer and fewer, and don’t know why. Maybe people working from home have less opportunity to sin, but with the kids making noise during Zoom calls I would have thought it would be the other way around.

It don't think it's fear of the pandemic. We wear masks in the confessionals, and installed new higher-volume exhaust fans.

Maybe we’re all just tired.

Several parishioners have suggested that it might help if we tried making it easier for you to get to confession. So, during Advent one or both priests will head to the confessional directly after the 11 am Mass and see what happens.

Let’s think of that busy god Janus as we begin our Advent preparation: looking back not only at our sins but at the saving death and Resurrection of Christ, and looking forward not only to Christmas Day but to the Last Day when God fulfills all his promises.

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* Father Treanor's book is titled Seven Bells to Bethlehem, and it is an inspiring study of the marvelous O Antiphons from the Liturgy of the Hours, also used as the Gospel acclamation at weekday Masses leading up to Christmas. It is one of the finest liturgical/theological/devotional books I have ever owned, and copies are now available on Amazon. Highly recommended!  

Sharers in His Kingship (Christ the King.B.2021)

 

When I was young, a boy might read a Hardy Boys novel and decide to be a detective, and a girl might read the Nancy Drew series and get the same idea.

Although I did read the Hardy Boys—and the occasional Nancy Drew off my sister’s shelf if I was desperate—I never wanted to be a detective. My childhood career choice came from reading Mark Twain’s novel The Prince and the Pauper. I figured I would make a rather good English prince. (I didn’t think there was much future in becoming a pauper.)

Looking back, I didn’t make a good start on the virtue of humility!

St. Paul wanted to keep his converts humble. He asked the Corinthians “What do you have that you did not receive?”

That’s a good question for any of us to answer. Whatever we have—talents, titles, even faith itself, is a gift from God, not any accomplishment of ours.

But on this glorious parish feast day, the Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe, I would like to ask a very different question. What does Christ have that you did not receive? What does the King of the Universe possess that he did not share with us?

There’s an easy answer: Christ was God, and he certainly didn’t share that with us. But the answer is wrong. What does the priest say at every Mass, as he prepares the chalice? It’s said quietly, so you might not know this prayer: “By the mystery of this water and wine may we come to share in the divinity of Christ who humbled himself to share in our humanity.”

So that takes care of divinity. Jesus shares his divinity with us. If this were my main point today, I could name a dozen Fathers of the Church who have taught this truth.

But let’s go back to the question. What did Jesus have that he didn’t share with us? Radically, we know he shared his body and his blood. We know he shared his inheritance since St. Paul says we are “heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ.” The Apostle also tells us that if we share in his sufferings we may also share in his glory (Romans 8:17).

And there’s something else. Something we often talk about in the parish: Christ’s mission. We know that Jesus shared his mission and ministry with the Church and with all the baptized.

So what’s left for us to share?

Today’s feast points us to one more thing. Even as we acclaim Christ as our King and Redeemer, we rejoice that Jesus even shared his Kingship with us. We have a share in his sovereignty.

Let’s look at today’s Scriptures. The first reading and the Gospel are all about Christ, who “was given dominion and glory and kingship,” and who came into the world “to testify to the truth.” But the second reading says something about us: Christ has made us “a kingdom, priests serving his God and Father.”

We’re not just priests, however. We are royal priests, sharing in the kingship of Christ. St. Peter states that clearly in his First Letter. Here’s what he says: “You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation…” (2:9a).

And let’s be careful not to think we’re talking about priests like me and Fr. Lucio. At baptism, the priest or deacon says, “As Christ was anointed Priest, Prophet, and King, so may you live always as a member of his body, sharing everlasting life.” Every Christian shares in the priestly, prophetic, and kingly mission of Christ according to his or her state in life.

Many of us share the Lord’s rule in our relationships with others. Priests who are terrified of exercising any pastoral authority are failing to share in the Shepherd-King’s office shared with them in baptism and ordination. Parents who avoid using God-given authority to guide their families, “lovingly, patiently and sacrificially” are missing a key aspect of the call received in baptism and in marriage.

All of us are rulers, if not of others, then at least of ourselves. We’re given the power to rule over our impulses and passions, for one thing.

Perhaps most importantly, our share in the kingship of Christ leads directly to a deeper understanding of human dignity. The deepest roots of our dignity aren’t found in what we do, but in who we are. Whatever you think of hereditary monarchy, it’s not mainly about what the royals do; it’s about who they’re related to.

So too with us. Knowing we’re all members of Christ’s royal family helps us respect ourselves as we must, avoiding all that defiles our conscience and erodes our self-respect.

On top of that, a lively awareness of the share in his kingship that Christ has given us reminds us to respect the dignity of others. We honour Jesus, the ruler of the kings of the earth, whenever we honour one another, even in what Mother Teresa called “the distressing disguise of the poor."

Knowing that the Lord “made us to be a kingdom” should give us a confidence to do what we can to make the world better, despite the fact it has turned away from his sovereign rule. Christians are largely ignored in the public square these days, but that does not mean we do not belong there.

As one author put it recently, “The laity’s kingly office is exercised by their leadership in temporal affairs, acting as Christ would. Jesus, the king of heaven, gave his life to conquer sin and death, to bring resurrection and new life. By bringing Christ’s leadership and governance in our own spheres, we offer renewal and new life where it is most needed.”

The laity help to rule society according to God’s plan for creation in whatever sphere they have influence, including the stewardship of creation. As Pope Francis says in his encyclical Laudato Si’,  “our ‘dominion’ over the universe should be understood more properly in the sense of responsible stewardship” (94).

The Catechism of the Catholic Church sums up everything I’ve said today in two sentences: “Jesus Christ is the one whom the Father anointed with the Holy Spirit and established as priest, prophet, and king. The whole People of God participates in these three offices of Christ and bears the responsibilities for mission and service that flow from them.” (CCC 783)

The way my life has unfolded, I never did get offered a job as a prince, although I’ve never been a pauper, either. But today, together with each one of you, I celebrate something greater still: our royal share in the mission of the King of Kings, to whom “be glory and dominion, forever and ever.”

The Widow's MIGHT (32.B)

The Gospel we just heard is known throughout the English-speaking world as the story of the widow’s mite. That’s how the King James Bible translates the word Jesus used.

A mite was a medieval Dutch or Flemish coin worth very little. The coin the woman donated to the Temple was a lepton, a word meaning small or thin. It was so tiny there was trouble stamping the face of it.

Our translation just says that the woman put in two small copper coins, worth about half a modern cent each. That’s all we need to know. By almost any measure, her gift was insignificant.

This famous story can teach us important lessons about almsgiving, about generosity, and about Christian stewardship. But not today.

Today, I think, the message is about faith and trust.

 In the words of one commentary, this story is not about “big money and small coins.”  [Days of the Lord, vol. 5, p. 294]

We can’t miss that if we look at the Gospel alongside our first reading. Of course, the widow who helps Elijah is generous. But it can’t just be generosity and hospitality that leads her to risk her life to feed the prophet. And generosity can’t explain the second widow giving all she had to live on to the Temple treasury.

What’s more, the two widows aren’t the only ones in today’s readings showing great faith and trust. Look at Elijah: the backstory here is that the prophet is in deep trouble. He’s made an enemy of the evil queen Jezebel; he’s the one who prophesied the drought of which he’s now a victim. And Jezebel is busily slaughtering all the prophets she can lay her hands on.

So what does the Lord do? He sends Elijah to Zarephath, in a region governed by Jezebel’s father, who hates him as much as she does. And God tells him to seek help from a widow, surely the poorest person in town.

What does Elijah do? Exactly what the Lord tells him. So this story begins and ends in faith and trust in God.

The widow of Zarephath shows even more faith than the prophet does. “Elijah, of course, believed in the Lord,” who had spoken to him and given proof of divine power. “But this woman was a pagan.” [Days of the Lord, vol. 5, p. 290]

Yet she puts her faith in a stranger, and in the God of Israel.

Again, I don’t want to minimize the widow’s generosity. But what is that compared to her belief in the word of hope that Elijah speaks to her?

The same is true of the widow in the Gospel. She entrusts herself completely to the Lord’s care, doing something that makes no sense humanly speaking.

I wonder what I would do if a parishioner wanted to donate every last dollar they had to the parish. Actually, I don’t wonder. I would call a social worker and tear up the cheque.

But that’s back to human thinking, when the Gospel is really asking us to think like Christ, as St. Paul urges the Philippians (2:5).

How can we have the kind of faith and trust in God that these two poor widows showed? We’ve had an answer at Mass for the last five weeks, as we read from the Letter to the Hebrews every Sunday.

At the start of October, Hebrews reminded us that the suffering Lord calls us his brothers and sisters. A week later we heard the magnificent passage that states that the word of God—the very Scriptures we hear at Mass—is living and active. It has power to shape our hearts.

On October 17, we were called to boldness, “so that we may receive mercy and grace to help in time of need.” Those two widows did not place their trust in God without his help.

The readings for the next two weeks emphasized Christ’s self-offering, his priestly office in which we are called to share.

Today, the Letter to the Hebrews proclaims that Christ will come again, bringing salvation. This is the hope that God placed in the hearts of two poor widows who did not even know the Lord directly.

One was a pagan, the other a Jew, yet they had faith that “the present form of this world is passing away” (1 Cor. 7:31)

How much more are we Christians called to trust God in every circumstance, to be mindful that our earthly concerns—financial, medical, educational—are secondary to our relationship of trust with the Lord who today’s psalm tells us “keeps faith forever, who executes justice for the oppressed, who gives food to the hungry.”

I just got back last night from a retreat at Mount Angel Abbey, where the bulletin board announced the title of today’s homily in the monastery. It was "the widow’s might." M-I-G-H-T. That wasn't a spelling mistake, but a reminder of where those brave women found their strength: only in God.

As we approach our parish feast day, the Solemnity of Christ the King, we might well ask God for that same strength in our lives, the gift of greater faith in the Lord, who “will reign forever.”