It's Hard to be Humble (4.A)

Oh Lord it's hard to be humble
When you're perfect in every way.

It’s been twenty years since Mac Davis wrote those words, but it’s still the best opening line ever for a country and western song.

Not being a fan of country music, I never actually listened to the rest of the song. But since it came to mind while I was writing my homily, I checked out the lyrics.  Far from being an attack on humility, it’s really a warning about pride.

The singer has no girlfriend, because no-one can compete with his charm, and no friends, because he wants to stand out in the crowd. “I’m doing the best I can,” is his last line, and it’s clear his best isn’t very good at all.

I was pleased to discover the honesty of the song, because humility is one of the most misunderstood of all virtues. And false humility—seen best in Charles Dickens’s repulsive character Uriah Heep—is one of the most unattractive of vices.

So what is humility?

Our English word comes from the Latin humus, which means “ground” or “soil.” In classical Latin it was a negative word used to describe unimportant or insignificant things, or persons of lowly birth or weakness of character. In Roman culture, which worshipped power and nobility, the lowly were viewed with contempt. The humble were treated with contempt.

The Old Testament took a different view of humility. Those who were lowly in the eyes of the world were special to God, who hears the cry of the poor. Since they had nothing but God, he took special care of them. Psalm 25:9 says that the Lord “leads the humble in what is right” and teaches them his way. Psalm 131 is the beautiful prayer of a humble person, whose heart is not proud, allowing him to trust completely in God.

This morning’s first reading is a prophecy that calls Israel to humility and promises its reward. The humble are actually protected from God’s wrath by their virtue. Lowliness is a blessing, because it leads to depending on God alone. The humble utter no lies, because humility is rooted in the truth: in the truth about God, in the truth about each individual, in fact, “in the truth of reality” (The New Dictionary of Catholic Spirituality, 516).

Jesus, whose leads us into all truth through the Holy Spirit (cf. John 13), fully develops the Old Testament view. He calls each disciple to be as humble as a little child (Mk 10:15) and to learn from him, for he is meek and humble of heart (Mt 11:29). At the Last Supper, he teaches by example, washing the feet of his disciples like a humble servant or slave.

The Gospel today is the high point of Jesus’ teaching on humility. He promises the lowly the kingdom of heaven. He offers the meek the whole earth as an inheritance. When his words reached the ears of the Romans, they’d have been mighty confused.

It’s not only Latin-speakers who can be thrown by this famous Gospel text. Almost all of us resist some of the individual beatitudes. Most of us are quite happy with “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” We don’t choose to mourn, and we’re big on comfort.

Since we’re Canadians, known for our non-militaristic attitudes, we probably welcome the promises made to peacemakers; and who has a problem with being pure in heart?

But things gets tougher to swallow when Jesus talks about being meek or merciful. Here we come up against social and psychological values that resist these virtues—or which see them as vices. Certainly being meek is seen as a weakness, and mercy can degenerate into unhealthy enabling of others.

However, Jesus did not get up on the mountain and announce “I’m about to give what might become my most famous sermon. I’m going to teach eight beatitudes; each of you please choose six.”

To show that his words are meant to challenge and even distress us, Jesus saves the hardest of all eight teachings for last: blessed are the persecuted. Even if we’ve stayed with the sermon all the way through meekness and mercy and the hunger for justice, the Lord seems to go too far when he gets to persecution.

There are so many ways to look at this dilemma, but this morning I’m offering only one. Because I think the Sermon on the Mount not only teaches humility—it also demands humility if we’re to really hear it.

Hearing these words of Jesus requires a certain attitude. And that attitude says, more or less, that God knows what he’s talking about. That God actually knows some things I don’t.

G. K. Chesterton develops this idea in his book Orthodoxy. He writes that “Humility was largely meant as a restraint upon the arrogance and the infinity of the appetite of man. … if a man would make his world large, he must make himself small.”

I don’t say that you find it hard to accept that mercy and meekness and persecution are paths to the kingdom of heaven; I find it hard, so I simply assume you do too. But the reason I find it hard to accept these things is that, deep down, I make myself bigger than God.

What proof do I have that mercy and meekness and persecution aren’t blessings? None at all—only my human way of thinking, which by definition in this case is opposed to God’s way of thinking, clearly stated in the Gospel we’ve heard today.

And what’s the cause of that? A lack of humility, a lack of the humble attitude that puts God in charge and restrains the arrogance and infinity of my appetite to know more than he does.

My trusty spiritual dictionary says: “Humility is … grounded in a deep awareness of our limitations and shortcomings in the presence of the divine perfection, and of our sinfulness in the presence of the all-holy God…” (The New Dictionary of Catholic Spirituality, 516).

There’s the key to understanding and accepting the beatitudes: humility, which leads us to recognize that God’s perfect and I’m not. That only he, the Creator, sees the world exactly as it is, and me exactly as I am.

The same dictionary says that humility means grasping the truth about ourselves and about God. If today we accept what Jesus taught his disciples in the Sermon on the Mount, despite our human doubts and hesitations, we’re becoming more humble; because we’re slowly seeing things through the eyes of God rather than our own.

Because there’s only One who is perfect in every way, and it’s not Mac Davis.

Behold the Lamb of God! (2.A)

As most of you know, my mother has attended Mass at our parish since she moved to Vancouver in 2011, which is a great joy to me. But this blessing can have its down side.

On her first Sunday here, the greeter asked where she’d like to sit.

“The front row please,” she answered.

“Oh, you really don't want to do that,” the usher said. “The pastor is really boring.”

“Do you happen to know who I am?” Mom inquired.

“No," he said. “I’m the pastor's mother,” she replied indignantly.

“Do you know who I am?” the usher asked.

“No,” she said.

“Good!” he answered.

All right, it’s not a true story—at least not the part about my mother. And I hope the part about the pastor being boring isn’t true either.

But to tell the truth, making sure each homily catches the attention of most of the congregation comes at a certain cost. Keep it lively can sometimes mean keeping the homily simpler than it ought to be.

I found this out when I gave a longer-than-usual, more-serious-than-usual homily at a weekday Mass recently. Afterwards, a keen young parishioner said “I wish you’d preach like that all the time.”

So today I thought I’d try a more-serious-than-usual homily, though I will try to make sure it’s not a longer-than-usual one.

Because our Gospel today goes straight to the heart of why we’re here this morning. Not because the Church says we must go to Mass every Sunday. Not because we need this time of community with other parishioners. Not even to hear a good homily.

We are here, first and foremost, because the Lamb of God takes away the sins of the world.

“Lamb of God” is the title that St. John the Baptist uses to reveal Jesus to the world. In the verses just before the ones we’ve read this morning, the Baptist tells people who he is—he’s not the Messiah, he’s not the prophet Elijah, he’s not the Prophet.

And he tells the priests that there’s someone in their midst, someone they don’t recognize, who will answer all their questions.

Only one day later, in the text we’ve just heard, the moment to reveal Jesus has come. John could announce he is the Messiah. He could call him King, or the new Moses. Instead, he announces that Jesus is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.

The title’s not as obvious as Messiah or King or Lord. The Jews would need to wrestle with it—just as we do.

The first place to look if we want to understand the meaning of “lamb of God” is in the Old Testament. And the obvious place is the Book of Exodus, which tells the story of the unblemished Passover lamb, whose blood was put on the doors of the Israelites to protect and spare them.

This lamb—and its blood—are “the symbols of Israel’s redemption at the first Passover.” (CCC 608)

The Prophet Isaiah adds to our understanding of this title. The Suffering Servant of the Lord is “like a lamb that is led to the slaughter.” (Is. 53:7b) In the same passage, we read the prophecy that his life is “an offering for sin” and that he bears “the sin of many.”

The Prophet Jeremiah becomes a figure of Christ when he says of himself “I was like a gentle lamb led to the slaughter.” (Jer. 11:19).

The New Testament sums this up when St. Paul writes “Our paschal lamb, Christ, has been sacrificed.” (1 Cor. 5:7) St. Peter tells us that we have been redeemed “with the precious blood of Christ, like that of a lamb without defect or blemish.” (1 Pt. 1:19)

Small wonder that John the Baptist was inspired by the sight of Jesus to reveal him as the Lamb of God. No other words could have expressed so briefly the nature of Christ’s mission nor its fulfillment of all God’s promises through the ages.

The question this morning is whether those words still speak to us with power.

When we pray “Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world”—repeating the Baptist’s words not once but three times—is the reality of the new Passover in the back of our minds? Do these words put us in touch with the big picture at Mass—that we’ve been redeemed by the saving blood of Jesus, poured out on the Cross and poured over us in the Eucharist?

Father Xavier was visiting us this weekend, and offered the 9 a.m. Mass. He just headed out to the airport on his way to India for vacation. When I asked him what he planned to say in his homily, he said that the prayer “Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us” is the one prayer God always answers immediately.

I asked him to explain. He pointed out that less than ten seconds after we pray to the Lamb of God for mercy and for peace, the priest lifts up the Host and says “Behold the Lamb of God, behold him who takes away the sins of the world.”

In other words, here is the answer to your prayers—Jesus is here, to spare you, to save you, and to heal you.

Let’s make these words truly a moment of adoration, petition and grace—not a routine, but a statement of our faith in the power of Christ to save us through his Eucharistic sacrifice.

So Much is Happening on January 1!

 
I was ordained less than a year when a friend told me about a priest thundering from the pulpit about people not attending Mass.

“What’s so wrong about that?” I asked innocently.

“Only that every single person he was talking to was already at Mass,” he replied.

It’s a good point. Not much use ranting to the people who are in church about those who aren’t.

When I was a boy, the requirement to attend Mass every Sunday and holy day of obligation was front and center in Catholic life. Looking back, I realize how cleverly the Church reinforced holy days of obligation—the seven or eight weekdays when we had to go to Mass: if you went to a Catholic school, holy days were holidays! Going to Mass seemed a small price for a day without class.

That’s just a distant memory. Only two holy days of obligation are left: Christmas Day and January 1. If I were running things, you wouldn’t have the last remaining obligatory feasts only a week apart.

But, luckily for the Church, I’m not running things. Because today really does deserve its high place on the liturgical calendar. If you doubt it, just take a look at the three readings we’ve just heard.

The message of the first reading is pretty obvious. These beautiful words from the Book of Numbers invite us to seek the Lord’s blessing on the year ahead. New Year’s Day is the perfect time to pray for that, for ourselves, for our family and friends, and for our world. We should have this mind all through Mass today.

Notice also that Aaron’s prayer includes the blessing of peace. Since the time of Pope Paul VI, January 1 has been the World Day of Peace. Every year the Pope writes a message about peace; this year Pope Francis speaks about nonviolence, about “becoming nonviolent people” and “building nonviolent communities that care for our common home.”

That seems an impossible dream, since the Pope himself says that we are “engaged in a horrifying world war fought piecemeal.”

How can it be possible to embrace Christ’s teaching about nonviolence in such a situation? The Pope answers that very simply: “Nothing is impossible if we turn to God in prayer. Everyone can be an artisan of peace.”

And so, today, we pray for peace.

The second reading and the Gospel both focus our attention on Mary, the Mother of Jesus, the Mother of God. God’s Son was “born of a woman” that he might truly be Son of God and Son of Man. God’s Son was “born under the law,” sharing our condition fully so that he might redeem us fully.

And the Gospel adds another important element to this day. It records the circumcision of Jesus, who according to the law was circumcised eight days after his birth. On this octave day of Christmas, this ritual of the old law marks the beginning of its end; Mary and Joseph obey the Mosaic Law, unaware that Jesus will fulfill it and make the ritual unnecessary.

We notice too that Jesus is given his name at his circumcision. St. Luke doesn’t explain the meaning of the name, but St. Matthew does. His Gospel reports the words of the angel to St. Joseph: “you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”

So much on one day: the beginning and blessing of a new year; a day to pray for peace in our terrorized world; the truth of God made man so that we might become his adopted children; the role of Mary in this great mystery; the Holy Family’s humble submission to the old law; and finally the Holy Name of Jesus, revealing him as one who rescues and saves.

When January 1 falls on a Sunday, we tend to forget that it’s otherwise a holy day of obligation on the Church calendar in Canada. But when we look at all that’s happening, maybe we’ll make sure to be at Mass on Monday, January 1, 2018.

Talking at Rise Up About Attending Mass

You may have looked in vain for my Christmas homily.  I didn't use notes, so had nothing to post. All our celebrations went wonderfully, thanks to the very hard work of our choirs, sacristans, servers, florists, greeters, cleaners, snow shovellers, and countless others.

The week has been a busy one, thanks to the fact that CCO's annual Christmas conference was held in Vancouver this year. I spoke at a workshop this morning about the importance of attending Mass each Sunday; the post below is an excerpt from my talk.

I also attended a talk by the young Alberta Conservative MP Garnett Genuis and now I have a new hero, even though I have been a priest longer than he's been alive!  There's hope for the future with a man like that in Parliament.

Sunday Mass at St. Hugo the Awful parish is a dreadful affair.  The music is truly terrible, and the preaching is worse.  The church is unattractive, and the people aren’t friendly.

On the other hand Sunday Mass at St. Horace the Cheerful is a delight.  The music is well chosen and well performed.  The young pastor has nice curly hair, a wonderful toothy smile and a great preaching style.  The church is attractive and nicely decorated.

The experience of Sunday Mass at St. Hugo the Awful’s has been a great strain on Jeanette and John, a newly-married couple in the neighbourhood.  They don’t get anything out of Mass at all, anymore.  They’ve stopped going, in fact, except for Christmas and Easter and the occasional Sunday when there was simply nothing on television. 

It would seem that the solution is simple.  They must move to St. Horace the Cheerful parish, where once again Mass on Sunday would be everything it’s meant to be.

There’s only one problem.  The percentage of people in the catchment area of the dreadful parish who attend Sunday Mass each week is not an awful lot different than the percentage who attend the cheerful parish.  Young people seem to stop going to Mass in almost equal number in both communities.  The thesis that Mass is really awful and therefore people don’t go—has a hole or two in it.

So is the thesis that wonderful Masses bring crowds to church. With all humility, let me talk about my own parish.  I don’t have to brag about my own preaching, I can simply refer to the preaching of our assistant pastor, Fr. Paul Goo.  You can read his homilies on Facebook and see that they are engaging, interesting, and relevant.  Our music, I think, is second to none.

And yet, one by one I see young people either abandoning the Church, or, at the very least, no longer fulfilling their Sunday obligation with the regularity that Divine Law requires.

There are also a number of good families in the parish where a sports commitment will trump getting to Mass any time, and will certainly trump getting to Mass on time.

What’s going on here? To find the answer we have to look somewhere other than music and preaching and church decor.  Believe it or not, I even think it might even be found somewhere other than community.  I’ve read several fine books about parish communities that are just about as friendly and welcoming as the average family.  But although these parishes are undoubtedly stronger than those which don’t offer such a great experience, the fact is that I have yet to hear that the Kingdom has come in these parishes, or that their churches have sunk under the weight of the extra parishioners pouring in.  Just not happening.

So are you ready for my thesis?  I got the idea early one morning as I prepared to go to a funeral.  My thesis is that the most wonderful liturgy will not be sufficient to bring about faithful unflinching attendance at Sunday Mass—for the simplest of reasons.  No matter how wonderfully performed liturgy may be, it is essentially the same show week after week.

You may be a fanatic fan of Justin Bieber—heaven help you—but it’s only the craziest teenage girls who would be willing to see him every week for 50 years. 

If we go to Mass for the sensory or even intellectual inputs we will find ourselves quickly bored by the mere repetition.  After all there’s just so much you can do to make Mass different.  Most of the time it’s got to be more or less the same—certainly when you look at it over the course of many years.

My conclusion when I compared Mass with great stage plays, great concerts, and great speeches by orators is that our liturgy was never meant to be so externally attractive that people would go to Mass happily and eagerly each and every week without a much deeper underpinning of faith and commitment.

This is, I think, a very important point.  If we do not make a connection with Sunday Mass that is significantly more profound than the human attractiveness—or even the occasional good spiritual feeling—it will be much harder to persevere in the necessary—and I do mean necessary—commitment that a Christian must have to this sacred summit of Christian life.

Do you get what I’m saying?  I just want you to reflect about it.  Is there really anything other than eating that never grows tiring or tiresome over a lengthy period of repetition?  And even eating the same favourite food is a problem.

The problem created by repetition is why the Sunday service in many Protestant churches is so often changed up.  The secret of the enormous pastoral success of the American evangelist Amy Semple McPherson was that she managed to make every Sunday service quite different from the week before, even by driving up to the pulpit on a motorcycle.

Surely there is some divine wisdom in our liturgical tradition and relative uniformity.

We’ve all heard the breakup line “It’s not about you.  It’s about me.” If those who’ve stopped going to Mass because it’s boring want to say an authentic prayer, that’d be it.  Much of the time it’s not about the liturgy.  It’s not about the priest.  It’s about us—about our need for a deeper understanding of what really happens at Mass.

So there, at some length, you have my first point. Great liturgy and great preaching, or bad liturgy and bad preaching, are not what should decide our attitude to weekly attendance at Mass. We’ve got to look much deeper—at ourselves, and at the Sunday celebration itself.