We Share in Christ's Authority Over Evil (4.B)

When someone says to me “you’ve just got to watch” a certain religious documentary or a movie or a TV show, my heart sinks.

I know the recommendation is probably a good one. But I only watch TV one night a week, on my day off, and I want to relax with old sitcoms or new political thrillers or the latest episode of The Crown.

Last week, Father Richard Conlin became the umpteenth person to praise The Chosen, the new TV show about the life of Jesus. I brushed him off with the explanation I’ve just shared with you. It didn't slow him down: he just kept on praising the program to the skies.

So, I gave up. On my day off, I watched episode one. Halfway through I texted Father Richard to say that I was dazzled by The Chosen.  It wasn’t like anything I expected.

Jesus appears only toward the end of the first program, so it wasn’t that the King of Kings beat out The Crown. The supporting cast—Peter, and Andrew, and Mary Magdalene—were as real as any reality show.

But the star of episode one was Nicodemus, a chief Pharisee whom we meet three times in the Gospel of John, where he comes to visit Jesus at night, defends him before the Sanhedrin, and assists Joseph of Arimathea in embalming the Lord’s body after his crucifixion. By that time, we presume, he has become a disciple.

All that lies well in the future, though. As The Chosen begins, Nicodemus is teaching young rabbis and cracking jokes with the comic timing of Jim Gaffigan or Eddie Murphy. He’s obviously a very popular speaker.

He’s also a deeply spiritual man. But when he’s called to exorcise a woman possessed by demons—we later learn that she is Mary Magdalene, although scholars would have a problem with that—he finds he’s out of his depth. He’s quite shaken by the power of the demons and his inability to help.

His wife tells Nicodemus “You have authority.” But he isn’t so sure. This revered rabbi seems to be having a vocational crisis.

With these images fresh in my mind, I read this Sunday’s Gospel. What a different story! The unclean spirits are still at work, as horrible as those who oppressed the woman to whom Nicodemus went. But the story ends in a completely different way.

Let’s be clear: the encounter between the good Pharisee and the woman called Mary Magdalene on The Chosen is fictional. But it’s hard to imagine that today’s encounter between Jesus and the man with the unclean spirit—which is not fictional—didn’t reach the ears of Nicodemus and draw him to Jesus.

Because there’s nothing like knowing your limits to draw you to the Lord who has none.

This miracle isn’t high on the list for modern minds. Most of us are more impressed by Jesus changing water into wine at Cana, the first miracle he performs in the Gospel of John.

But think about it—this is the first miracle in the tightly-written Gospel of Mark. This evangelist thought an exorcism was an appropriate start for his account of the ministry of Jesus. You remember last Sunday—Jesus called the first disciples. Now, with them in tow, he works his first miracle by casting out an evil spirit.

Look at how Mark presents the drama in the synagogue. The worshippers immediately connect the healing of the man to something Jesus has—not just power, but authority.

This miracle is not about showing the new disciples and the Capernaum community the Lord’s power to heal and help. Jesus shows he has the authority to begin the mission announced in last week’s Gospel: to proclaim the good news of God.

Why does this matter? Why does it matter a lot? Because Jesus is using his authority for a purpose, described by the wonderful scholar Mary Healy as dismantling the powers of darkness and advancing his assault on the kingdom of Satan. (Mark, Catholic Commentary on Sacred Scripture, p. 45.)

Even at the time of Jesus, when the distinction between illness and demonic possession was blurry, there weren’t crowds of possessed people running around. This miracle healed a man, but its purpose was to show Jesus had come to heal the world.

There’s renewed interest in exorcisms these days; we priests have a study day on the subject this Wednesday. But on the list of important topics, it’s not high on the list.

Authority, on the other hand, matters now more than ever. It’s a subject we rarely discuss, mainly because we often focus on the authority of the Pope and bishops in the Church. But it’s not what we’re talking about today.

Nicodemus had plenty of that kind of authority. He was a powerful religious leader. Jesus had none. But Nicodemus lacked the authority that Jesus had, a unique power to command not only the demons, but to forgive sins; even the wind and waves obey him, as we learn a few chapters later in Mark’s Gospel.

This was the power and authority that caused the onlookers in the synagogue such amazement.

But if all we do today is join the crowd in admiring the Lord’s authority, we miss something that’s crucial for every disciple. That something is our call to share his authority, to exercise it in his name.

Whoa, I can almost hear you saying in your living rooms. Didn’t Jesus delegate his authority to the apostles and their successors, the bishops? So he did, and in a unique way. In Luke’s Gospel he tells the apostles “he who hears you, hears me” (Lk. 10:16).

However, Jesus also shared his authority with each one of us, the disciples called through baptism to share his mission.

In baptism we were all given a share in Christ’s threefold ministry as priest, prophet, and king. With that comes the authority needed to act in his name.

Have you ever thought about the authority you’ve been given? Certainly, parents should be aware of their authority over their children, but there’s much more.

In his prophetic new book, A Church in Crisis, Ralph Martin writes that “there is a sense in which every Christian, simply by virtue of being a Christian, has a responsibility to challenge false teaching and immorality, even when we are not directly responsible.”

It reminded me of something that happened in another diocese some forty years ago. A priest was leading a bible study in a parishioner’s apartment, but he was saying things that went right against Church teaching. The elderly lady hosting the meeting, stood up and said calmly “Father, the things you are saying are not true. I will have to ask you to leave now.”

That’s authority.

Ralph Martin’s book is itself an example of how authority is legitimately exercised by the lay faithful in the Church. He speaks with more authority than some bishops, not by virtue of an office, not by the grace of ordination, but because he is consciously and humbly sharing in the prophetic ministry of Jesus.

How can we tell? One way is that Dr. Martin roots everything he says not in opinion or human wisdom but in quotations from the Word of God, just as Jesus often underpinned the exercise of his authority with words from the Old Testament.

It’s understandable that we can think it’s the bishops, priests and deacons who carry on the prophetic mission of Jesus. After all, they're the ones officially charged with proclaiming his Word. 

But Ralph Martin points out that this proclamation isn’t only about sound teaching and good homilies. All of us, he says, have “a particular call to participate deeply in the prophetic mission of Jesus.”

I’ve heard it said that Catholic parents or educators share in the infallibility of the Pope when they teach authentic doctrine to their children or students. But we all share in the authority of Jesus when we exercise the priestly, prophetic, and kingly calling we received in baptism.

I can’t tell you the number of times people ask me if it was okay for them to correct a serious error by someone close to them; maybe they’re afraid I’ll think they’re stealing my job. But it’s more than okay sometimes—it’s a duty.

Turning back to evil spirits, we also share Christ’s authority over them. Although exorcism in the strict sense is restricted to priests, any Catholic can tell the Evil One to get lost using the authority received from God in baptism. We are called to exercise authority even over our own minds and bodies when they oppose the law of the spirit with the law of the flesh, as St. Paul writes.

I was appointed pastor here in 2007, and head of the diaconate program in 2010, and a vicar of the archbishop in 2020. Each time, the Archbishop gave me the authority needed to accomplish the ministry he entrusted to me.

Important enough. But much more important, when I was baptized in 1955, God gave me the authority I need to take part in the Lord’s mission to overthrow the powers of darkness and to help build his Kingdom on earth.

So were all of you.

Father Richard Conlin shares more of his enthusiasm for The Chosen here. And if you don't mind a bit of a spoiler, you can find interesting blog posts about Nicodemus here and here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday of the Word of God

 

Thomas Jefferson, the third President of the United States, was a man of contradictions. He was the drafter of the Declaration of Independence, which boldly proclaims that all men are created equal, with the right to Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

At the same time, he owned hundreds of slaves and fathered several children by one of them.

These are well-known facts. But lately there’s been a lot of interest in another contradictory part of Jefferson’s life: his Christianity.

Jefferson professed to be a Christian but if he was, he was a most remarkable one. He decided to edit the Bible to suit his own beliefs. He literally cut-and-pasted his own Gospel with a razor and glue.

Jefferson’s Bible cuts out all the miracles of Jesus, including his Resurrection, along with any texts that suggest he is God.

But Jefferson’s Jesus is a dead moral teacher. You can’t have a personal relationship with him.

Might some of us be a bit like Thomas Jefferson, cutting and pasting our Bibles to produce a result we can be comfortable with? Or at least not trying to meet the living Lord in its pages?

It’s a good question to ask ourselves today, since it’s the second Sunday of the Word of God, an annual event that Pope Francis instituted last year with Aperuit Illis, a powerful letter to the Church. 

As Catholics, we are truly blessed with sacraments that strengthen and nourish us, but we need to remind ourselves—and not just once a year—that the Word of God also feeds our souls and heals our wounds.

A growing awareness of the importance of Scripture in the life of the Church is one of the many blessings from what’s called the ecumenical movement, the efforts made by Catholics and other Christians to learn from one another in a climate of mutual respect in order to promote Church unity.

This movement began some ninety years ago and has born much fruit since. The restoration of unity among all Christians became “one of the principal concerns of the Second Vatican Council,” (Decree on Ecumenism, n.1) which praised the “love and reverence of Sacred Scripture” shown by our brothers and sisters in other Church communities (n. 21).

Today marks the beginning of the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity. Pope Francis points out that “the celebration of the Sunday of the Word of God has ecumenical value, since the Scriptures point out, for those who listen, the path to authentic and firm unity”(Aperuit Illis, n. 3).

As we pray for the unity of Christians, a prayer very close to the heart of Jesus himself, we might also pray in gratitude for the good example of those Protestants who take the Bible so seriously.

Taking the Bible seriously is not an option for any Christian, Protestant or Catholic. In his usual forceful way, Pope Francis says that without a closer relationship with Sacred Scripture “our hearts will remain cold and our eyes shut, struck as we are by so many forms of blindness” (Aperuit Illis, n. 8).

I don’t know about you, but I find those words scary. The Pope isn’t just encouraging us to read Scripture more often, as already Vatican II and his predecessors had done. He is telling us that we desperately need the Bible to see clearly in this darkened world, “struck as we are by so many forms of blindness.”

We are blind without the Bible.

Honestly, stop and listen to his words again: “we need to develop a closer relationship with sacred Scripture; otherwise, our hearts will remain cold and our eyes shut.”

Of course, this isn’t just a negative message, frightening though it is. It is good news, wonderful news: “Christ Jesus is knocking at our door in the words of sacred Scripture,” Pope Francis adds. “If we hear his voice and open the doors of our minds and hearts, then he will enter our lives and remain ever with us”(Aperuit Illis, n. 8).

Brothers and sisters, I was wrong about this pandemic. I lived through the panic of the SARS virus and other scares, so I was confident things would be back to normal in six months. If I’d had any idea how long the crisis would last, or how we would be stopped from gathering for Mass, I would have approached things very differently.

We have focused on making sure the sacraments are as available as we can make them—hearing confessions outside, livestreaming Mass, trying to make it possible for every parishioner to come to church every Sunday when that was allowed, and now distributing Holy Communion outside each week.

There’s sure nothing wrong with those efforts, and I am proud of them.

But if we knew we would be kept away from the Lord’s Table for so long, we might have shifted gears: because in his letter on the Sunday of the Word of God, Pope Francis reminds us of something crucial: Sacred Scripture and the sacraments are inseparable.

Maybe we should have challenged ourselves to make this the year of the Word of God and not just the Sunday of the Word of God. Maybe we should have looked more to the Bible for the nourishment of our souls when we were cut off from Holy Communion.

I don’t know about you, but if someone played one of those word games where you had to complete a phrase beginning with “Bible” I would have called out “Study.” Nothing wrong about studying the Bible, of course, but there’s so much more.

As the Pope says, we need a close relationship to God’s Word. Study is part of that, of course, but only a part. And speaking of relationship—people sometimes ask me, even with some frustration, how they can find the personal relationship with Jesus they hear so much about in our parish.

A big part of the answer, alongside prayer and sacraments, is Scripture. A closer relationship with Scripture means a closer relationship with Jesus.

St. Jerome said as much when he wrote that “ignorance of Scripture is ignorance of Christ.”

And the Letter to the Hebrews tells us that “the word of God is living and active.” Read in faith, the Bible is an encounter, a place of meeting with God himself.

The Gospels are, of course, a privileged place to meet Jesus, to come to know him, to accept his invitation to “come and see.” But they are not the only place where our relationship deepens. We meet the Lord throughout the Bible, in his plan for creation revealed in Genesis, in the prophecies of Isaiah and the other great prophets, and especially in the Psalms.

Pope Francis reminds us that in the Book of Nehemiah the Old Testament gives us one of the great stories of an entire community encountering God through his word. When the people of Israel returned to their homeland after their exile, they gathered for the public reading of Scripture. And all the people wept as they discovered their own experience in the sacred text.(Aperuit Illis, n. 4).

When we gather again after the exile the pandemic has imposed on us, I hope our parish community will also hear God’s word in a new and powerful way.

I admit to you that I don’t spend as much time with my Bible as I should. I remember very clearly one young man who told me his motto was “no Bible, no breakfast, no Bible, no bed.” If I lived by that I would be hungry and sleepy. But I’ve never forgotten what he said.

But let me conclude with a personal experience of the Word as living and active, working in my heart and strengthening my relationship to Scripture.

After Communion at Mass last Sunday, the choir sang Psalm 139, one of my favourites.  Of course, it was beautiful, like everything we hear from our blessed choir loft.

But it wasn’t the exquisite music that left me holding back tears. It was the encounter with the inspired words, the encounter with the living Word that opened my eyes and warmed my heart.

Is there a passage from the Bible that’s special to you like that? Not one that gives you moral guidance as much as it connects you to God?

If not, today might be a good day to go looking. The choir will sing Psalm 139 again at Communion time today. It might touch you as it touched me. Or maybe you can look up a passage in your Bible that was once important to you.

You might start to read one of the Gospels—Mark’s, the simplest, or John’s, the richest.

If you’d like me to suggest a few scriptures which might help you find the heart-warming relationship the Pope talks about on his letter, feel free to send me an email and I will reply with a few references.

And the weekly update on the website gives some ideas for both Bible study and lectio divina, prayer with Scripture.

We should all do something on this Sunday of the Word of God. But let’s be guided by these last words from Pope Francis:

“A day devoted to the Bible should not be seen as a yearly event but rather a year-long event, for we urgently need to grow in our knowledge and love of the Scriptures and of the risen Lord, who continues to speak his word and to break bread in the community of believers.”(Aperuit Illis, n. 8).

Oil and Water Do Mix! (Baptism of the Lord B)

 

Wine, milk, and bread all appear in today’s first reading. Sounds a bit like a shopping list.  Of course, water is there too, and in the responsorial psalm. That’s what you’d expect on the feast of the Baptism of the Lord.

But one thing is missing from this list of very basic ingredients. Oil. And that’s what I’d like to talk about today.

You might ask why. The answer comes in the Preface of today’s Mass, where we ask God that through the Holy Spirit “we might know that Christ your Servant has been anointed with the oil of gladness.”

We know all about the powerful symbolism of the water with which Jesus was baptized. But where does oil come into the story?

The “oil of gladness” comes from one of Isaiah’s great prophecies, the famous passage in chapter 61 that begins “The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me.” This is the text that Jesus read in the synagogue at Nazareth early in his ministry.

And in the tenth chapter of Acts, St. Peter speaks of “how God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power.”

Jesus was baptized with water—the Gospel makes that very clear. But he was anointed too, although there’s not a drop of actual oil in the story.

The symbol of oil deserves more attention than we usually give it. For one thing, oil is central to three sacraments—Confirmation, Holy Orders, and the anointing of the sick—and oils are used in a fourth, Baptism, where babies are anointed with the oil of catechumens before and with the oil of chrism after.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church tells us a lot about the richness and symbolism of oil.  In the Bible and in ancient times generally, oil is a sign of abundance and joy; it was used in bathing, much as bath oil is today, and to help loosen up the muscles of athletes and wrestlers.

Oil was a healing ointment, soothing to bruises and injuries—remember how the Good Samaritan pours oil and wine of the wounds of the injured man. And it was used in cosmetics, to make people shine with beauty and health, and strength. (See n. 1293)

Even today, the Catechism teaches, anointing with oil has all these meanings in the sacramental life.

“The pre-baptismal anointing with the oil of catechumens signifies cleansing and strengthening; the anointing of the sick expresses healing and comfort. The post-baptismal anointing with sacred chrism in Confirmation and ordination is the sign of consecration.

“By Confirmation Christians, that is, those who are anointed, share more completely in the mission of Jesus Christ and the fullness of the Holy Spirit with which he is filled” (n. 1294).

I thought it might be good, therefore, to take a break from talking about water on the feast of the Baptism of the Lord this year, and to think about oil instead.

What does it mean for us that Jesus was anointed with the oil of gladness at his Baptism, and that we have been anointed with oil at our baptism, and especially at Confirmation?

We find some good answers in the rites of baptism and confirmation.

When an adult convert is anointed with the oil of catechumens, the priest or deacon begins by recalling that Jesus was anointed by the Spirit and asks him to strengthen the person with his power.

In the baptism of children, the celebrant prays that God protect the child through life before using the same anointing prayer used with catechumens.

After baptism, oil takes on an even more special meaning.

In the Old Testament prophets were anointed. Priests were anointed. Kings were anointed. And so, the post baptismal prayer for infants says, “As Christ was anointed Priest, Prophet and King, so may you live always a member of his body, sharing everlasting life.”

In the confirmation of adults at the Easter Vigil, we pray that God will pour out the Holy Spirit to strengthen the newly baptized with his gifts and anoint them to be more like Christ.

Even with its rich Old Testament background, the anointing at Confirmation can only be fully understood in relation to the primary anointing of Jesus by the Holy Spirit.

The descent of the Holy Spirit on Jesus at his baptism was the sign that he was the Messiah, which means the anointed one. But “this fullness of the Spirit was not to remain uniquely the Messiah’s but was to be communicated to the whole messianic people” (CCC 1286).

We are that messianic people, sharing in Christ’s own anointing by the Holy Spirit.

With all this in mind, we might wonder why the holy oils don’t get more attention, even physically, in our parish. After all, we bless ourselves with holy water every time we come into church—or at least we used to!

Thanks to the encouragement of one of our dedicated sacristans, and the talents of a generous parishioner, I am delighted to tell you that the holy oils will now have a place of honour at Christ the Redeemer—to serve as a constant reminder of the sacramental graces that they symbolize.

When Rina Teo suggested the baptismal font in the Holy Family chapel should have an ambry—ambry is the fancy name for a repository for the holy oils—she started a ball rolling in the direction of Donal O’Callaghan.

Donal, an architect and a talented carpenter, took on the project from design to completion. Last week during a special ritual blessing we placed the three holy oils—the oil of the sick, the oil of catechumens, and the sacred chrism—in the three hand-crafted cabinets.

Let’s give thanks for the anointings we have received in baptism and confirmation, and may receive in future through the healing sacrament of the sick, as we watch the short blessing now.

May we all be more like Jesus, anointed with the oil of gladness by the Holy Spirit!

Holy Mother of God, Pray for Us

 

It is New Year’s Day, as you all know, and the World Day of Peace. Liturgically, it is the eighth day from the birth of Jesus and thus the day we mark his naming and the Jewish ritual of circumcision.

And just in case that isn’t enough for one tired congregation, today we celebrate Mary with her most ancient title, Mother of God.

That title tells us as much or more about the Son than it does about the mother. It affirms that “Mary is truly ‘Mother of God’ since she is the mother of the eternal Son of God made man, who is God himself” (CCC 509).

So where shall we begin? Let’s start with the New Year. All that really needs to be said about this New Year is that we sure hope it will be better than the old year!

Of course, we can do more than hope – we can pray. The First Reading contains an ancient blessing. We will echo it at the end of Mass, but all of us should be praying now that the Lord blesses us and our loved ones as 2021 begins its uncertain start.

As for the World Day of Peace, we can remember what Pope St. Paul VI said when he established this day in 1968. He asked that a world day of peace be observed “as a hope and a promise” at the beginning of every new year.

The octave day of Christmas is another focus today, reminding us of the Holy Name of Jesus. The name he was given by the angel is given by his parents during the Jewish ritual; it is the name that sums up all our hope as we celebrate his birth.

The angel told Joseph “you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” God gave him the name, St. Paul says, “that is above every name.” St. Peter, preaching in Jerusalem proclaimed that “there is no other name under heaven… by which we must be saved.”

 Today we recall what we heard the angels announce to the shepherds and to us at Christmas: “to you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is the Messiah, the Lord.”

So, there we have four important and beautiful things to keep in our hearts at Mass today: peace, the Incarnation, salvation, and the new year.

However, we can’t stop there. I’ve mentioned the importance of calling Mary the Mother of God, with the emphasis on “God”. But how can we fail to spend a moment or two placing the emphasis on “mother”?

Like many of you, I have been watching The Crown on Netflix. It has many inaccuracies, but one thing it gets right is the Queen’s family protocol. Although her daughter curtseys to her and her sons bow, they kiss her first.

I think that’s exactly the right order of things. The Queen is acknowledged first as a mother and then as a sovereign. Today, we must not forget the beautiful fact of Mary’s motherhood even as we remember that her Son was God.

The Catechism tells us that although Jesus is Mary's only son her spiritual motherhood extends to all those he came to save (CCC 501). As St. Paul says in his Letter to the Romans, God planned that his Son “might be the first-born within a large family” (Rm 8:29).

With a mother’s love, Mary continues to help us to be born again as Christians and to be formed as disciples of her Son.

This must be the first time I’ve managed to talk about all the main elements of the liturgy for January 1st. But I am assuming that those of you watching today, having been so limited in your New Year’s Eve festivities, are more patient and less tired than usual!

 I also hope that this year we are more aware than ever of our need for salvation, for God’s blessings, and for peace in our hearts and in the world.

May Mary, our mother, intercede for us as we ask her Son for all that we need for a holy and healthy life in 2021.

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!)