God did not make death (Sunday 13B)

Yesterday I celebrated the funeral of one young woman and the wedding of another. And now today the Church asks me to preach on death—on Canada Day, when there are a dozen happier things I'd rather talk about.

I was even tempted to skip over the first reading and the Gospel, and preach about the second reading. Since St. Paul is asking the community to be more generous to the collection, I wouldn't have minded focusing on that!

But I recalled the words from the Anglican funeral service: "In the midst of life we are in death." Besides, I found I couldn't take my eyes off the words "God did not make death, and he does not delight in the death of the living." I think most of us disagree with that sentence in one with in one way or another, at one time or another.

Haven't you heard people say things like "God must have wanted that child very much to take her so soon"? Don't we more or less blame God when someone we love dies?And even if you see the holes in that argument, haven't you wondered why prayers often don't work when someone is dying?

If that weren't difficult enough for us, Jesus seems to confuse matters by raising the dead—notably the daughter of Jairus in today's Gospel and his friend Lazarus in St. John's Gospel.

Speaking of Lazarus, I think we have to remember that story if we are to properly understand today's miracle. Do you remember what Jesus does before he brings Lazarus back to life?

He cries! Think about it—the Saviour weeps. Those tears of Jesus speak more than any words about his tender love, about the fact that God is not—as some would have it—a distant figure on Mount Olympus, unconcerned with human suffering and death. Let's not look first to theology in order to understand how God loves us: look at the tear-stained face of our Lord.

It always seemed unlikely to me that Jesus wept merely in sorrow over the death of Lazarus and the bereavement of Martha and Mary. After all, he knew he would soon restore the dead man to life. I think he wept for all of us whose lives must be marred by the reality of death, a consequence of original sin.
He wept for all those whose faith is not strong enough to find hope in the midst of death, who fear it to be the final end of existence.

In this Gospel, Jesus shows his compassion and his power by raising a little girl. But look what he does afterwards—he ordered them strictly that no-one should know about it.

Jesus knew what could happen if he became famous as the man who could end every sorrow and cure every ill. Faith would no longer be a relationship of love and obedience; it would be a simple act of self-interest. For who wouldn't want to find the way to solve life's greatest problem: just call Jesus, and our beloved dead will get up and walk.

But that's exactly the point: Jesus did solve life's greatest problem, but he did it by rising from the dead and winning eternal life for us. He conquered death, but he did not make it disappear from the earth.

The writer Tertullian, a Father of the Church, tied all this together back in the fourth century. Tertullian begins with the same fact we're wrestling with this morning: that the age of miracles is over, whether we think of the events of the Old Testament or the raising of the dead in the New. He tackles the question of why our prayers don't seem to work the way they did for Jairus, and for Martha and Mary.

Here's what he said: In ancient times, "prayer was able to rescue from fire and beasts and hunger—even before it received its perfection from Christ. How much greater then is the power of Christian prayer. No longer does prayer bring an angel of comfort to the heart of a fiery furnace, or close up the mouths of lions, or transport to the hungry food from the fields. But it gives the armour of patience to those who suffer, who feel pain, who are distressed.

"Prayer's only art is to call back the souls of the dead from the very journey into death, to give strength to the weak, to heal the sick, to free the innocent from their chains. Prayer cleanses from sin, drives away temptations, stamps out persecutions, comforts the fainthearted, gives new strength to the courageous, calms the waves, lifts up the fallen, sustains those who stand firm."

Seen in this light, Jesus is always at work among those who turn to him—and does something ultimately more powerful than raising a little girl from death. For after all, the daughter of Jairus, like Lazarus too, had one day to face death again. But those whom Jesus saves today are free forever. The tender love of God gives us life that never ends.

When we experience bereavement, it's natural to think God was asleep at the switch. Remember what Martha said when Lazarus died: "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died."
Jesus is here; and death has lost its stranglehold forever. God takes no delight in death, and is not the author of death.

Perhaps there are more cheerful things to think about this Canada Day, but there is nothing more important.

Faith and Sacrifice: Nativity of St. John the Baptist

I heard a lovely toast when I was in Ireland last week: "May the Lord keep you in His hand, and never close His fist too tight."

Those words capture the Irish ability to stay in God's hands, even when they must have felt His grip was far too tight.

During the International Eucharistic Congress I heard about Margaret Ball, the wife of the Lord Mayor of Dublin back in the 1500s. She was a faithful Catholic and she stayed one when it became a crime, attending and organizing Masses at every opportunity.

Later on, her son renounced the Catholic faith which allowed him to become mayor. He had his mother arrested and paraded through the streets of Dublin in a cart while the crowd hurled abuse at her. Margaret spent more than three years in the cold and damp dungeons of Dublin Castle, crippled by arthritis. She finally died from the dreadful living conditions there, at about 69 or 70.

At any moment, she could have set herself free by denying the Church. Not Christ: just His Church.

The story of Margaret Ball—now Blessed Margaret Ball—is shocking because not just one but two of her sons cooperated in her cruel captivity. But in Ireland it's not that remarkable a story; she was beatified beside Francis Taylor, a Mayor of Dublin who died fifty years later under the very same circumstances.

Countless others stood fast over centuries of torment and oppression. The strong faith of this great Catholic people could not be snuffed out by persecution or famine.

But today, what poverty and oppression could not do is being accomplished by affluence and indifference. Immediately I must add that the grave sins of priests and religious have played a major part in the recent undermining of the faith in Ireland, but it was well underway before those tragic scandals broke.

I don't pretend to understand all the factors at play in Irish society, but the end result is shocking: In the 1980s, more than 150 men would enter seminaries each year; now it's about ten per cent of that. In 1981, 82 per cent of Irish Catholics attended Mass every Sunday, now it is 35 per cent, and as little as 14 per cent in Dublin. (I got the figures from a recent article from Maclean's, which seemed to be a more balanced account than most.)

We can hardly miss the comparison to Quebec in the nineteen sixties, since today is the feast of St. John the Baptist, patron saint of that province.

And since we live in Canada's second most secular province, we can hardly avoid asking whether we are ready as a local Church to stand firm against the forces that eroded the practice of the faith in both Ireland and Quebec.

How can we strengthen our faith and fortitude as we hear the marching boots of social decay, secular intolerance, and outright attacks on Christianity? How will we be able to face what lies ahead as euthanasia continues its steady creep into our homes and hospitals, as marriage is undermined and as conscience is ignored by lawmakers and courts alike?

Happily, we find some powerful answers as we celebrate the nativity of St. John the Baptist today. Today's readings contain the keys to a strong and genuine faith that can withstand the assaults of modern society: because the birth of John the Baptist shows us that God has a plan.

As foretold by Isaiah, John's birth is not a historical detail; it has supernatural meaning and importance. God had a plan for John, whom He called before he was born, just as he had for His Son. And God has a plan for us.

In his first homily as Pope, Benedict XVI explained the plan in these beautiful words: "We are not some casual and meaningless product of evolution. Each of us is the result of a thought of God. Each of us is willed, each of us is loved, each of us is necessary."

He also reminded us that this plan is wonderful; it's great news: "There is nothing more beautiful than to be surprised by the Gospel, by the encounter with Christ. There is nothing more beautiful than to know Him and to speak to others of our friendship with Him."

We can see beauty of the encounter with Christ every time we come to church: we see it in the faces around us, in the support of the community, in the welcoming spirit; we hear it in the joyful songs we sing and the prayers we pray. Sometimes we are surprised by the Gospel itself, sometimes by our inner feelings of peace or hope.

But what about the other times—the times when God seems to be squeezing too hard?

All too often we think that hard times—dark times—are sort of a failure on God's part. But surely John the Baptist—and Margaret Ball, and Francis Taylor, and St. Thomas More (whose feast we celebrated on Friday) can't have felt that way.

Today we see John "strong in spirit," and we recall in the first reading and the Psalm the intimacy of his life in God. Yet like those others I've just mentioned, he ended his life in a dungeon, a victim of injustice and sin.
Unless we believe that God's plan has no weak spots, no blind spots, we'll have trouble hearing the message of salvation. None of us is likely to die in a dudgeon, but all of us can pray the words that St. Thomas More wrote to his daughter Margaret from the Tower of London:

I will not mistrust him, Meg, though I shall feel myself weakening and on the verge of being overcome with fear. I shall remember how St. Peter at a blast of wind began to sink, and I shall do as he did: call upon Christ and pray for him for help. And then I trust he shall place his holy hand on me and in the story seas hold me up from drowning. …

Nothing can come but what God will. And I am very sure that however bad it may seem, it shall indeed be the best.

It's tempting to admire faith like that as something quite beyond us, or to tell ourselves we'll never face that kind of challenge. Both those thoughts are, in my opinion, quite wrong. First, the faith of Thomas, and Margaret and Francis—and John the Baptist—is the only kind of faith worth having. For God didn't just call John in the womb: he called each of us.

Secondly, beware of taking it for granted that no one in church this morning will suffer greatly for their faith. Consider what Cardinal Francis George, the Archbishop of Chicago, said about the erosion of religious freedom: "I expect to die in bed, my successor will die in prison and his successor will die a martyr."

How do we develop in ourselves the convictions and courage that sustained the Irish martyrs, the English martyrs, and the many martyrs of recent decades? After all, we can't practice sitting in a damp dungeon to test our faith and fortitude.

Two answers occurred to me in Dublin. The first is that we must deepen our love for Christ in the Eucharist. In his video address at the close of the Eucharistic Congress, Pope Benedict said that it was by the power and grace of the Mass that Ireland's monks, martyrs and missionaries were able to live the faith heroically at home and spread the Good News of God's love and forgiveness well beyond their shores.

The deeper we go at Mass, the deeper we enter the mystery of our own creation and redemption by God who knows us and forms us. In that intimate relationship, we can face dungeon, fire and sword with the martyrs' courage.

Second only to that, is sacrifice. It's an odd truth that the easier the Christian life is, the harder the Christian life is. You don't need to look at Ireland: look at Poland or the Czech Republic, or any country where persecution has been replaced with prosperity and indifference.

Christians are like salmon: they're destined to swim against the current.

If you examine your heart—and I have examined mine—you may find that sacrifice is not a word that jumps out at you. If you think hard, belonging to the Catholic Church is slightly less difficult than serving on your condo's strata council; membership in the parish costs you less time—and money—than belonging to the board of directors of the Capilano Golf Club.

But none of that's your fault. We don't go running for persecution or abuse. But we can look for ways to grow stronger through sacrifice. If no-one's putting the heat on you, maybe you need to turn the heat up on yourself.

The first thing I'd suggest is taking a look at your Catholic identity. Although the Church law about meat on Friday has become flexible, and allows us to substitute other forms of penance, wouldn't it be better to simply quit eating meat on Friday? It's a lot easier to remember than the substitute penance, which many of us forget anyway, but more importantly it will cause some awkwardness when you're out for dinner—awkwardness that toughens us up for greater challenges.

The same goes for praying in public, or when we have guests over. I love my father's story of the car dealer in Ontario who had the president of General Motors for dinner. When dinner was over, the dealer led the family rosary at the table, for that was what they always did.

A second thing to look at is the sacrifice of time, talent and treasure. We talk so positively about the benefits of stewardship that it almost sounds like fun—and it can be. But we must never lose sight of the sacrifice that life in a parish demands of the serious Catholic.

When we're asked to help out in the parish, we need to be prudent and to keep our other duties in mind. But we also need to be ready to sacrifice—I'll even say suffer—by giving up time we really wanted for ourselves. We joke that going to meetings is a modern form of penance, but there's some truth in it. We sacrifice—we offer to God—something we'd rather keep for ourselves.

Financial sacrifice is another thing. Again, we often talk about money in practical terms, but there's a spiritual side that's even more important. It's true, the parish would have all the money it needs if everyone at Mass gave just an hour's wage each week. But even if that happened—and there's no sign of it—it wouldn't be what we call sacrificial giving.

Sacrificial giving is offering to God some money that you'd rather keep for yourself. Almsgiving is a scriptural way of showing faith in God: we know that from the story of the widow who gave her small coin, all she had, to the temple.

Yesterday the parish council talked about Project Advance, which is down about fifty per cent from last year. Last month the finance council looked at our financial statements for 2011, which show a slight deficit for the first time.

We can fix those problems by talking about minor changes in people's habits of giving, by spending cuts, or by better promotion of Project Advance. But another way, and a better way, would be to grow in the spirit of sacrifice. That spirit, I hasten to add, is already obvious and admirable in the generosity of many parishioners. But all of us are invited to sacrificial living and giving—to enrich us now, in times of future trouble, and in the life to come.

I am overjoyed to be home, and I want to end this long homily by making that Irish toast my prayer for all of you: "May the Lord keep you in His hand, and never close His fist too tight."

But don't think that means God is tight-fisted! He is infinitely generous with us, even when he sometimes seems to ask a lot.

The Eucharistic Congress in Dublin

Together with a good-sized group from Vancouver, including Archbishop Miller (who speaks to the main assembly later today) I am in Dublin for the 50th International Eucharistic Congress.

I can't seem to find the time to blog "properly" by offering regular posts or photos, but last night it struck me that Salt+Light, the Canadian Catholic TV network, is doing a far better job than I could--it offers both blog updates about the daily happenings (click here) and great television coverage of all the major events (click here).

And speaking of Salt+Light--you can even see me interviewed in Toronto by Father Tom Rosica on "Witness" if you click here.

Funeral for Ray Torresan

"I'm at peace with my Maker and everyone else."

Isn't that just like an advertising man—to write the best line at his own funeral? Ray has stolen my thunder.

Of course it isn't really the very best line—because the words we've just heard from the Bible, chosen by the family, are richer still. They contain specific promises, consoling promises, the same ones that gave Ray the strength to live his life—and face his death—with such conviction and, ultimately, hope.

The first reading is as close as anyone of us will come to seeing heaven this side of the grave. St. John's vision of the Kingdom of the Lamb of God offers a spectacular glimpse of the life to come… and reminds us that there are no more tears in that Kingdom, where there is no place for pain and none for sorrow.

The second reading might appeal to those who are a bit more skeptical. St. John admits that we don't know exactly what life in heaven will be like. But what we do know is that we will be like God. For to see God is somehow to be taken up into His very being. For now, we rejoice that we are His children, and we wait with patience to know Him fully.

The Gospel connects all of this. The Scripture scholar Scott Hahn thinks that the Book of Revelation—where our first reading came from—holds the key to the Mass. Or, if you prefer, he suggests that the Mass is the key to the Book of Revelation. The heavenly wedding feast has already begun… right here, at the Lord's table. Right here, at this Mass, as I suggested earlier.

Ray received the Eucharist as living bread. He received the Eucharist with faith in its promise. He was at peace with his Maker and everyone else, for a number of reasons, but one of them was simply that he took Jesus at his word. Ray ate the flesh of the Son of Man, and drank his blood, believing it was the source and hope of eternal life, of resurrection on the last day.

He came to Mass in good times and in bad, arriving here on more than one occasion in a wheelchair. His unity with Jane—which I need not remind you about, if you knew them as a couple—was strengthened, even cemented, as they received the Eucharist together.

Ray cannot have been perfect. He was, after all, in advertising and politics. (I can say that since I was once a lobbyist, and we rank behind politicians!) He was an Italian boy from the East side, and I don't think you were even allowed to be perfect on the East side.

He was, on the other hand, good. Good in so many ways, some of which you've already heard about, others of which you know from your own experience. He was a faithful servant of his Church and his community, sharing his time and talent and treasure generously over many years.

But in his illness he was more than good. The word that sprang to my mind was "noble." In fact, I confess that I more than once found myself thinking of a line from Shakespeare: "this was the noblest Roman of them all." I knew it wasn't coming from the Holy Spirit, who surely knows Italian geography, but I think it was prompted by the enormous dignity and—to use an often-misunderstood word—piety that Ray showed in times of trial.

Ray had great times, joyful times, and tough times. Jane and his family were behind him and beside him, and now have the sadness of life without him. But with him we sing "Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb." 

And for him we claim the promise "Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day."

Pentecost: 'Stewardship Sunday'

I’ve just finished our annual priests’ retreat. This year’s retreat master was Father Tom Rosica; as many of you know, he runs our homegrown Catholic television network, Salt+Light. He’s also an expert on the New Testament, so he gave us lots to think about.

As I prepared today’s homily, what first came to mind wasn’t what Father Tom said about the Bible, but something he said about TV. He mentioned that you can’t have too many wide-angle shots when you’re making a program or film: it gets boring. To tell the story you need not only the wide-angle lens, but also an intermediate and a zoom lens.

We can use these three “lenses” to look at Pentecost today. We need to look at the big picture—the panoramic view of the Church, born of the Spirit. We also look at the narrower view—the gifts God gave to the Church so it could do his work. And then we can zoom right in—on ourselves, gathered in this parish church on Pentecost, our Stewardship Sunday.

The Acts of the Apostles is the perfect place to start, not at the beginning of today’s first reading but with a wide angle view of that first Pentecost. Halfway through these eleven verses of Acts the story moves from the Upper Room to a public square in Jerusalem. We might even say it moves from the Church—the apostles and disciples, gathered with Mary as the Holy Spirit descends on them—to the world.

It’s easy to see how the story shifts from the Church to the world: St. Luke, the author of Acts, lists the languages that the crowd is speaking.  He tells us where they come from: this is no local crowd, but a multitude that represents the whole world. It’s the widest of wide-angle shots. The Spirit has not come in order to stay put; God is speaking his Word to everyone.

How does he speak to everyone? Through the Church he has created by his will and power. We see this “big picture” when every member of the multinational crowd hears the mighty works of God proclaimed in his or her own language. That public square offers a panorama of Pentecost and the Church.

We use the intermediate lens as we focus on today’s Gospel reading. Jesus sends the disciples out now that they have received the gift of the Spirit. They are sent by Jesus, just as he was sent by the Father.

And he gives them what they need for this mission. Jesus gives the apostles the power to forgive sins—authority to act in his name—while the first half of our reading from Acts show how Christ kept his promise to send the Spirit to those he loved and called. We see the Church born by God’s own breath, a mighty wind that breathes life into the Church much like the Spirit of God blew over the face of the waters at the creation of the world.

There’s the big picture: a Church as big as the world, called to make disciples of all nations. There’s the intermediate scene: a Church given the same mission as Jesus, a mission of mercy, and the tools to accomplish it.

But let’s move the camera in closer, zooming back to the Upper Room. There we see something remarkable: tongues of flame over the heads of each one present. Not a ball of fire in the middle of the room, but individual flames above them all.

That’s the close-up shot of Pentecost. It’s not only about the birth of the Church and the power granted to her shepherds; it’s about each and every individual Christian, called to mission by baptism and confirmation.

Let’s zoom in on each one here this morning. You’re “in the frame” of any film about Pentecost; and you’re not an extra but a key actor, no matter who you are. As Pope John Paul said in Toronto in 2002, “even a tiny flame lifts the heavy lid of night.”

Fortunately, each of us is part of a much bigger picture. On our retreat, Father Rosica pointed out that the Church is how God chooses to keep promises and dispense blessings. We’re a part of the Church, agents of that agency through which God keeps his promises—to us and to others.

But the fact is that we each have a role to play. There’s an invisible tongue of fire resting on everyone in church this morning; each of us has gifts, and each of us is called.

Pope Benedict put it wonderfully during the vigil at World Youth Day in Sydney: “Let us invoke the Holy Spirit: He is the artisan of God’s works. Let His gifts shape you! Just as the Church travels the same journey with all humanity, so too you are called to exercise the Spirit’s gifts amidst the ups and downs of your daily life. Let your faith mature through your studies, work, sport, music and art. Let it be sustained by the Sacraments… In accepting the power of the Holy Spirit you too can transform your families, communities and nations. Set free the gifts!”

“Set free the gifts!” These words help us to zoom in on ourselves at this precise moment. Because after Mass today each and every one here has a chance to put their gifts to work in the service of the Church.

Our Stewardship Fair, which takes place immediately after each Mass today, is a panorama of the opportunities for service and stewardship in our parish. It has been organized with enormous care so that it will challenge and inspire you.

There are some who may want to skip the walk through the gym. ‘I’m busy enough, I’m doing enough, I can’t manage more.’ Maybe so: but take the walk anyway just to lift your spirits—because the wind of Pentecost, the breath of God, is blowing in our parish, and men and women from many nations are hearing what God has to say.

But that powerful wind isn’t blowing at random. It’s blowing directly on you, at you. St. Paul couldn’t make it any clearer: “there are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit; and there are varieties of services, but the same Lord; and there are varieties of activities, but it is the same God who activates all of them in everyone. To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good.”

The golf course up the hill offers a social membership: you can join the club, but not play golf. But there are no social members of the Church. We’re all called, and we’re all chosen.

Take the time today to thank God for giving you his Spirit in baptism and confirmation. And as you walk through the gym (or as you simply think about your talents and opportunities, if you’re reading this on the blog) ask God to show you how he’d like you to serve him with the particular gifts of the Spirit he has activated in your life.

Set free your gifts!

Christian Joy: Easter 6B (Mother’s Day)

I avoid telling old jokes. Recycled humour can be tiresome.

Still, sometimes it's tempting to recycle a classic just because it fits so well. And today I couldn't resist.

The newly –ordained Father Mulcahy was giving his first homily on Mother's Day, and he was very anxious about it. The wise old pastor offered him some advice: mix some humour and some suspense, be sure to mention your mother, and you'll have a great sermon.

"How do I do that?" the young priest asked.

"I'll tell you how," said the pastor. "Use this old story and you'll have a guaranteed hit. Begin '"I spent the best years of my life in the arms of another man's wife!"  And when the congregation gasps, you add "She was my mother!"

Sunday morning, a very nervous Father Mulcahy began to preach. He started with, "I spent the best years of my life in the arms of another man's wife."

Right on cue, the congregation gasped. The priest paused dramatically. But just as he did, his mind went blank. So after a few stunned moments he looked up and said, "I just can't remember who she was!"

Even a vintage joke deserves a good laugh this Sunday—because Jesus is offering us joy. And not just any kind of joy—his own joy. He tells the disciples "I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete."

Let's zoom in on these words. St. John places them in the middle of a long farewell speech to the disciples, following the Last Supper. The end is near, and Jesus has a lot to say. He tells the disciples not to let their hearts be troubled, and to have faith in him. He tells them to keep his commandments, and promises them the Holy Spirit. And he presents himself as the true vine, to which the faithful disciple must be attached like a branch.

Those are the things Jesus has said so that his joy may be in us. Through faith, obedience and the gift of the Spirit, we can have joy: not ordinary joy, but something different—something better.

I tend to think of joy as a feeling. Something good happens to me, so I feel joyful. The problem is: something bad happens to me, and the joy is gone. That can't be what Jesus means. Joy that depends on circumstances, joy that vanishes when things go wrong, can't really be what Jesus means; it sure can't be called "complete."

What is Christian joy, then?

The answer is easy to find if we just jump ahead one chapter in John's Gospel, where Jesus again speaks of joy. He makes it easy to distinguish between what we ordinarily call joy and what he means by joy. His joy, Jesus says, is a joy no-one can take from you.

There's the first difference. If I'm walking down the street thinking joyful thoughts on a sunny day, and someone calls me on my cell phone to complain about last Sunday's homily, the joyful feelings vanish before the call is over. But Christian joy does not depend on other people, but on our unity with Christ—on abiding with him in friendship and intimacy.

Jesus also says that our pain and sorrow will turn into joy. That's completely different from human joy; it's a million miles away from pain and sorrow. But the passion, death and resurrection of Jesus are the perfect proof of a joy that comes not from smooth sailing but from the transformation and redemption of suffering.

Christian joy, most certainly, does not depend on good health or good fortune, but on faith that Christ has conquered everything that can truly harm or oppress us. Christians don't find their joy in passing circumstances but in trusting God in all things, at all times. As St. Paul says, "Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say 'rejoice'!"

I can almost hear you saying "easier said than done!" Fair enough. I'm the first to admit that living in joy isn't effortless. In fact, it's a project, even a lifetime project. Christian joy comes from a basic attitude by which we are fundamentally attuned to the self-giving of Christ. [See The New Dictionary of Catholic Spirituality, v. "joy."]

In other words, to have the joy of Jesus, we need the heart of Jesus. We need to think and act as he did.
But don't let that scare you off. The Gospel this morning teaches us two ways to do this, and so to acquire the joy he wants us to have

First, giving leads to receiving. Service brings joy. Are you miserable at the moment? Find a way to love.

Some years ago, my friend Father Benedict Groeschel wrote a book called Arise From Darkness: What to Do When Life Doesn't Make Sense. His final chapter is titled "The Remedy that Always Works." Here's what it says to people who are living in pain and sorrow:

…we find it all too appealing to step back into the cave of self-pity and lick our wounds… but it is absolutely unhelpful and flies in the face of both the example and the words of Christ. …The first step in time of distress is to go back to your duties – to care for those who depend on you… The next step is to respond to the special needs of those who are desperate or in grief themselves [147-149].


Simply put: Service is a straight path to Christian joy.

And joy, of course, shapes our service: a "principal aim of the Christian life is to serve God and neighbour joyfully" and "every activity and relationship in service of God and neighbour shares in a joyful quality." [The New Dictionary of Catholic Spirituality, 578]

The second way we have the joy of Jesus is to know the love of the Father as he did. We abide in God's love through prayer and faithful discipleship. In the Christian life, God himself "is the supreme joy and the greatest delight" [ibid.] 

In a word, love brings joy—love of God, and love of neighbour.

Love in Action (Easter 5B)

 We launched Project Advance, our annual archdiocesan (and parish) fundraising campaign on Sunday, so my homily was very brief--we showed this video before Mass, which cut into the time for a homily! Since it is a such a short reflection (Saturday's First Holy Communion homily is below), I thought I might belatedly post the homily from a couple of weeks back.  Technical glitches kept me from doing so then. So the homily for the Third Sunday of Easter is out of sequence.

Sometimes being a Christian seems like hard work. Do this, don’t do that. And whatever you do, make sure to use your envelopes! 

Today’s readings give us a very different picture. Certainly there was hard work involved, but the early Church grew “in the comfort of the Holy Spirit.” Don’t you just love that phrase?

And the Gospel offers an equally consoling word. Abide in me, Jesus says. Stay with me and I’ll stay with you.  At our First Communion celebration yesterday, I used the words that the future Pope Benedict prayed at his own First Communion: “I always want to stay with you,” he told the Lord, “but most of all, you stay with me.”

Jesus answers that prayer for all of us in today’s Gospel.  He says, “Of course. Stay with me and I’ll stay with you. Always.”

But what does it mean to stay with Jesus? St. John puts it simply: “Love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.”

As disciples of Jesus, we love Jesus and we follow his command to love others. The Church is not what’s sometimes called a “talking shop.” It is a place of concrete commitments.

To deepen our love for Jesus, we spend time with him in prayer each day. We read the Scriptures; we celebrate the sacraments and so on.

Our prayer life, and our personal relationship with the Lord, moves us to act. We boldly tell others about Jesus, as St. Paul did and as many of you are doing by inviting friends and family to the Alpha course. We love one another, as St. John says in the second reading, and this unites with others and with God.

God’s word today calls us to live our Christian lives in truth and action.

Certainly your support for Project Advance is important and valuable: it is love in action, here in the parish and throughout the whole Archdiocese

But all the good we do must be rooted in the true vine of which we are the branches. We have to get to know Jesus to stay connected to him and to really make a difference. To bear good and lasting fruit, we must be people of prayer – offering God the first fruits of our time.