Focus on the Family: A Homily to the Regional Gathering of Couples for Christ

Last week, I had the privilege of celebrating the Eucharist at the North American Western conference of Couples for Christ--perhaps the largest group to whom I have ever preached!  The homily follows...

There was a time, not so long ago, when culture was a primary means for handing on the Catholic faith.

Unlike many of those attending this gathering of Couples for Christ, I was not born into a predominantly Catholic culture, but Canada was a Christian nation, for the most part its laws and customs were derived from the Judeo-Christian tradition. At the same time, there was a strong Catholic subculture in society, strengthened in part by the Catholic culture of the province of Québec.

I am not telling you anything you don't know when I say that the transmission of faith by culture is virtually extinct in this country. Even within Catholic homes and schools, the drumbeat of social consensus, expressed through the news and entertainment media, dominates the hearts and minds of the young.

I will not go so far as to say that the culture of death has triumphed in this nation, but it is certain that nothing resembling a Christian culture helps us transmit the faith today in Canada.

How then are we to pass on the faith, unaided by culture? How do we adapt to a changing reality – we who have been accustomed to the support of social consensus, moral laws, and the presence in our neighborhoods of many lively non-Catholic Christian communities?

Where do we start in a post-Christian culture?

One answer, perhaps the most obvious answer, emerges clearly from our first reading: the family.

In the face of famine, Jacob is taking his family away from the Promised Land and moving to Egypt. Egypt is precisely the anti-culture of the Chosen People, as we will see when we finish reading Genesis and open the Book of Exodus. Jacob—or Israel as he is now called—has established his family in a foreign culture, with values far from those of the God of his people.

How does Jacob respond to God’s invitation to go down to Egypt? Through the family—“the sons of Israel carried their father Jacob, their little ones, and their wives, in the wagons Pharaoh had sent to carry him.”

They entered Egypt, “Jacob and all his offspring with him, his sons, and his sons’ sons with him, his daughters, and his sons’ daughters; all his offspring he brought with him into Egypt.”

That small community kept Israel’s faith alive without help from the society in which it was placed until—as we read in the Book of Exodus—the society turned against it.

How does the plan of God continue to unfold? Not through culture—through the family.

Today’s Gospel reminds us, though, that the family, like culture, is not immune from the effects of sin. Sin has its effects in society, and sin has its effects in the family. God offers no guarantees, and the family can be a place of conflict and division—even a place where faith becomes a cause of division.

I don’t need to keep you from dinner by listing the signs of the decline of Western culture or the signs of weakness in the modern family. They are all too familiar, and they are not unrelated. But even our best efforts cannot transform society immediately; thus we must turn our attention squarely to our families and to the tasks of inoculating our children against the viruses of the culture of death.

When I was young, the basics of Christian morality could be assumed. Now the young must be convinced of virtually every point of even the natural law.

Faithful attendance at Sunday Mass, sending the kids to Catholic schools and the parish youth group were enough to produce, in most families, children who believed and practiced their faith. Today this is a formula for failure.

Now, we must defend our families like shepherds facing down wolves, like convicts in the dock speaking the truth to the powers and principalities.

Now we must, in a word, do more of exactly what you are doing in Couples for Christ.  You do not, in this movement, live a “business as usual” Catholicism. You have risen up in defense of the family, taking seriously the challenges of renewing and restoring the family according to the plan of Christ.

Couples for Christ responds courageously to Blessed John Paul’s call, made in his stirring exhortation on the family in the modern world, to live fully according by the Gospel and the faith of the Church, to form consciences according to Christian values and not according to the standards of public opinion and to make your families a true source of light and a leaven for other families (Familaris Consortio72).

The trip to Egypt was easier for Jacob than the Exodus was for Moses. But both journeys were in response to God’s direction and plan. Let us never give up our efforts to restore and renew society; but let us begin at home—with parents, sons and daughters, and the daughters and sons of our sons and daughters.

Let us not be afraid of this modern Egypt in which we live, because God himself has brought us here, and he will yet bring us where he wants us to go.

Who is MY neighbour? (15.C)

A man was going down Granville Street, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead.

After two pious passers-by crossed the street and passed by the man, a tourist came along. When he saw him, he was moved with pity. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him in his car, brought him to a hotel, and took care of him.

The next day, the tourist gave the front desk his credit card and said “take care of him.”

Which of these three, do you think, was a true friend to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?

The answer is obvious—the two wretches who passed him by. At least they didn’t carry him off before the ambulance arrived.

My tongue in cheek version of the Parable of the Good Samaritan reminds us that we need to do some thinking before a 2,000 year old story can teach us how to act. Taken literally, the parable will just confuse us. In Canada the proper thing to do for a victim of crime is to call 911, not to carry him off to the hospital on the back of your donkey, or even in the backseat of your car.

Yet we know that Christ’s message is timeless, just like the command to love our neighbour. Modern social conditions haven’t changed the teaching, just how it is to be applied.

So what is the Lord saying to us today? Who is my neighbour, if not the man attacked and beaten?

Let me tell you a story. For a couple of months I’ve been hearing about something going on Sunday mornings at a nursing home in our parish. Last week I decided to see for myself.

What I saw was a teenager standing in front of a room full of elderly men and women. I knew the young man to be generous and gifted. But he’s a fairly quiet fellow, so I was quite unprepared for what else I saw: an entertainer who charmed his audience like a younger version of Michael Buble. Singing solo, accompanied by his mother on the piano, he had his elderly listeners tapping their toes and singing along to a lively mixture of show tunes and vintage love songs.

Shall I tell you who this young man was? Well, his first name was “Good,” and his last name was “Samaritan.”

In a simple but precise way, he and his mother had answered the question “Who is my neighbour?” They had helped to bandage the wounds of loneliness and the bruises of old age. With an engaging smile, the young performer showed mercy to men and women whom life has stripped of much they once possessed.

There are, of course, countless other Good Samaritans in our parish, including the dedicated members of the St. Vincent de Paul Society; they serve the poor of the inner city in a way that’s not all that different from the Samaritan’s kindness on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. They, too, have found their neighbours and shown them love and care.

But there’s a reason I highlighted the youthful crooner instead of our generous Vincentians, or the members of the Refugee Committee. The parishioners working on the Downtown East Side or caring for the Shaboo family no longer need to ask who their neighbour is. The rest of us, however, still have to come up with our own answer.

And the answer may not be obvious.

Who is my neighbour? To whom must I offer the compassion and mercy that the Samaritan showed to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?

Finding an answer to the question isn’t as tough as it sounds. Consider what Moses says in our first reading: “The word is very near to you; it is in your mouth and in your heart for you to observe.” If the Spirit of God lives in our hearts, and if we allow God’s word to dwell in us in all its richness, the concrete way i which we're called to live the law of love will become clear.

Put another way: if you are serious about loving God, God will soon enough show you whom and how to love. At least he will if you ask.

Often the beaten-up person we’re called to help is someone in our own family. Caring for sick and dying family members resembles closely the selfless ministry of the Good Samaritan.

I’m also struck by that word “mercy” in the Gospel text. It sometimes happens that what a family member or friend needs most is the healing oil of forgiveness.

Sometimes my neighbour will be… my neighbour, literally: an elderly person living alone next door and struggling to cope.

At the same time, we need to notice that the act of charity in the parable does not flow from any sort of relationship. In his encyclical on charity, Deus Caritas Est, Benedict XVI reminds us that at the time of Christ neighbours were countrymen and foreigners who had settled down in Israel: in other words, the local community. A Samaritan wasn’t part of that community, and he doesn’t know the man he helps. The parable certainly doesn’t exclude our actual neighbours, those with whom we share our lives, but it makes the world one big neighbourhood—something our parish understood when it became a neighbour to Iraqi refugees stranded in Syria.

I hear from time to time a bit of grumbling about the many charitable appeals the parish makes at Mass. Yet your generous response to these many needs is both an answer to the question “who is my neighbour,” and a sign that the love of God is strong in the hearts, souls and minds of the members of this Eucharistic community.

In Deus Caritas Est, Pope Emeritus Benedict summed up beautifully the connection between the Mass and caring for others. Our worship, he wrote, “includes the reality both of being loved and of loving others in turn. A Eucharist which does not pass over into the concrete practice of love is intrinsically fragmented.”

You might think I stretched a point by comparing a sing-along at a care home to the Samaritan’s rescue along the roadside of a man beaten half to death. But there’s a detail about the sing-along I didn’t mention, and it completes the story: the young man and his mother, our modern good Samaritans, head over to their audience right after the 9 o’clock Mass.

You can say that’s convenient, but I say it’s no coincidence.

[The illustration above is from the cover of one of the volumes in "The Discipleship Series" by Christopher Ruff. These books offer an approach to Scripture study and faith formation that connects to service. With encouragement from the Archdiocese, our parish used the series in small groups a couple of years ago.]

Why Seventy? (14C.2013)

“The number of the day” was a regular feature on “Sesame Street,” the educational TV program for children. The host for the segment was the well-named Count von Count.

I was born too late for “Sesame Street,” which is just as well, since my fear of numbers helped me end up as a priest rather than a doctor or anything else that required more than a passing grade in math and science—and I am really very happy being a priest.

But today I’m going to take a “Sesame Street” approach to my homily. Our number of the day is seventy.

Seventy really jumps off the page when you read today’s Gospel. Why seventy?

For starters, the number seven “is significant in almost every culture,” though no-one really knows why. Someone suggested it’s because traditionally there were thought to be seven planets, but seven was significant among peoples who didn’t know that.

In the Bible, though, seven signifies “totality, fullness, completeness.” [John L. McKenzie, SJ, Dictionary of the Bible, “Seven,” p. 794.] There are far too many examples to mention, but we in the Old Testament we recall right away the seventh day on which God rested after creating the world and in the Gospels the number of times Jesus told us to forgive and the seven loaves he multiplied.

Let’s look, though, at seventy. The Book of Genesis states that there are seventy nations in the world and seventy in the family of Jacob. Most important, the Book of Numbers recounts how Moses appointed seventy elders to share his burden.

Luke, therefore, had good reason to tell us there were seventy disciples assigned to go ahead of Jesus and to heal the sick while proclaiming the Kingdom of God. The number tells us three important things.

First, it tells us that this mission is not for a chosen few. Just one chapter earlier, Luke records the sending-out of the Twelve. Jesus gives the Apostles the same mission he later gave the seventy others. It would be easy to say that there was something exclusive about the mission of the Twelve, not so easy when that same mission is almost immediately shared with a much larger group.

Second, it tells us that the mission is for everyone. It’s not enough to say that it isn’t exclusive; we can see it’s actually universal. The seventy disciples stand for all of us. To be a disciple of any sort is to be called to proclaim the Kingdom of God to others and to heal their wounds.

Third, the number seventy reminds us that our mission—given to us by Christ—is a sharing in the mission of the Apostles. While our call is individual, we respond within the Church, united with the successors of the Apostles to whom is given the task of coordinating and overseeing the works of the apostolate. Just as Moses was given the help of seventy elders, so are the bishops assisted—not replaced—by the dedicated collaboration of priests and the lay faithful.

So what do these conclusions mean in our parish?

To answer that question, I started to type the names of everyone in the parish who I knew was taking an especially active share in our mission. And when I was finished with my random list, I numbered it.

What do you think the number was? Sixty-five. Just five short of the magic number.

Are you on that list of those who are preparing the way for Jesus? If you’re not—there are five spaces left!

We need to pray for those who dedicate themselves specially to the work of this parish—catechists, teachers, ministry coordinators, Alpha organizers, RCIA team members, and many others. But equally we need to ask the Lord of the harvest for more labourers—more parishioners willing to share the peace and joy of Christ with others.

Obviously, there are many who live out their baptismal calling without active involvement in parish ministries. For instance, parents of young families often must build the Kingdom at home—it’s no small challenge to say “Peace to this house” when the house is filled with screaming children!

But in some sense, all of us are represented by that number seventy; all of us are part of the great company of disciples whom the Lord has called to share the mission he received from the Father.

It’s not always easy to respond wholeheartedly to the particular assignment Christ has given us. The wolves of social disapproval growl at us. Purses and briefcases heavy with possessions and duties weigh us down. And sometimes our efforts to share the Good News may cost us a friendship or a promotion.

To all this, Jesus simply says: “Know this: the Kingdom of God has come near.”

Too Big to Ignore (11.C)

The homily this week is rather brief and not quite blog-worthy! However, I happened to look back to my homily on this Sunday in 2011 and thought it might bear a second posting.

As Christians we can never take our eyes from the cross; if we do, we’re done for.

Feel-good Christianity—Christianity without the cross—is very tempting. You get a nice group of people to pray with, the calm and peace of liturgy, and the occasional good homily. It’s like a good club where dues are voluntary.

Feel-good Catholicism, the ancient Faith stripped of the duties or teachings that are most inconvenient or most in conflict with modern thinking, is equally tempting. But we’re blessed with a visual reminder that it’s not the real thing: the large crucifix hanging above the altar tells us better than any sermon that cafeteria Catholicism is not what Jesus died for.

In this parish, as in most churches, the cross is just too big to ignore.

That’s the message of our readings this morning/afternoon. The cross looms too large in our faith for us to ignore it. Zechariah wasn’t prophesying only about Jerusalem when he said they would “look on the one whom they have pierced.” Centuries after the death of Christ, every one of his disciples is called to look on him and to contemplate his wounds and reflect on his suffering.

One way we do this is by observing Friday as a special day. It’s not by accident that our two weekly prayer groups meet on Friday. And since the men’s group meets at 6 a.m., I like to remind them that it’s not only about prayer, it’s also about penance—at least for the younger members who find it hard to get up so early.

Friday penance has almost vanished since the Church relaxed the law about not eating meat on Fridays. Many good Catholics think that rule no longer exists. But it does, even in a gentler form.

What Church law requires is this: all Catholics fourteen years of age and over should abstain from meat every Friday, except for the major feast days we call solemnities. However, a Catholic may choose to substitute other forms of penance on Friday, such as giving up alcohol or dessert, or may do a special act of charity, like visiting the sick, or prayers like the Rosary.

The important thing is not what we do but why we do it. Friday penance makes us think about the One our sins have pierced. It keeps us from taking the saving death of Jesus for granted.

It’s true that Sunday Mass is centered on the Resurrection. But Jesus would not have risen if he had not first suffered and died for us. Easter Sunday would have no meaning without Good Friday.

The Gospel this morning/afternoon has two things to say about cross-less Christianity. The first comes when Jesus asks the disciples “Who do the crowds say I am?” The answers he gets remind us that the truth isn’t decided by opinion polls. The truth, easy or tough, has been revealed to the Church, not decided by the Church.

In fact, it seems that everyone’s got it wrong except Peter, speaking for the other disciples. There’s only one right answer to the question, not three. John the Baptist, Elijah and the other ancient prophets were fine figures, but Jesus is not one of them. The wrong answers might even be called flattering, but they’re still wrong.

Peter spoke the truth then, and his successor speaks the truth today. It can be an unpopular truth, which is when we must look to the cross and accept that Christian faith is not easy and sometimes is very difficult.

The second message is a tough one. We don’t just look at the cross, we carry the cross. Contemplating Christ crucified takes more than prayer, it also means imitating him. Jesus says that a disciple is not greater than his master; he’s telling us that we’ll also have our cross to carry.

What will that cross be? Jesus gives us a hint when he calls his followers to pick up their cross daily. Our cross, it seems, won’t usually be dramatic like his. Our cross isn’t likely to be one great moment of pain but an everyday thing.

The cross we pick up is simply the tough side of life: the things no-one can avoid, but which the Christian can embrace. Things that are part and parcel of a sinful world, but which are the raw material of holiness.

Certainly a minority of us have crosses that would fit on Calvary—some do face great troubles, terrible sufferings, even in our own parish. But for most of us, picking up the cross means accepting life’s inevitable trials, disappointments, and difficulties.

In other words, while some endure the pain of being nailed to a cross, for many people picking up the cross means living with splinters, smaller hurts that are still painful.

Just this month [June 2011] a young professional athlete gave us a good example of what it means to pick up an ordinary cross with extraordinary grace.

Armando Galarraga is a 28-year old pitcher for the Detroit Tigers. From what I can gather, he’s not exactly a star pitcher, and he hasn’t played very long in the major league. But on the second of June, he pitched a perfect game—for those of you who aren’t baseball fans, that’s a game where no opposing player gets on base. In other words, no hits, no walks. Every batter out.

It’s only happened twenty times in 110 years. But in the ninth inning, Armando Galarraga was on his way to the record books, with just one more out to go. The batter hits the ball. The first baseman fields it. He throws it the pitcher, who beats the batter to first base. Batter out!

A perfect game! Except the umpire blows the call. He calls the runner safe.

Even I can understand Gallaraga’s disappointment, and I can’t throw a baseball from here to the choir loft. It belongs in a category all by itself. “Crushing disappointment” wouldn’t come close to describing it.

What happened next makes Armando our guest preacher this morning. As Peggy Noonan writes, it’s what follows the umpire’s blunder that makes the story great: “When Galarraga hears the call, he looks puzzled, surprised. But he's composed and calm, and he smiles, as if accepting fate. Others run to the ump and begin to yell, but Galarraga just walks back to the mound to finish the job. Which he does, grounding out the next batter.”

After the game, the pitcher praises the disgraced umpire for his immediate apology. He tells reporters he feels worse for the umpire than he does for himself.

There’s today’s Gospel in action. Armando Gallaraga chose understanding over anger. He picked up the cross. He chose the humble path—he denied himself. He took the high road—the way of the cross.

The lesson he taught isn’t complicated. Accept what happens—don’t whine, don’t shout, don’t give up. And allow God’s providence to deal with what you can’t change.

Sometimes the results of acceptance will be immediate. You don’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure out that this pitcher’s place in the history books will be better than if he’d got his perfect game. His story will be told long after those perfect games are forgotten.

Sometimes, we won’t see things working out. But we’ll know we did what followers of Christ are called to do, and that should be enough reward.

Sometimes our cross will be so heavy that only God’s abundant help can stop it from crushing us. More often than not, though, we’re called to cope with splinters—our everyday troubles—by accepting the things we cannot change and courageously working to change the things we can.

Either way, we live with confidence in the words of Jesus. By saving our life, we lose it, but by losing it for his sake, we save it. He is promising us happiness in heaven, and a great deal of peace here and now.

Putting Ourselves in the Picture (11.C)

I started my first high-tech diet last week. It’s like nothing I’ve tried before—I weigh-in with a wireless scales, a gizmo on my belt tracks my exercise, and I record everything I eat on my iPhone. I’m enjoying this new weight loss program—it’s working and it’s kind of fun. My only problem is that when I type in what I’m having for dinner I look like a teenager texting at the table.

Of course any diet has its drawbacks.  When I started to meditate on the dinner at the house of Simon the Pharisee, my first question was “I wonder what they’re having for dinner?”

You know, that’s not as silly as it sounds. One of the best ways of praying is to put ourselves in the scene when reading the Bible, especially the Gospels. We picture ourselves walking or talking—or eating—with Jesus. We can put ourselves in the place of one of the participants, one of those to whom our Lord is talking. We can see and hear him speaking to us, and we can speak with him.

This method of prayer is often called lectio divina—sacred reading—and there are helpful guides to it in the internet.* But it’s not much different from the approach St. Ignatius teaches in his Spiritual Exercises, where he speaks of a “visible contemplation or meditation.” He invites the retreatant to see a place with the mind’s eye and to use the imagination to experience what’s happening there as a starting point for prayer. Ignatius even suggests we use our five senses to enter more fully into the scene we’re contemplating.

So perhaps my reaction to the Gospel today isn’t as funny as it sounds. Perhaps it would be good to wonder what’s on the menu at Simon’s house, to listen to the buzz of conversation, and to sit down at the table with Jesus.

Through whose eyes should we view the scene—Simon’s?  The woman with the alabaster jar? A servant standing at the kitchen door?

Any of those perspectives could open our hearts and minds to the message of today’s Gospel. I could picture myself at the feet of Jesus, expressing my sorrow and receiving his love in return. Or I could hear the stinging rebuke Jesus gave to Simon as if he were speaking directly to me.

But as I thought about how to put myself in the picture, I went in an entirely different direction. Instead of joining Jesus at the table, I put myself in the parable—I decided to be one of the debtors. Prayer, of course, is always flexible, and we can use the method of lectio divina or St. Ignatius just as easily with a parable as we can with an actual event.

So I left the house of Simon the Pharisee, and travelled in prayer into the presence of a certain creditor, a money-lender who was dealing with two overdue loans. One borrower owed big money: a year and a half’s wages for a labourer. The other had a more manageable debt, ten per cent of the other debtor’s loan.

Which deadbeat am I? Was I forgiven a huge debt, or a modest one?

I’m not going to tell you! But just asking the question is a powerful prayer.  Some of us may have done something terribly wrong in our lives; we may have caused grave harm to ourselves or someone we love. God’s forgiveness of our sin puts us right in the shoes of the man who owed five hundred days wages.

Some of us may have lived pretty good lives; we haven’t betrayed anyone, committed crimes, or turned away from God.  We’re pretty sure that only a small debt has been cancelled for us. But is that something to brag about? In the first place, Jesus tells us that those who have been forgiven more find it easier to love more.

As we stand in front of the generous money-lender (and “generous money lender” is pretty much an oxymoron, a contradiction in terms to speak of a generous money-lender at the time of Jesus: better we should imagine a loan shark) we might ask whether it really matters which debtor we imagine ourselves to be.

There’s not much difference whether you owe 500 denarii or 50 if you can’t pay. The result’s not much different. Bankruptcy is bankruptcy, and debtor’s prison is debtor’s prison.

To know our debt has been cancelled—to experience the mercy that this parable is all about—leads us to love the Lord like that weeping woman. The amount is a detail, but it’s not the whole story.

The fact is, “We all need five hundred days’ wages worth of forgiveness, but we may be blind to our sinfulness” or to proud to admit we cannot pay our debt. “And then we are chained by our guilt, which keeps us from the freedom of love.” [Collegeville Bible Commentary, p. 952]

Breaking that chain can be as simple as taking today’s Gospel reading to prayer, and letting our prayer lead us to the feet of Jesus in his sacrament of reconciliation. For it’s not only in our mind’s eye that we can hear him speaking to us, and that we can speak with him.
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 * The American Bible Society has a weekly lectio on the Sunday readings prepared by a priest from Spain. The Carmelites offer a daily lection on their website.  I am sure there are others.

Preaching Responsibly (10.C)

I'm preaching today to the candidates for the permanent diaconate and their wives, so the homily reflects that. It's posted for those who might find it of some interest nonetheless.

I was wandering around the internet this week when I found a website devoted to book titles—it had a long list of eye-catching or distinctive book titles.

Many of these were books I’d never heard of, and which I was glad I’d never heard of, like “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep” and “The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse.”  If the list had a category for “titles guaranteed to make sure I’d never buy the book,” I think the winner would be “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.”

Odd though it was, the list had a serious point: the title of a book is crucial if you want people to read. I’ve always wondered why priests and deacons almost never give their homilies a title like many Protestant preachers do; many times I’ve driven by one of their churches and wished I could drop in on Sunday to hear the sermon.

But, as the saying goes, I digress! There’s a reason I’m rambling about book titles.  When I sat down to prepare my homily, the first thing that came into my mind—and the thing that stayed with me as I thought about what to say—was the title of a book I’ve never read.

More than that, it’s a book that I never read 35 years ago. So you can guess it was a catchy title!

The title was “Ten Responsible Minutes: A Pleasant Approach to Homily Headaches,” by a Redemptorist named Joseph Manton. And it wasn’t the subtitle about homily headaches that has stayed in my mind but the words “Ten Responsible Minutes.”

That phrase emphasizes something about preaching that we must never, never forget. It is a very serious responsibility of the deacon or priest, never to be taken lightly; each minute of the homily is, to some extent, given to us by the congregation, and never to be taken for granted. Contrary to the occasional joke, we do not have “a captive audience.”  If once we did, we certainly don’t now; the irresponsible preacher will drive his hearers away, either physically—they’ll find another parish or none at all—or at least mentally, since they will retreat to planning their summer vacations while trying to appear interested in what you’re saying.
 

“Ten responsible minutes” could be a motto that would deter us from sloppy or no preparation, but that’s a subject for another day. The reason I thought of the preacher’s responsibility today has all to do with the Gospel, and with our grave responsibility never to do more harm than good.

We’ve all heard homilies that would only help the listener if the Holy Spirit descended directly upon them. What I’m talking about this morning is the rarer phenomenon of a homily that does harm; and this we must never do. An old Latin motto is still used in the medical profession “primum non nocere—first, do no harm.” And while it’s easier to do harm as a doctor than as a preacher, we must not discount the power of the pulpit to injure.

With that long introduction, let us turn to the text of this morning’s Gospel, with a side glance at the first reading.

What happens is easy enough to summarize: a poor widow loses her only son, Jesus takes pity one her and raises him from the dead. In response, the people acclaim him and praise God.

A similar story unfolds between Elijah and the widow of Zarephath, with an added note of the prophet’s duty towards his poor benefactor, who has fed and housed him during the great drought. Unlike the widow of Nain, she has something of a claim on the prophet’s miraculous powers.

It seems easy enough to connect the passages and leave our listeners with a message about God’s compassion and healing will.

But if the homilist does not use all ten minutes responsibly, it also easy to leave some vulnerable members of the congregation hurt and confused. In most large parishes, there are families who have lost a child; in my parish, there are two.

What are they to think if we fail to handle responsibly the question of miraculous healing?

No-one today is likely to pray that a dead loved one be brought back to life; but almost everyone faced with the serious or terminal illness of a young person prays for a miracle, yet these are extremely rare. How do we preach the miracles in today’s Scripture readings in a way that is faithful to the Gospel and Catholic tradition without leaving people feeling abandoned or even punished since they did not obtain the miracle for which they prayed?

This is not a theoretical question. I once heard a famous “healing priest”–now a famous “ex-priest”–speak about healing to a stadium full of people.  Although I was still young and hadn’t studied the Bible or theology, I knew even then that some people would hear his message as “pray hard enough and God will work a miracle for you.”  It’s a short distance between that and “you didn’t pray hard enough, so your son or daughter died.”

Don’t think I am going to show you how I would handle these texts this morning:  there isn’t time, and you are not an ordinary Sunday congregation. My point today is simply that we must recognize that our words have consequences—not, perhaps, for everyone or even for many, but certainly for some. And thus we are responsible for the impact of our words, especially on people who are grieving or who may be lacking in sophistication or even in intelligence.

At the same time, we must not rob the miracles of their force or attempt to downplay them. In this morning’s Gospel, the raising of the dead boy is an act of Christ’s power; it shows clearly that God has visited His people. It shows the Kingdom breaking through the clouds of death. This is a sign of hope for all who grieve, and we need to proclaim that hope to them.

But responsibly: taking care to anticipate the power of our words, and recognizing that what we say is not always what our brothers and sisters will hear.

Corpus Christi: The Big Questions

Pope Francis is going to take a bit of getting used to! A Pope who regularly preaches off the cuff is something very new to the Church, and it’s only a matter of time, I think, before he is photographed in soccer gear or at least in running shoes.

On Wednesday I told the schoolchildren about the homily the Pope gave last Sunday in an ordinary parish. The students seemed to enjoy it, though I’m not sure if they realized just how astonishing it is to have a Pope saying “Hands up!”, “Okay!” and “Louder!”

The Pope’s homily was about the Trinity, of course, since it was Trinity Sunday. Towards the end, he asked the children what Jesus does. After one of them said that Jesus walks with us, the Pope asked “What does he do when he walks with us?” and added “This is a tough one—whoever gets it wins the Derby!”

It is a tough question—and certainly you should win a prize if you know that he was talking about a big Italian soccer game and not an American horserace!

But let’s go back to the important question. What does Jesus do when he walks with us? (I won’t shout “louder” at you—just think about it for a moment.)

The children had good answers for the Pope. One said, “He helps us.” Another said “he leads us,” to which the Holy Father responded “very good.”

Then the Pope added that Jesus also gives us the strength to work and sustains us in difficulty—“even with our homework”!

“He supports us, he helps us, he leads us, and he sustains us.”

“There it is!” the Pope exclaimed, “Jesus is always with us. Okay. But listen, Jesus gives us strength. How does he give us strength? You know how! Louder, I can’t hear you!

“In Communion he gives us strength, he really helps us with strength. He comes to us. But when you say, “he gives us Communion,” does a piece of bread make you so strong? Isn’t it bread? Is it bread? Or isn’t it bread? It seems to be bread. But it really isn’t bread.”

By this point my head was spinning! But Pope Francis sure had my attention. Finally he said, “What is it? It is the Body of Jesus. Jesus comes into our hearts.”

This somewhat bewildering homily was delivered to children, but its message is for all of us on this great feast of Corpus Christi. Each of us must answer the Pope’s questions in the silence of our hearts. Is it bread? Or isn’t it bread?

More profoundly, do we believe like eager children that we receive the Body of Jesus in Holy Communion? Does the Eucharist bring us strength—real strength in every difficulty and trial, from homework to chemotherapy?

The readings today are somewhat more historical than theological. Obviously the Eucharist is prefigured in the encounter between Melchizedek—the priest who came out of nowhere—and Abram, soon to be Abraham, our father in faith.

In the second reading, St. Paul simply recounts the Church’s tradition, and reminds us that the Eucharist is founded on the death of Christ and anticipates his return in glory.

The Gospel, of course, is a beautiful reminder of the abundance of grace we receive in Holy Communion, of the great multitude nourished by the Lord each Sunday, and of the way Jesus calls his disciples to feed the hungry both spiritually and materially. The miracle of the loaves and fishes also prefigures the Last Supper, not to mention the breaking of bread that allowed the disciples on the road to Emmaus to recognize their risen Lord.

Any of these passages could serve as the foundation for a fine homily. But they do not challenge us personally the way the Pope challenges us with his direct questions. And many Catholics today need that direct challenge.

A number of years ago I saw a survey of young American Catholics who said that they preferred a personal faith to the institutional Church.

That sounded great to me. If you prefer the institutional Church to personal faith, you are in deep trouble!

Sadly, things went downhill from there. These young adults who say they believe, don’t believe much in going to Mass. 64 per cent of them say you can be a good Catholic without going to Mass.

At the same time, they say they believe strongly in what the survey calls “core Christian beliefs.” Well, I have news for them: the real presence of Jesus in the Eucharist, and the saving power of the Mass, is a core Christian belief for Catholics.

Unless someone asked you lately to take a survey, the Pope’s questions might be the first time in a while that you’ve thought about what you believe about the Eucharist. But you’ve probably answered the question without words. And actions speak louder than words…

You’ve answered “I believe” by faithfully attending Mass, missing the Sunday celebration only for reasons such as sickness, necessary travel, or other serious circumstances, and putting up with the stress of getting the whole family out the door each week. You’ve answered “not quite sure” if Mass attendance is hit and miss.

You’ve answered “Jesus comes into our hearts” if you abstain from receiving Holy Communion in the circumstances spelled out in Church teaching and law. You’ve answered “well….” if you receive when conscious of serious sin that you haven’t confessed or if you receive paying no attention to what you’re doing.

We answer “it is the Body of Jesus” when we speak and act reverently in church, where the Real Presence in the Tabernacle invites us to worship. We answer “maybe yes, maybe no” when we treat the church like an ordinary meeting hall.

What if you’re not completely sure what you believe about Christ’s Body and Blood? The answer is simple enough: act as though you have faith and the faith you have will increase. Don’t miss Mass, don’t receive Communion when you shouldn’t, and show reverence for the Real Presence—in time, your belief will deepen.

And there’s always a shortcut to deeper faith: prepare for Mass and Holy Communion with either the traditional prayers for this purpose or by a fervent personal prayer while waiting to receive. I make this promise: five minutes of preparation before Mass or five minutes of thanksgiving afterwards will double your awareness of Christ in the Eucharist.

A humble faith and a contrite heart are enough to allow the Sacrament to bear its fruits in our lives. The first fruit, of course, is intimacy with Christ, who is the source of the strength we need in illness, disappointments, bereavement, anxiety and every other kind of trial. As the Catechism says, “Life in Christ has its foundation in the Eucharistic banquet.” [1391]

Other fruits that come from the worthy reception of Holy Communion are forgiveness from venial sin, strength to resist temptation, unity with the Church and other Christians, and commitment to charity, especially towards the poor.

Those who receive the Eucharist worthily are never far from Jesus. As the Holy Father said last week, “He supports us, he helps us, he leads us, and he sustains us.”

Even with our homework.