Talking at Rise Up About Attending Mass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Archbishop's Homily: Meditating on St. Joseph as Christmas Draws Near

 Archbishop Miller was to have celebrated Mass at our parish this morning with the members of the permanent diaconate community – deacons, candidates, aspirants and their wives and children – but the steady snowfall kept him (and many of our parishioners) away. When the Archbishop let me know he could not be here, I had the presence of mind to ask him to send me his homily. Given the weather, I intended to shorten it, but after realizing its richness and beauty, I delivered it word for word, and have never had so many requests for copies!

Here are the Archbishop's words:

Introduction

         As the days of Advent dwindle away and Christmas comes ever closer  – just one week from today – and we remain largely consumed by Christmas shopping, preparations and parties, the Church offers us an opportunity, through today’s Liturgy, to reflect on the meaning what is happening all around us.

         Like the solicitous Mother she is, the Church constantly calls us back to the heart of things, not by belittling the “spirit of Christmas” that fills us, but by inviting us to ponder the more profound reasons for our celebration, the ultimate reason why Christmas is a time which kindles in believers and non-believers alike joy, generosity and renewed hope in a sometimes dark world.

Gospel

         Our Christmas cards, stories and other ways of celebrating Christmas concentrate on the Mother and Child.  And rightly so.  Early representations in art of the Nativity, and many even today, place Joseph purposely in the background, perhaps to remind us that he was not the human father of Jesus.  He is portrayed as a kind of silent observer of the great Mystery of the Incarnation, of the Son of God’s assuming a human nature, rightly ceding center stage to Jesus and Mary.  Indeed, the Preface of today’s Mass tells us that in these last days before our celebration, we accompany Mary who bore the Saviour in her womb, in that beautiful phrase of the Preface, “with love beyond all telling.”  Yet, we cannot forget about Joseph, thinking about his role in the events surrounding the Birth of Christ and what he – the husband and guardian of the Child – means in the drama of the Incarnation.

         Fortunately, today’s Gospel lends us a hand in this regard with its account of what is often called “the Annunciation to Joseph.”  Unlike St. Luke’s better known account of the Angel Gabriel’s announcement to Mary in Nazareth, which we recall in the first joyful mystery of the Rosary, St. Matthew’s narration of Jesus’ conception puts Joseph at the center of attention. 

         Mary’s Pregnancy

         For this reason, therefore, let’s establish a kind of spiritual conversation with Joseph, to give him his due.  He can help us to understand and live to the full the great mystery of the upcoming feast.

         In Jewish culture at the time of Jesus, marriage was a sacred act, a sharing in God’s own faithfulness – as it remains today, even if this is increasingly belittled.  The marriage custom in the first century was that a young woman, at about the age of puberty, would be promised to a husband, usually several years her senior, in a marriage arranged by her parents.  Technically they would be “married,” though we would say “engaged,” but they would not yet live together as husband and wife.  Jewish Law was especially strict in insisting that the couple remain chaste, having no sexual relations, during this first stage of “marriage.”  The young woman would continue to live with her parents, and the young man go about setting up a home and securing an occupation so as to be able to support his wife once they would begin  living together as man and wife.

         When today’s Gospel opens, it seems as if Mary had broken the Law, at least as far as the townspeople could see: “she was found to be with child” (Mt 1:18) – but she had not yet taken up residence with Joseph.  Talk, undoubtedly sometimes vicious, about her pregnancy would have been inevitable in a village as small as Nazareth.  Along with Joseph they would have borne the brunt of malicious gossip.
         Joseph did not know how to deal with Mary’s “astonishing” motherhood.  Certainly he would have been troubled, and surely disappointed in Mary.  But he reacted to this unwelcome news like a man of exceptional tenderness and self-restraint “since he must have been free of that most tyrannical passion, jealousy.”[1]

         Joseph, certain that the child was not his, faced a dilemma.  If he wasn’t the father, who was?   In order to save his own reputation as an upright man, he could have demanded an inquiry.  But if Mary were to be accused of adultery, it would have meant her public shame.  However, “being a righteous man,” Joseph decided to “dismiss her quietly” (Mt 1:19); that is, he wanted to avoid a public inquiry which would have left her in an awkward and vulnerable situation.  Quite simply, he loved her.

         Joseph, at an undoubtedly dark moment in his life was willing to take the problem upon himself, letting people accuse him of being a loser, of refusing to take responsibility for the child he had fathered.  Joseph was not only kindly to Mary, like a good husband, he was willing to take the suffering of others upon himself, to do all he could to relieve the pain of a troubling situation.[2]

         But, as so often happens in all our lives, God intervened.  The Lord comes to our rescue.  Just as Joseph had resolved to quietly end the relationship (Mt 1:20), and while he was asleep and dreaming, we have the annunciation to Joseph.  The “Angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying, ‘Joseph, son of David, do not fear to take Mary your wife, for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Spirit; she will bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins’” (Mt 1:20-21).

         The divine messenger announced to Joseph the mystery of Mary’s astonishing motherhood.  While remaining a virgin, she who was lawfully his “wife” has become a mother through the power of the Holy Spirit.  Moreover, Joseph was to give her Son, not his flesh and blood, his name: Jesus, which means “God saves.”

         It is to Joseph that the Angel of God entrusts the responsibilities of being an earthly father to Mary’s Son.  “When Joseph woke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him and took Mary as his wife” (cf. Mt 1:24).  “This just’ man, who, in the spirit of the noblest traditions of the Chosen People, loved the Virgin of Nazareth and was bound to her by a husband’s love, was once again called by God to this love.”[3]

         What does Joseph tell us?

         Joseph’s Trust in God

         Despite this divine intervention of “telling” him what was happening, it is not too difficult to imagine that Joseph was still puzzled, not yet able to take in the enormous meaning of the mystery of Mary’s motherhood.   .  He would barely have grasped the significance of what was happening in his life, upset from his planned trajectory of a fruitful fatherhood.  But he had faith; he trusted in the Lord.  And he showed that trust through his obedience.  Like his wife, Joseph showed a readiness of will, an interior “fiat” like hers, “let it me done unto me according to your will” (Lk 1:38) with regard to what God had asked of him through the Angel.[4]  As a couple they trusted in the Lord God.

         Recall, though, that Joseph’s trust in God, like that trust we are called to, is a response to God’s first entrusting himself to us.  Have you ever thought of that?  This is what we celebrate at Christmas: God’s entrusting himself to us as a needy Child.  He entrusted himself to a teenage girl’s body for nine months, and then he entrusted himself to a Mother’s care and to a foster father who probably never quite understood who he was or what he was about.  He then entrusted himself to his twelve intimate friends, his Apostles and disciples, one of whom sold him for silver and another who denied he knew him.  He entrusted himself to the Roman soldiers who crucified him.[5]

         If the Eternal Son of the Father, the One “through whom all things were made,” can entrust himself to us in the Child born in the manger, can we not also, like Joseph, entrust ourselves to him?

         And this trust in God does not mean we will be free from discouragement, lapses and falls.  Think again of Joseph.  Even if we assume that Joseph was happy with the prospect of being a foster father to this future Saviour of his people, things did not work out all that well.  In fact, just about everything got botched up.  Instead of security and comfort, he and Mary soon found themselves facing a treacherous journey during the last stage of her pregnancy.  They would have no suitable place to stay, no family or friends around. The earliest days would be full of fear and flight.  The first ceremony in the temple would be marred by the ominous prediction of Simeon that the Child Jesus would he rejected and his wife Mary would have her very soul pierced.

         After the early years of migration and displacement, even when the family finally settled down, there was more trouble.  The lad would he lost in Jerusalem and, after a three-day search, he would show up reminding them that he had another “Father” who made a greater claim on him.

         Still, Joseph is the model of the good provider, the protector, taking sorrow upon himself, and faithful.   He believed.  He trusted, even when it seemed as if things weren’t working out.  Whatever he may have felt, as an earthly father he must have died a thousand deaths caring for his wife and child, both of whom he had accepted in faith as belonging finally to One other than himself.  So it is with every true parent, every true spouse.

Conclusion

         Let us prepare ourselves, dear friends, to entrust ourselves with fresh hope this Christmastide to Jesus whom Mary carried in her womb and Joseph safeguarded with his silent strength.

✣ J. Michael Miller, CSB

Archbishop of Vancouver 

The icon of St. Joseph and the Child Jesus is the work of the gifted Canadian artist Michael O'Brien.

---

^[1] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew (Grand Rapids: Brazos Press, 2006), 35.

^[2] Cf. Francis, Morning Meditation (18 December 2014).

^[3] St. John Paul II, Redemptoris Custos, 19.

^[4] Cf. John Paul II, Redemptoris Custos, 2-3.

^[5] Cf. Walter J. Burghardt, Speak the Word with Boldness (New York/Mahwah: Paulist Press, 1994), 11.

Stirring Up Joy (Advent 3.A)

A couple of years ago a talented friend was doodling in her notebook and handed a simple drawing of me. I thought the sketch needed more hair, but that wasn’t what worried me most. My expression was very severe—it was a portrait of what Pope Francis calls a “sourpuss” in his letter on the Joy of the Gospel.

That little drawing has been on my desk ever since, as a reminder that the Good News of Jesus Christ should put a smile on our face: it’s not for “sourpusses.”

The Church reminds us of this every year on the third Sunday of Advent and on the fourth Sunday of Lent. The liturgy on these days highlights the joy of knowing Jesus and the blessings he brought to earth.

And the tradition of wearing rose-coloured vestments reminds priests not to take themselves too seriously!

Communicating the joys and blessings of following Christ isn’t easy. Even Pope Francis has written “how I long to find the right words to stir up enthusiasm for a new chapter of evangelization full of fervor, joy, generosity, courage, boundless love and attraction!”

The prophet Isaiah faced the same challenge as Pope Francis. How do you put the glory and goodness of God into words?

In our first reading, Isaiah uses inspired images to put fresh hope into the discouraged exiles of Israel, who doubt that God will ever bring them home from Egypt. He paints a picture of a new Garden of Eden where even the weak and the injured will be strengthened for the journey. The great homecoming is the second Exodus, accompanied by singing and dancing just as Moses and Miriam and the people sang and danced after crossing the Red Sea.

What does this Old Testament text mean for us? In the first place, we hear about this second exodus in Advent, because both the first and the second Exodus foreshadow the coming of the Messiah. The Church hopes to fire us up with some of the enthusiasm that the Jews had when they heard this powerful promise of joy and gladness.

On the other hand, we need to translate Isaiah’s words into the reality of our lives. The promises made to Israel weren’t literally fulfilled when the Chosen People returned to Jerusalem. The desert wasn’t blooming with flowers and the lame still had to be carried. What the people heard was a promise of deliverance—a promise that God would show his glory during their journey to freedom.

The same thing is true of this morning’s Gospel. Jesus knew that no words could completely capture his mission of salvation. He uses actions—giving sight to the blind, healing the lame, cleansing lepers and so on—that show sorrow and sadness melting before God’s love.

It’s obvious that physical healings are no longer the way we proclaim the saving mission of Christ, although they are never absent from the life of the Church. So we, like the Israelites, need to understand what Christ’s coming does mean, if not the healing of disabilities and the appearance of flowers in the desert.

How do we stir up our enthusiasm and become full of fervor, joy, generosity, courage, boundless love and attraction, as the Pope says? Because if we do not, we will never truly know the joy that comes from living in faith.

There are some great answers to this question in the Word of God we listen to today. The first comes from St. James in our second reading. Be patient! Be patient with God and most of all, be patient with yourself. God’s timing is not our own, and many people have given up on God because he seemed to be so slow in bringing them the freedom for which they prayed long and hard.

I think Jesus makes the same point in today’s Gospel reading when he says “blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.” He may well have added, “Because I’m God, and you’re not.”

On this point, Pope Francis says “While painfully aware of our own frailties, we have to march on without giving in.”

We find a second answer in the Gospel: go and tell others what you have seen. Nothing fuels enthusiasm so much as sharing it. It’s been ten years since I finished my doctorate, and I can’t say I think about my research very often. But when I had the chance to speak about my work at a recent meeting of priests, I was so keen it was hard to shut me up.

And telling others doesn’t only mean speaking. Those who volunteer to help with the Alpha course—and we have another Alpha coming in February—know how it fires up their own faith. Those who support the candidates in our RCIA program know the same thing.

It can also mean encouraging others. “Say to those who are of a fearful heart, ‘Be strong! Do not fear! Here is your God.’” Among the spiritual works of mercy are counselling the doubtful and comforting the sorrowful; when we strengthen others in their fear and anxiety, we put our own faith to work. The Christian shouldn’t see God working only in his or her life, but in the lives of others.

Finally, we need to pray for the gift of a joyful heart. Pope Francis writes that we need to ask Jesus for grace every day, “asking him to open our cold hearts and shake up our lukewarm and superficial existence. … How much good it does us when he once more touches our lives and impels us to share his new life!”

That means opening our hearts, especially if there is a door that’s closed to the Lord. Yesterday morning, our janitor Robert couldn’t open an outside door at the back of the church. It was frozen shut. But he just had to wait for the day to warm up before he could get in.

Our hearts should be warmed by the Word of God today—by Christ’s healing mission, by the history of God leading his people from slavery to the Promised Land, by the hope-filled images of blossoms in the desert; in our hearts—which is to say in our prayer—we should be singing the song of ransomed people with joy and gladness.

Pope Francis provides the perfect ending for this homily. After asking himself how he can find the right words to stir up fervor, joy, generosity, courage, boundless love and attraction he says this: “Yet I realize that no words of encouragement will be enough unless the fire of the Holy Spirit burns in our hearts.”

Advent is IMPERATIVE!

If the parish ever runs short of money and I need to moonlight, I have a perfect job waiting for me: teaching grammar.

It seems almost everyone I know under forty has forgotten the basic rules of English grammar. Just about every day I hear someone say “her and me went down to McDonalds.” On the radio this week I heard “Less people attended the rally this year.” Come on! Less rain, maybe, but fewer people.

Some of our younger parishioners consider me a badge-carrying member of the grammar police. But I can’t resist correcting some of these mistakes, even if I’m not brave enough to correct their parents.

So today I thought I might offer a brief grammar lesson. The subject is a verb form known as the imperative. In grammar, the imperative mood expresses a command. The simplest example, known to every parent, is “don’t.”

Different languages form the imperative in many different ways. English has a particular imperative that uses the verb “let.” “Let’s have a drink” is an imperative, even if it sounds less like a command than “don’t.”

Let’s go looking, then, for imperatives in today’s Scripture readings. There are plenty of them, and they give us a great push for the start of Advent.

The first reading begins with a familiar image, the mountain of the Lord. Mountains have an important place in the Old Testament. Moses receives the Ten Commandments on Mount Sinai and Elijah meets God on Mount Horeb, for example. In the New Testament, Jesus goes up on the mountain to pray and, at the end of his earthly mission, he ascends from a mountain to heaven.

Here “the mountain of the Lord’s house” is Mount Zion, the goal of all peoples.

And so we find today’s first imperative: “Let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob.” Isaiah puts these words on the lips of “many peoples”—not many people, but many peoples or nations, because everyone is called to make the pilgrimage to God’s mountain.

Climbing Mount Zion is imperative because there is found instruction; there is found the word of the Lord where scattered and confused people are united by the truth.

The first imperative is addressed to the whole world, particularly to those who do not know the ways of the Lord. The second command, “Let us walk in the light of the Lord,” is spoken to the House of Jacob, to Israel, the people to whom God has already taught his law. What’s imperative for them is to walk in the light—to follow the commands they already know.

Today’s Psalm repeats the imperative we heard in the reading from Isaiah, almost word for word: “Let us go to the house of the Lord.” The command to journey to God’s house is not a burden but a joy: “I was glad when they said to me, Let us go to the house of the Lord!” Biblical Hebrew used didn’t use exclamation marks, but the English text has one at the end of this sentence—the speaker is enthusiastic.

This Psalm, Psalm 122, was sung by Jewish pilgrims arriving at the gates of Jerusalem in obedience to the Lord’s command to gather there in worship three times a year. (The Collegeville Bible Commentary, 780). The speaker is enthusiastic because he’s at the gates—they’re almost there.

You can see the connection between Isaiah’s prophetic word and actual religious practice. The pilgrims aren’t literally ascending the holy mountain where God dwells, but they know he may be found in his holy temple in Jerusalem.

What’s true for them is truer still for us. It’s imperative every Sunday that we go up to meet the Lord in worship—not as a burden but as a joy. We are commanded, yes, but it’s a command that should make us glad.

Advent is a natural time to adjust our attitude to the Mass and to the Sunday obligation. It’s an ideal time to get our bearings and ask whether we’re well on the road to the Lord’s house or not.

This is clear from the imperatives we find in the second reading. “Let us lay aside the works of darkness,” St. Paul says. Let us examine ourselves in preparation for the great feast of Christmas, and ask whether there are shadows in our lives that the light of Christ must overpower.

It’s true that Lent’s the time when we usually think about our sins, but Advent is a penitential season also, which is why I’m wearing the same purple vestments worn in Lent. Everyone knows that Christmas takes a lot of preparation, whether it’s baking or gift-buying or just plain planning; spiritual preparation should not be neglected.

St. Paul’s second imperative points in a slightly different direction: “let us put on the armour of light.” The only way to end the darkness is to turn on the light—accentuate the positive to eliminate the negative, as a song from the 1940s put it.

Advent should be a time of extra prayer and good works; those things are armour against sin. They’re like shining breastplates that deflect the enemy’s arrows. Once again, Matthew Kelly’s Dynamic Catholic organization offers a free prayer or video every day of Advent; sign up for “Best Advent Ever”; it’s a specific and practical way to put on the armour of light.

Other things you can do include making an effort to get to a daily Mass each week of Advent, planning some charitable service, or giving alms to the many charities that help the poor at Christmas, including our own Christmas hamper program.

The last imperative we find in today’s reading is the most imperative of all. It’s not the friendly form that begins with “let us” but the more direct and urgent imperative that’s clearly a command.

In the Gospel, Jesus says “keep awake.” He then repeats the command in different words: “be ready.”

Getting ready for Christmas is hard work. In his delightful story “Dave Cooks the Christmas Turkey,” Stuart McLean creates a conversation between Morley and her husband Dave, where she tells him “My life is a train. I am a train. Dragging everyone from one place to another.

Dave is too smart to ask where the train is heading. He knows Morley will tell him. And she does.

“The train starts at a town called First Day at School, then goes to a village called Halloween, and then through the township of Class Project, and down the spur line called Your Sister is Visiting.”

“All the way to the last stop on the line—Christmas dinner.”

Everyone knows that feeling, even if mothers know it best. But why do we do all that work to get ready for the festive aspects of Christmas without making much effort to be spiritually ready?

Jesus is pretty tough about this. He tells us to stay awake, but he might as well have said “wake up.” The stakes are high, because there is a thief who wants to break in and steal the Christmas presents from under the tree.

That thief is a real enemy, not some sort of fairy-tale Grinch. In St. John’s Gospel, Jesus describes him in these words: “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy.”

So keep awake. Get ready.

It’s imperative.

A Parish of Mercy: Christ the Redeemer Celebrates the Solemnity of Christ the King

 What if I offered to hand out keys to Heaven after Mass today? A few folks might still leave after Communion if they parked poorly or had to get the kids to soccer. But it’s a safe bet there would be quite a lineup to collect the keys.

Who doesn’t want to go to Heaven? There are people who don’t want to go to church, but no one, really, who doesn’t want paradise.

Well, the fact is, we are handing out keys to Heaven at Mass today. The Gospel unlocks the gates of Heaven to those who give food to the hungry and drink to the thirsty. The doors of the Kingdom swing wide open to those who welcome strangers, clothe the naked, care for the sick, and visit prisoners.*

I’ve heard this Gospel a hundred times, but it’s never come alive for me like it has in this Year of Mercy that ends today.

There were many moments of grace during this special year, but for me they all came to a head last Sunday when Archbishop Miller bestowed papal medals on a group of Catholics well known for their dedication to the corporal and spiritual works of mercy, the traditional catalogue of Christian charity.

Those who were honoured by the Pope included leaders in Catholic health care and education, dedicated servants of the poor, a pioneer in parish-based prison ministry, and a tireless defender of the unborn. I knew most of them and worked closely with some of them over the years.

But one of the recipients mattered to me more than any other: because his medal, in my eyes and in his, was given to us all.

When the Archbishop handed Denis Forristal the Benemerenti medal, he really bestowed it on this parish community, of which Denis and his wife Mary are true pillars. Everyone who knows the Forristals knows that Mary deserves a medal too, and not just because she has to manage Denis! But to say he shares this honour not only with her but with the parish community recognizes that Denis has helped teach all of us the ways of mercy.

He has performed some works of mercy by himself, travelling in retirement to help emerging nations develop their hotel industry, but most of what he has done has been alongside others, beginning of course with Mary and then with us, his fellow parishioners.

The most notable of Denis’s charitable works was leading our parish sponsorship of the Shaboo family, refugees from Iraq. They wanted to be with us this morning to celebrate, but they are performing a corporal work of mercy—burying the dead—by remaining in their parish to plan funeral rites for a friend who has died.

Everyone has been talking about refugee sponsorship since the Syrian crisis began and the heartstrings of the world were tugged by the sight of boy drowned as his family sought safety. Denis encouraged us to respond to an earlier crisis, the persecution of Christians in Iraq. His wisdom and leadership proved so effective that it is now considered a model throughout the Archdiocese.

Without Denis’s successful leadership of the devoted team that helped the Shaboos find a new home in Canada, it would have been much more difficult for our parish to sponsor three more families from Syria. The dedicated leaders of the settlement teams that have welcomed the two Dayekh families have known from the beginning that the challenges were manageable and that Denis was always available for wise advice.

So now we have three families well-established in Canada and another to arrive just as soon as the government permits them; we are truly welcoming strangers just as Christ the King commands.

My view was blocked as Denis walked forward to receive his medal at the Cathedral. Since I couldn’t see him, I pictured a church full of our parishioners who have been so generous with their time, talent and treasure: they were wearing more medals than you’d see in a crowd of veterans on Remembrance Day.

Our parish is by no means perfect: the parish council and I have talked about many aspects of parish life we hope will grow in the months and years ahead. In particular, we all need to work harder to make sure our young people become true disciples of Jesus—and this can only happen if their priests and parents are intentional disciples themselves. We need to work much harder to share the Gospel with those who haven’t heard it in our neighborhoods and social circles. We need to provide more opportunities for parishioners, old and young, to grow in the life of prayer.

These are our challenges. But today we must celebrate our accomplishments. We have become a parish of mercy, by any standard I know. If you use the seven corporal and seven spiritual works of mercy as a report card on parish life, the results are wonderful proof of dynamic faith in action.

I’ve already mentioned how we welcome strangers through refugee sponsorship. Let me turn to another corporal work of mercy that comes straight from today’s Gospel. Prison ministry has caught fire since it was introduced at Christ the Redeemer just a few years ago. Not only do our volunteers visit prisoners, they support them with prayer, encourage them with small gifts, and help those who have been released.

Feeding the hungry seems to be a specialty in our parish. Just yesterday, the parish conference of the St. Vincent de Paul Society fed four hundred people in the downtown eastside! In a year they provide more than 7500 meals. Do you have any idea of the work involved? More importantly, have we any idea of the love involved? The same is true of parishioners who regularly feed street youth downtown.

A spiritual work of mercy—instruction in the Faith—combines with the corporal work of feeding the hungry when generous parishioners prepare meals for our youth groups and Alpha dinners. And clothing the naked? If the architects of this church had any idea of the amount of donated clothing we would be handling, they’d have added an extra room to the building.

Visiting the sick is a special boast of our community. Two dedicated teams of volunteers visit the two care homes in the parish, and help the priests minister to those who are sick at home and in hospital. More times than I can count, we hear about the sick who need pastoral visits from parishioners who are aware that this is everyone’s responsibility.

During the Year of Mercy we included financial support for many of the works of mercy in our annual Project Advance campaign, which you supported with great generosity.

I could go on and on, right through all fourteen corporal and spiritual works of mercy, but there isn’t time. Let me just say that the Year of Mercy was lived in this parish in a most visible way.

Let’s not forget that mercy, like charity, begins at home. Family life is impossible without mercy. Parish life is impossible without mercy. We show mercy to one another in the parish, avoiding the bitter divisions that have all but destroyed Christian communities in the past and elsewhere. And you show mercy to me, by accepting my shortcomings, occasional impatience and necessary absences.

We have our share of problems and misunderstandings, but in the nearly ten years I’ve been here there has never been a major split in our community. Amidst the hurts that always occur when people live together, amidst the hurts in families and among friends, we are still one family in Christ.

Archbishop Miller spoke eloquent words last Sunday: “In a world damaged by the virus of indifference, the works of mercy are the best antidote to spiritual blindness.”

He prayed that every parish be an oasis and an instrument of mercy.

May that be the goal of each family and of our parish—to be an oasis and an instrument of God’s living mercy in the world!

On our joyful parish feast day, let us resolve to continue the good work we have begun, confident that the merciful King will one day say to each of us “Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.”

* To emphasize the works of mercy, we used the Mass readings for Year A today.

Practical Faith in the Resurrection of the Dead (Sunday 32.C)

A tourist guidebook told me one of the most chilling stories I’ve ever heard. I was visiting Toledo in Spain so I wanted to read up on the Alcazar, the great fortress that dominates the city.

The book told a story from the dreadful years of the Spanish Civil War, when the fortress was a stronghold for the Nationalist forces. The Republican army kidnapped the 16 year old son of the opposing general, and threatened to kill him unless he surrendered the Alcazar.

The captors put the boy on the phone with his father. "Surrender or they will shoot me," the teenager said. His father replied, "Then commend your soul to God, shout 'Long live Christ the King,' and die like a hero."

My visit to Toledo was years ago, but I’ve never forgotten the general’s words. Was he a patriot? A hero? A fanatic?

I don’t know. I do know that the story reminds us that in every age people have believed there were some things more important than life itself.

Our first reading today is about brave young Jews who suffered and died for what they believed. But it doesn’t tell us the whole story—it would be too long to read at Mass. As you might expect, all seven of them die bravely for what they believe. But the climax of the story comes towards the end, when the cruel king Antiochus gives the mother a chance to convince her youngest son to save himself.

She takes the chance eagerly—but instead of trying to change his mind, she begs him to accept death bravely.

How is it possible for a father or a mother to say such things? There are two answers, one natural and the other supernatural.

I’ve already given the natural answer. Some people hold beliefs and convictions that are stronger than the fear of death itself. There have been martyrs in many religious traditions, and men and women who have died for their political beliefs. And of course as Remembrance Day nears, we recognize the millions of soldiers and sailors and airmen who died defending human freedom.

Courage like that is one of the noblest attributes of human nature.

But there is a supernatural answer. The general, the Jewish mother, and her sons all shared a religious belief. They had faith in the resurrection of the dead, although in different ways.

The readings today are meant to make us think about our own faith in the resurrection. Do our hearts cherish this belief like the fourth son who professes it boldly even under torture?

Do we have the practical faith in the resurrection of the dead that his mother showed when she told the seventh son “Accept death, so that in God’s mercy I may get you back along with your brothers”?

Today’s Gospel doesn’t mention the seven brothers or their mother, but it helps us to admire their faith. The exchange between Jesus and the Sadducees points us to something very important: Jews did not have a uniform belief in the resurrection of the dead; the doctrine that developed late in Israel history.

The Sadducees were opposed to the Pharisees, who taught that the just would rise again. This was a real point of dispute.

So compare our situation to that of these devout Jews. Our faith in the resurrection of the body is central, not disputed. We don’t side with one group in a religious debate, but with the whole Church, from its very beginning. We rely on the most convincing of all arguments: the fact that Jesus himself rose from the dead.

Convincing you that Jesus rose from the dead and that we will rise from the dead is not the purpose of this homily. I can assume that most if not all of the congregation believes the Creed that we profess each Sunday. The question for us today is practical, not theological. What difference does our faith in the resurrection from the dead mean in our lives?

It’s a fair bet that none of us will have to answer the question as directly as the mother and her sons. Still, do we meet the less challenging forms of the question with at least a shadow of their courage and faith?

We are challenged to put our faith in the resurrection—which includes our belief in eternal life—every time someone we love dies or falls gravely ill. Knowing we are children of the resurrection means knowing that death is not the end or the ultimate evil.

We are challenged to look beyond the limits of earthly existence whenever our earthly plans are threatened by those who attack us for being Christians. We won’t be forced to deny our faith under pain of death, like the Jewish martyrs, but we may be tempted to it by fear of losing a promotion or tenure or friends. That’s when we need to laugh at the death of our ambitions, because of the hope that is within our hearts.

We must never doubt that there are some things more important than life itself, nor of the fact that the suffering, death and resurrection of Jesus is the ultimate proof of that belief.

And during this month of November, traditionally the month of prayer for the Holy Souls, we need a practical faith in the resurrection of the dead that spurs us on to generous prayer for the faithful departed, because God is a God of the living, not the dead.
 

Parish Life is NEVER Boring!

Don't go looking for me... but see if you can spot the brave Father Paul!