Freedom! (13C)

At this morning’s Mass we welcomed and congratulated our graduates. I was trying to think of something memorable to say to them on this special occasion when it struck me that the story I told at the final school Mass on Friday went over so well that it might strike a chord with older students as well.

It’s an old story about a king in the jungle and his closest friend.

The friend had a remarkable habit: whatever happened to him, good or bad, he would always say “This is good!”

One day the king and his friend were out hunting. It was the friend’s job to load the guns for the king. But the king’s friend did something wrong in preparing one of the guns. When the king fired it, he blew off his thumb.

True to form, his lifelong friend looked up and said as usual, “This is good!” To which the angry king replied, “No, this is NOT good!” and proceeded to send his friend to jail.

About a year later, the king was hunting in an area that he should have avoided. Cannibals captured him and took him to their village. They tied him up, stacked some wood, and tied him to a stake.

But just as they came near to set fire to the wood, these cannibals noticed that the king was missing his thumb. Being superstitious, they never ate anyone that was less than whole. So right away they untied the king, and sent him on his way.

On the way home, the king started to think about how he lost his thumb, and he felt very bad about how he’d treated his pal. He headed straight to the jail to speak with him.

“You were right,” he said, “it was good that my thumb was blown off.” After he told his friend all that had happened, the king said “And so I am I very sorry for sending you to jail for so long. It was bad for me to do this.”

“No,” his friend replied, “This is good!”

“What do you mean, ‘This is good? How could it be good that I sent my friend to jail for a year?”

“If I had NOT been in jail, I would have been with you.

The story provides a good laugh, but also some important lessons. Yesterday, I showed the students how it reminds us that God works for good in all things for those who love him.

Today, I’m using the story in a different way: as an example of true freedom. Going to jail seems quite the opposite of being free, and yet Christian history is full of people—from St. Paul to St. Thomas More to St. Maximilian Kolbe—who were perfectly free even when they were in prison.

The Russian philosopher Nikolai Berdyaev says we are free “when we unbind ourselves from slavery within.”

Freedom, like happiness itself, is an inside job.

And yet for many people today, “freedom” means doing what you want, where you want, when you want. We hear about freedom of speech, freedom 55, freedom of information. It’s one of those words that’s been hijacked by the world.

But freedom is Christ’s word. Freedom is Christ’s promise. St. Paul tells us so in today’s second reading: “For freedom Christ has set us free.”

If these words don’t send a shiver up your spine—if they don’t make you want to jump up and shout like a soccer fan in a South African stadium—then maybe it’s time we took a serious look at what freedom means for the Christian.

The New Testament’s promise of freedom is specific and clear.

We have Our Lord’s own words in the eighth chapter of St. John’s gospel: “Jesus then said to those Jews who had believed in him, ‘If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.’ They answered him ‘We are descendents of Abraham and have never been slaves to anyone. What do you mean by saying, ‘You will be made free?’

“Jesus answered them, ‘Very truly, I tell you, everyone who commits sin is a slave to sin.’ The slave does not have a permanent place in the household; the son has a place there forever. So if the Son makes you free, you will be free indeed.” (John 8: 31-36)

Three key points are easy to see: truth leads to freedom, sin leads to slavery, but the Son sets free.

The conclusion is obvious: to be called to life in Christ is to be called to freedom.

But what does this word ‘freedom’ mean?

Most of us have only a sketchy idea of what it means to be free. There is a host of ways to understand spiritual freedom, but I want to use a definition from St. Teresa of Avila: detachment from all things apart from and not centered on God.

That’s a mouthful, but what she means is that nothing should own me but my owner, and that is God.

What Teresa calls detachment, St. Ignatius calls indifference. In his Spiritual Exercises he invites the retreatants to make themselves “indifferent to all created things,” not preferring health to sickness, riches to poverty, honor to humiliation, a long life to a short one.

Ignatius says what matters is to desire and choose only what leads us to the goal for which God created us—salvation. Imagine the freedom possessed by the woman or man who wants only what will lead most directly to the ultimate and only eternal goal.

There’s a hymn we occasionally sing—maybe the choir will sing it today, if they’re listening closely to my homily!—called “How Can I Keep From Singing.” We don’t know who wrote the words, but since it first appeared in 1868, and slavery in the US was abolished only three years before, I sometimes wonder if the unknown author could have been a slave.

Whatever the truth of that, he or she was obviously free! The verses are written by someone whose “life flows on in endless song, above earth’s lamentation.”

The chorus celebrates freedom—a freedom that can’t be shaken by circumstances: “No storm can shake my inmost calm while to that rock I’m clinging. Since love is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing?”

Such is the reward of detachment from our agenda, of indifference to everything that isn’t part of God’s saving will.

Freedom means being free to be my best self, my highest self—the self God wants me to be—and not being the slave to anything or anybody else.

Freedom’s what we are called to and made for. But of course it’s not free! Like everything precious, freedom has a cost. In fact, becoming free and staying free takes two things.

I’ve already mentioned the first thing: we must let go.

We must let go of the things we cling to as our security blankets. First on the list, of course, is sin. I’ve already quoted where Jesus telling us that everyone who commits sin is a slave to sin.

[St. Paul tells us that the stakes are high: “…now you have been freed from sin and have become slaves of God, the benefit that you have leads to sanctification, and its end is eternal life.” (Romans 6: 22)]

Tackling addiction and bad habits is next on the list: Paul also says “do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence.” Sometimes we need to let go of even smaller things like craving too much comfort, or too much praise. The obstacle to our freedom can be something as common as overeating—which can be a real slavery—or procrastination.

And today’s Gospel tells us that sometimes we must even let go of perfectly legitimate things, like the desire to please our parents or to have financial security. St. Benedict tells his monks “Prefer nothing to the love of Christ.” But that’s not just for monks: every serious Christian must put Christ first in every decision. That’s what Jesus means when he tells us not to look back once we have become his disciples.

And once we’ve let go, we must hang on—to Christ. We can’t be like the man hanging over the cliff who asks “isn’t there anyone else up there?” when God tells him to let go of his handhold. We must build a relationship of trust if we’re to stay free from the obsessions and drives that can take over our lives.

This advice doesn’t apply only to those who are trying to escape bondage; it’s also for those who have found freedom: we all must hang on. As Paul says, “Stand firm, therefore, and do not submit again to the yoke of slavery.”

So let’s say that I have convinced you of two things: 1) Christians are called to be free, and 2) that detachment from the things we cling to is a big step towards achieving that freedom.

What’s next? For many of us, our thoughts turn immediately to the weaknesses of the flesh—to things that make us feel out of control, even powerless. Nothing wrong with that; I’ve tried to make it clear that overcoming these things is a big part of getting free.

But that’s not the priority we find in the epistle we heard. Paul certainly talks about the desires of the flesh—but only after he’s talked about love. “Through love be slaves to one another,” he says, and then he quotes Christ’s second commandment “You shall love your neighbour as yourself.”

The subject of freedom is too big for one homily. But I think this point is crucial. What is our freedom for? What are we free to do?

The answer is love. Christ frees us from selfishness, egoism, fear, anger, resentment, obsession, addiction, compulsion, laziness, and much more for one main purpose—that we might be able freely to love the Lord our God with all our heart and our neighbour as ourselves.

For freedom we have been set free—free to love, and to grow daily in love.

Missed Margaret!

My modest blog missed its moment! Margaret Visser, who played a starring role in last week's homily, tried to post a comment about it--but the blog wouldn't let her. Needless to say I'm disappointed.

(Equally needless to say, I have figured out the problem, and visitors like Dr. Visser will be welcome to comment in the future.)

Undeterred by the blog's inhospitable response, the eminent writer e-mailed me, and I briefly considered posting part of her gracious message here. But what she said was so kind that I don't dare to do that--who knows if Margaret Visser's next book will be about humility? I wouldn't want to end up as a case study!

I do thank her for trying, and I invite all readers--those who have joined the blog and those who have not--to comment freely in the future.

No "Cross-less Christianity" (12C)

Let’s talk a bit about fathers before we get down to more serious business. Some of you are here with your fathers, while other fathers are far away, and still others are now with the Lord.

My Dad is still with us, thank God, which reminds me that a father’s life has changed a lot over the years. I saw some comparisons on the Internet this week that made me smile. Here’s a few of them:

In 1900, fathers prayed their children would learn English.

Today, fathers pray their children will speak English.

In 1900, "a good day at the market" meant Father brought home feed for the horses. Today, "a good day at the market" means Dad did well on the stock exchange.

In 1900, fathers threatened their daughters’ suitors with dire consequences if the girl came home late. Today, fathers break the ice by saying, "So...how long have you had that earring?"

In 1950, if a father put a roof over his family's head, he was a success.
Today, it takes a roof, deck, pool, and 3-car garage. And that's at Whistler.

In 1950, a father came home from work to find his wife and children at the supper table. Today, a father comes home to a note: "Jimmy's at soccer, Cindy's at gymnastics, I'm at Bible Study, Pizza in fridge.”

When I was a boy, fathers shook their children gently and whispered, "Wake up, it's time for school." Today, kids shake their fathers violently at 4 a.m., and shout: "Wake up, it's time for hockey practice."

In 1900, fathers were not appreciated enough.

In 2010, fathers are not appreciated enough. Some things never change.

So Happy Father’s Day to the Dads in our parish. You deserve to be appreciated.

But this morning we need to talk about something even more important than Father’s Day: the cross. It’s a topic most of us would prefer to duck.

However, as Christians we can never take our eyes from 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 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.

Giving Thanks

Margaret Visser is a Canadian treasure. She looks at ordinary things and writes about them in extraordinary ways. She wrote an entire book about mealtimes and another about the foods we eat and the way we eat them.

And in just one week last February, she spoke in Saskatoon about swearing and in Toronto about the Eucharist.

A kind parishioner gave me a copy of Margaret Visser’s longest book, The Gift of Thanks. For more than 400 pages she talks about gratitude from every angle.

Reading the book last week got me thinking about all the things in our parish for which I’m grateful, so I decided to share those thoughts instead of a homily today. But when I realized I was on my way to a 400 minute sermon, I posted the long version on my blog and gave the parishioners a summary. That ought to make them feel grateful!

First and foremost, during the fateful Year for Priests that ended yesterday, I have been grateful for your support and confidence. Perhaps even more, I have been grateful for your prayers. The children of St. Anthony’s School prayed for priests at lunchtime each day. At the suggestion of one parishioner, the group that prays the Liturgy of the Hours in church each morning has said daily the prayer for priests written by Archbishop Miller.

Coming a close second is my gratitude for the countless women and men who make it possible for one priest to minister to an active congregation this size. The parish staff—our parish secretaries, PREP coordinator, housekeeper, maintenance staff, and youth minister—work with so much generosity that we’d go broke paying them half of what they’re worth.

The volunteer catechists are like an evangelizing army, teaching with words but preaching by example. I think of the coordinators and team members of the RCIA and RCIC—the Rites of Christian Initiation for Adults and for Children—who have literally brought people from outside the doors of the church all the way to the baptismal font and the altar.

With the same dedication, the catechists working in the parish religious education program have been faithful stewards tirelessly sharing their faith with children. The same is done for our youngest members by those assisting with the Liturgy of the Word for Children on Sundays.

The leaders and team members of our youth group have made young people feel at home in the parish, while those who ran the high school religious education program known as I2T gave their time to high school students on Sunday evenings, when I’m sure they’d have preferred to relax in preparation for the busy week ahead of them.

The baptismal preparation team helps new parents prepare to undertake the responsibilities that come with presenting their child for baptism, while welcoming the parents themselves, who are often new to the community.

And now that the rainy season seems to have ended, I must pay tribute to those who do the least attractive volunteer service of all: parking patrol. They are faithful stewards of much more than parking spaces: they prevent chaos when medical emergencies require fire or ambulance personnel.

But of course we wouldn’t have a parking problem if we didn’t have good liturgies, and these are a result of careful preparation by our sacristans, excellent organization of, and service by, lectors and extraordinary ministers of Holy Communion, not to mention our gifted musicians, choir leaders and members.

I should single out the servers, who have started to assist at Sunday Mass in record numbers and growing confidence.

A stewardship parish is always a welcoming parish, and ours is no exception. Cheerful Sunday greeters help to make visitors and parishioners alike feel welcome, and the coffee teams support a vibrant social time after the 10 a.m. Mass. Equally hospitable parishioners organize a monthly breakfast during the week, not to mention many other receptions during the year. The CWL, in particular, offers bereaved people consolation and kindness by arranging funeral teas; the Knights of Columbus have provided help with barbecues and pancake breakfasts.

Still others ensure we reach out in love and service to those in material need.

And I can’t forget the many members of our parish councils and committees who make sure that we not only do things right but do the right things.

All these people, and many more, make stewardship of time and talent something real in our parish, not a catchphrase.

I have to stop, not because I am finished but because I can never finish. But I can’t end without expressing my deep gratitude for the many stewards of treasure in this generous parish of Christ the Redeemer. (Including, of course, our collection counters, accountant, and Project Advance team!)

Your response to Project Advance, and to the weekly and special collections, is a sign of something much more important than a dollar sign. When the economy weakened, your donations did not. When a drop-off in attendance was noted during the worst of the scandals, your donations did not.

A week or two ago, against her express orders, I paid tribute at the school Mass to a dedicated parent volunteer. She responded: I am just a drop in the bucket, and it takes many, many drops to fill it.

It was a simple image, but just the right one. One by one, volunteer by volunteer, minister by minister, donor by donor, we are filling the bucket to overflow in this community of faith.

Margaret Visser writes that “Deeply felt gratefulness is a species of awe, and as such requires humility. It implies a sense of one’s littleness before the wonder of the universe… and before the goodness of others.”

I know this to be true. The impossibility of a pastor’s task, and my own personal weaknesses, would make life overwhelming without the help, advice, wisdom, support, prayers, kindness, and patience you give me.

If deep gratitude is indeed a kind of awe, it means that you, my parishioners, are awesome.

I'm Still Here!

It's the feast of Corpus Christi today, and my small but dedicated band of readers may be wondering whether I have given up posting homilies.

Well, I'm still here, but last week we had Bishop Gary Gordon visiting the parish, and he preached (wonderfully) at all the Masses. This week I am back in the pulpit, but decided it was time to preach without notes for a change, which gives me nothing to post for the blog.

Actually, I did have notes of a sort--I followed the outline of a brochure that we handed out with the bulletin this week. It's called "Five Ways to Prepare for Mass," and it's overflowing with helpful ideas that can deepen the experience of attending the liturgy.

The five ways are 1) "Know why you are there," 2) "Reflect on the readings,", 3) Think about your offering" (i.e. what you bring with you to Mass, both joys and sorrows), 4) "See yourself as part of the community," and 5) "Enter into God's presence" (by quiet and prayer before Mass begins).

The titles don't do justice to the richness of the text, which was written by Father Ralph W. Talbot, Jr. with Lorene Hanley Duquin. Under each heading there's several really practical ideas.

There's a separate section called "Preparation leads to Participation," listing another nine excellent suggestions.

The brochure is printed by Our Sunday Visitor. We've given out many of their various pamphlets over the past few years, and I can't recommend them too highly.

Pentecost: Asking for the Gifts We Need

Some time back there was a book called “The Gospel According to Peanuts,” dispensing spiritual wisdom from Charlie Brown.

Today I’d like to talk about the Gospel according to the Wizard of Oz. Of course as I say that I realize that many of the younger members of the congregation never saw that movie; I suppose many of you never heard of Charlie Brown either.

The Wizard of Oz was central to my childhood. The special effects are laughable nowadays, especially compared to the wizardry of Avatar and so on. But it sure captured our imagination as kids—and it has taught me a spiritual lesson or two that I have carried with me.

One lesson is about gifts, gifts that the scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion don’t even know they need. They know things aren’t going well—the scarecrow feels stupid, the Tin Man thinks he has no heart, and the Lion’s afraid of his own shadow. But they don’t know what’s needed to overcome their weaknesses.

The Wizard does know. He knows they have within them everything they need. They only need to activate the gifts they already possess.

I don’t want to sound irreverent by comparing the Holy Spirit to the Wizard! Still, there’s a very fine comparison to be made.

Almost every one of us will acknowledge a weakness, a failure, a shortcoming or a fear. Almost everyone has a deep longing to be more than we are, better than we are—a better Christian, a better parent, a wiser student, a more loving child. We go to confession (or at least we should) to admit our sins and failures to God.

But where do we go for what we need to overcome these sins? Where do we find the strength to grow and to change, to carry on and to draw nearer to God and to one another?

The answer is: we go to the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit knows what we need, and knows how to give it to us. The Holy Spirit is the source of strength for daily Christian living.

So, then, how do we go the Spirit? The cover of this week’s bulletin offers a practical answer from the no-nonsense foundress of the Madonna House Apostolate.

Catherine Doherty’s formula for approaching the Spirit sounds a lot like spring cleaning:

Stand still, and lifting your hearts and hands to God, pray that the mighty word of his Holy Spirit may clear all the cobwebs of fears, selfishness, greed, narrow-heartedness away from the soul: that his tongues of flame may descend to give courage to begin again.

That’s very direct advice from a holy woman who never beat around the bush. Let the Spirit clear away whatever is holding you back, and then receive from the Spirit whatever you need to move forward.

Praying the prayer Catherine Doherty suggests wouldn’t take more than ten minutes of quiet with your bedroom door closed or even right here in church after Mass. Stand still, lift your heart and hands to God, and pray…

And pray practically. Not just “Come, Holy Spirit,” but come to me—come with exactly what I need to start fresh.

Clear away the cobwebs of fear, selfishness and greed. Open my heart wide to receive your gifts.

Having a sense of our spiritual needs—something like the humble admissions of the Scarecrow, the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion—is the first step. The second is simply asking the Spirit to help us live each day well and to give us what it takes to deal with life’s occasional crises and setbacks. We pray with confidence in God’s living and active presence in us, which allows us to pray properly and fruitfully.

All of this is a central message of Pentecost Sunday and a source of deep hope for every Christian.

When I was young my mother taught me that the easy way was almost always the wrong way. A new product called Mop and Glow which you simply squirted on the kitchen floor couldn’t possibly clean and wax it. Anything that didn’t involve getting down on your knees with a bucket was just a scam.

Mom might have been right about floors—although I think nowadays she probably uses Mop and Glow or something like it!—but her wisdom does not transfer to the spiritual life. The easy way is the right way: let's allow the Spirit do the hard work. That's what Jesus himself wanted—he sent us the Spirit so we wouldn’t struggle unnecessarily. He sent us the Spirit to free us from fear, save us from mistakes, and give us peace. Why should we try to obtain all that by our own efforts?

On this day when we recall the first Pentecost, let us pray and expect a new Pentecost—a Pentecost that is personal, a day to ask the Spirit to dwell in us, and to give us—each and every one of us—exactly what we need on our journey through life, day by day.

Society of St. Vincent de Paul Archdiocesan Assembly

One of the first things I noticed when we moved to BC in 1976 was trees. Big trees.

Of course we had big trees in Ontario, but they were mostly in forests. Here, though, we had big tress in our back yard, and forests all around our North Vancouver house. And in happier economic times, many of my friends made a living working for major forest companies; until recently, forestry was the province’s largest industry.

I noticed something else: forest fires. We had those too in Ontario, but no-one really cared. They were “up North,” a vaguely defined region that seemed well removed from our interest and concern in the big city.

But in Vancouver, forest fires were front-page news, and with good reason. Some of them produced enough smoke to affect air quality in the Lower Mainland, while the cost of a large fire was often enough to have a measurable impact on the provincial economy. I was horrified when I found out that an average fire could cost as much as as much as one million dollars per day to fight. Can you imagine that in 2003, the BC government spent over $700 million fighting forest fires?

However, I quickly learned that there was a silver lining to forest fires, despite their cost in dollars and sometimes, far worse, in human lives.

It turns out that the forest actually depends on fires for its long-term existence. Some species are adapted to regenerate even after all individuals over a large area have been killed by fire. Some even store live seed for years, shedding them only after their cones are opened by heat from a fire.

Other prominent species require ground that has been prepared and opened up by fire for optimum regeneration.

Although sixty per cent of fires are caused by people, and only thirty-five per cent by lightning, before Europeans arrived in the forest, perhaps two to three times as much area burned annually as at present, because there was no way to control the fires started by lightning strikes.

Ecologically, then, fire is neither good nor bad, but simply an environmental necessity for the perpetuation of the forest in its natural state.

By now, you are forgiven for asking: has this fellow come to wrong place? Is he supposed to be downtown talking to a lumberman’s convention, or to forestry students at UBC?

Not at all. Everything I have to say today about the Church and about the Society of St. Vincent de Paul flows from what I have said about forests and fires. Because there is a fire raging in our beloved Church that is as threatening and dramatic as any blaze in the woods—a fire of scandal and of sin, exposed to public view as perhaps never before in history.

And here is the conclusion I have drawn after thinking about the statement I quoted a moment ago, “Ecologically… fire is neither good nor bad, but simply an environmental necessity for the perpetuation of the forest.” Scandal is undoubtedly bad, since it is caused by sin, and sin is by definition bad. But: the painful revelation of sin is neither good nor bad, but simply a necessity for the perpetuation of the Church.

In other words, these difficult days are not in themselves to be rejected or even particularly lamented. The reform demanded by the revelation of decades of criminal behavior by a small number of priests and enabling behavior by their bishops is a necessity for the renewal of the Church.

Tragic as these scandals are, tragic in terms of the abused victims and the wounding of the entire Body of Christ, and terrible as the anti-Catholic sentiments they have encouraged are, they will do for the Church exactly what fires do for the forest. They will burn away dead wood, release energy, and provide seed for new growth.

Like fighting a large fire, renewing the Church will demand toil and sweat under great heat and pressure; there may be casualties, and there certainly will be economic loss.

We may need to smell the smoke of Satan, and to be marred by soot, but the success of our battle against evil in the Church is ultimately guaranteed.

The guarantee is beautifully expressed in an Easter hymn that uses the more familiar image of wheat instead of trees:

Now the green blade rises from the buried grain, Wheat that in the dark earth many years has lain; Love lives again, that with the dead has been: Love is come again, like wheat that springs up green.

The green blade, like the buried grain, is of course an image of Christ. The hymn makes that clear in its third verse:

Up He sprang at Easter, like the risen grain, He that for three days in the grave had lain; Up from the dead my risen Lord is seen: Love is come again, like wheat that springs up green.

This regenerative power is not only Christ’s; it belongs also to His Body, the Church. She too springs up green from the depths of sin and scandal, because Jesus calls her, and each of us, not to decay but to life.

The hymn concludes:

When our hearts are saddened, grieving or in pain, By Your touch You call us back to life again; Fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been: Love is come again, like wheat that springs up green.

The touch of the risen Christ calls us back to life from the death we are experiencing. But where do we see this new life? Or—since these are early days still—what can we do to till the soil to cultivate and promote new growth and vitality in the Church?

I suggest to you that there’s only one answer, and a one-word answer at that: Love. Love, both a noun and a verb. Love, the heart of our Society.

It will be love in action that heals the wounds of scandal; love that beats back the hatred of the Church that has spilled out from so many in recent days.

When I speak of the scandals I distinguish between three things that have come to light: outrageous faults that no one can or should defend; tragic errors that can and should be understood, however lamentable; and good old anti-Catholicism. When speaking about anti-Catholicism I am very careful to explain that there’s much in the papers that is rightly and accurately reported and truly shameful. But there’s also a resurgence of anti-Catholicism afoot that demands some kind of response.

And that response can only be love.

So strong was anti-Catholicism in the US before the American Civil War, that there was a political party with the curious name of the Know Nothing Party. When the Washington Monument was being built in the early 1850s, Pope Pius IX contributed a block of marble. Know-Nothings stole the Pope's stone as a protest and supposedly threw it into the Potomac. It was not replaced until 1982.

But they weren’t content with such relatively peaceful attacks on Catholics—in an effort to intimidate Catholics not to vote in Kentucky, Know Nothings killed 22, injured many more, and destroyed property. The Louisville riot was one of a series of violent acts perpetrated by Know Nothing sympathizers in 1855.

What began to turn that poisoned tide was love. During the American Civil War, Mercy Sisters from Ireland nursed the wounded on both sides—and unheard act of charity.

Later, the reputation of Catholic hospitals for treating the poor led many to wonder whether the Church could be as evil as they’d been told. The same was true for the inner-city schools that provided an education for children that the public system seemed unable to deliver. Love conquers all is an expression as old as ancient Rome, but truer today than ever.

The Church today is shorn of many of the means she used in earlier times to show love. Our hospitals, fully funded by the government, are inevitably more secular than sacred. Our schools are full of Catholic children and—as recent criticisms have emphasized—are begrudged even the modest help they receive from the government.

The religious men and women whose dedicated service was a beacon that attracted people to the Church are now few and far between, and it’s unlikely they will revive in numbers any time soon. The heroes of the twentieth century—Mother Teresa and John Paul II—have gone to the Lord.

So where will the Church find witnesses to show Christ to the world? Where is the love?

I know you are answering the question as fast as I ask it. Priests will not be in the forefront of the next great outreach. Sisters will not be the ones to reach the world with charity. It will be you, lay people generally and dedicated members of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul particularly.

The “Mother Teresas” of the future may be, in fact, mothers. The world will be won back to Christ not by another burning torch but by the shining example of people like you who are prepared to be points of light shining in the darkness.

This is not pious talk. I have seen the future, right here at Christ the Redeemer, and it works. When I was approached about having a parish conference here, I was delighted, but even a veteran like myself couldn’t avoid thinking “What on earth are they going to do?” in our affluent community.

Well, I can now answer that question in every detail.

• Street Meals for Directions Youth Services Centre: bag lunches for homeless youth

• Sisters of the Atonement: assisting the Sisters of the Atonement once each month

• Distributing sandwiches, baked goods, bananas, and coffee and juice from the SSVP sandwich truck

• Emergency Lunch Boxes for the SSVP Thrift Store

• Help for Sancta Maria House

And that’s just the organized apostolate, without mentioning the one on one help they have provided on the North Shore to troubled individuals and families, extending practical help in the spirit of Frederic Ozanam, in the spirit of Christian friendship.

This is the charity that can win over the world.

And let me tell you how it’s different from the world’s charity.

The world is generous in many ways. Every day the paper has stories about galas, and runs, and walks, and raffles, and lotteries, all for good causes—their success testifying to the good will that abounds in society.

However, this charity, sincere though it is, is not sacrificial. It is sacrificial, not social charity that makes people take notice. It is sacrificial charity that testifies to the self-giving love of Christ.

The St. Vincent de Paul Society is a model of self-giving and sacrificial love, not social work or do-goodism. This was Blessed Frederic’s core insight—the apostolate of friendship.

It’s illustrated by an old cartoon most of you have seen: a pig and a chicken are talking about opening a restaurant. The pig asks the chicken what they should call the new venture, and the chicken replies “I was thinking maybe ‘Bacon and Eggs.’

To which the pig replies, “No thanks! I’d be committed but you’d only be involved!”

Friends, members of the society are committed to service of the poor, not only involved.

You will need a lot of help to win back the world’s trust of the Church—help from bishops, priests and other patient lay faithful—but you will be in the vanguard of the Church of the 21st Century as it strives to recover its evangelical purity and reject institutional behaviours that are not consistent with the Good News.

This is not my prescription for restoration and re-evangelization. It is Christ’s own formula, since it was He who said “By this will all know that you are my disciples…”

Notice “as I have loved you.” Sacrificial love, not sentimental love; sacrifice, not social work.

In my Sunday homily last week I used a song from the sixties, “What the World Needs Now is Love Sweet Love,” which continued “It’s the only thing that there’s just too little of.” I gave some thought to singing it, since many of my parishioners weren’t born when the song was a hit for Jackie DeShannon and Dionne Warwick. But you’re a slightly more mature group, so I’m not tempted to croon a few bars.

I am tempted, though, to change the lyrics. To change them to “What the Church needs now, is love, sweet love—it’s the only thing that there’s just too little of…”

A Church wounded by her own members, indeed by her own ministers, a Church still finding itself in the modern world of publicly funded education and social services, needs love—love in action, love as healing, love as witness to the Church’s primary purpose.

The Church, in a word, needs you—you, the members of this great Society, inspired by the example of one of Christianity’s great heroes, St. Vincent de Paul. Let’s not forget in these stormy times for the Church that his were stormier still—although reforms were well underway by the time St. Vincent was born in 1580, one biographer could still write “Even in the most degenerate times, when the truths of the Gospel seem almost obliterated among the majority of those who profess it, God fails not to raise to himself faithful ministers to revive charity in the hearts of many.”

Happily, these are not the worst of times, but they are not the best of times either. But certainly God does continue to raise up faithful ministers of charity in His Church to bear witness to the fact that He is love.

May each and every member of our Society, true to the inspiration of Vincent and Frederic, continue to show the world the ever-green beauty of the Church.