Stewardship - Part 1

It's only fair that I tell you that my homily's a long one today. I'm a bit nervous about that, because I heard the other day about a parishioner who came up to her pastor after Mass and said "Father, your homily today reminded me of the peace and love of God!"

He was thrilled, and replied "No one has ever said anything like that about my preaching before. Tell me why."

"Well," she said, "it reminded me of the peace of God because it passed all understanding and the love of God because it endured forever!"

The fact is, a short sermon on stewardship is pretty near impossible: because stewardship is, quite simply, a way of life. It touches all that we do, inside and outside of Church. Today, we're going to take a look at half a dozen ways that stewardship matters to us as Christian men and women, but that's really just a beginning.

But let's get started with these six stewardship truths.

Number one: we are stewards of the sacraments.

In the first reading St. Philip encounters Christians who had been baptized without receiving the Holy Spirit; they hadn't been fully initiated by the apostles. Today, most adults have been confirmed—but have we allowed the graces we received to bear fruit in our lives?

We speak, in fact, of the baptism of the Holy Spirit, which is not a sacrament but rather a conscious decision to allow the power given us in baptism and confirmation to make a profound difference in us. To welcome and use the spiritual gifts we received in baptism and confirmation is the beginning of all stewardship.

The final sacrament of Christian initiation, the Eucharist, calls us in a particular way to stewardship. A true steward values what has been entrusted to his or her care; a true steward guards what is precious.

To eat the Bread of Life thoughtlessly or unworthily is the direct opposite of a steward's response. To receive the Eucharist in a state of unconfessed grave sin is an irresponsible act, sinful in itself. When we receive the Eucharist without preparation or thanksgiving, we don't maximize the blessing God wants to give us in the Body and Blood of His Son.

Stewards know that they are not owners. We are not entitled to receive Holy Communion on our terms, but according to the law of Christ and His Church.

Other sacraments also invite us to stewardship. The sacrament of penance requires we give an accounting to God, the owner and author of life. Requesting the sacrament of the sick in a timely fashion when we are sick or face surgery, and doing the same for our loved ones, is a way of taking care of ourselves spiritually and making sure we have the strength we need to face illness.

Stewards need to be forward-thinking: a good steward always has a prudent eye on the future. So we need to approach the sacrament of holy orders with a spirit of stewardship, working and praying for sufficient priests to meet our needs.

And we don't need to get too spiritual to see the connection between marriage and stewardship: every family knows the need for careful financial planning and so on. But there's much more involved when the couple are Christian stewards, because they know they have a responsibility for each other's salvation, and a very special responsibility for their children.

Children are not the property of their parents; that idea went out with the Middle Ages. But nor are they independent: parents who know that their children belong to God care for them as stewards, as God's agents.

Just this week there were two stories in the paper about what happens when this relationship between parent and child is not understood. One couple in Toronto are raising their child without reference to gender. They will not say whether the child is a boy or a girl—he or she can make that choice whenever he or she is ready.

A second couple are practicing "unschooling," where children learn whatever they want to learn. They are also in Toronto, by the way, which is probably doing a lot to help BC shed its reputation as Canada's most far-out province.

Catholic schools exist because parents and many others believe we have a duty to share truth with the young. They survive because adults make sacrifices to build and run our schools as stewards of the truth and in a relationship of stewardship towards the younger generation.

Our parish religious education program exists to help parents meet the same responsibilities to children who don't go to Catholic schools.

I've spent so long on our stewardship of the seven sacraments that I'm going to have trouble fulfilling my promise to look at six ways of stewardship. But it's important to talk about our role as stewards of the sacraments, because stewardship of the riches flowing from them is the kind of long-term investment any wise person understands. As St. Augustine has written, "no one can be ready for the next life unless he trains himself for it now."

So let's move to number two: we are stewards of our bodies. We hear more and more about people having a right to their bodies. It began, of course, as an argument for abortion, and has now become an argument for assisted suicide. The assumption, of course, is that we own our bodies and can dispose of them as we please.

The fact is, of course, that we didn't create our bodies, and we don't own our bodies. We're stewards precisely because God is the author of life and the Sovereign owner of all creation—which includes us.

Stewardship of our bodies means more than rejecting abortion and suicide, of course. It means caring for our health by positive means like exercise and a proper diet, and striving to overcome addictions and habits like drugs, smoking and excessive drinking that don't show a steward's respect towards the precious gift of life entrusted to us by God.

It means, of course, using the gift of our sexuality as intended by the Creator, which is to say only within marriage and in a way that is open to the transmission of life.

We might even say that paying attention to funeral planning is a final act of stewardship towards the body God has given us. In our secular society, we can't assume that our heirs or executors will arrange a Catholic funeral with the body present for the funeral Mass. That's one of the reasons we will have a funeral information evening here on Wednesday; the details are in the bulletin.

A third form of stewardship is becoming more and more important: we are stewards of creation. In this area, the Christian understanding of stewardship is crucial to a right use of our natural resources.

Just yesterday I saw a bumper sticker that read "Trees are the answer." Instantly I thought, "But what is the question?"

Stewards know that they have a solemn obligation to conserve what's been entrusted to their care. We can neither neglect nor squander what God has provided. Forestry and mining practices of the past are now clearly seen as inconsistent with our duties as stewards of the environment.

At the same time, a wise steward must know the reason for his stewardship. Who would want to manage a vineyard where the grapes were never picked? The world is not our property, but God gave it to us for a purpose—and that purpose is the good of humanity.

The good of humanity requires sound environmental policies and practices, but in recent times there has been some confusion about what comes first—the good of the planet for its own sake, or the human good. Scripture and the Church teach that all that is exists for the good of man, recognizing always that this good is ill-served when the earth is not respected.

We use this earth and its resources humbly when we know ourselves to be stewards rather than owners.

We can pick up some speed now, since numbers four, five and six are a related trio: as you've heard it said many times before, we are stewards of our time, talent and treasure.

What does it mean to be a steward of your time? First and foremost, it means recognizing that every moment comes from God. In the second reading, St. Peter calls us to keep our hearts holy—to be spiritual all the time, not some of the time.

On a very practical level, a steward understands that time is a limited resource. We only have so much of it. We must give God his proper share by planning our week and our day in a responsible way. This means assigning time every day for prayer, making sure we get to Mass each and every Sunday, and doing our level best to arrive on time.

We all have excuses, of course. There was even one persistent latecomer who told the priest "I'm just following the Lord's example. If Christ can rise up early in the morning just one Sunday a year, that's good enough for me!"

Someone said "if you fail to plan, you plan to fail." That's a truth everyone who misses Mass or regularly arrives late should spend some time thinking about. Stewards are planners.

Stewardship of our talents comes straight from the Gospel. We all know the parable of the slaves who were given money to invest—by a happy coincidence, in many translations the currency was called talents—and we know that the Master wanted to see an increase on his investment.

We provide that increase before God when we use our talents for His glory. There are as many ways as there are human gifts. As I was thinking about my homily yesterday afternoon I looked around the church, and I was dazzled by the beauty of the flowers—not only on the altar but in the side chapels. Do you know how our flowers get arranged? By one dedicated and gifted parishioner, who gives a return to God every week.

The efforts to beautify our church would not have been half as successful if I had been in charge. Instead, parishioners who are architects and designers and simply insightful all donated their time and talent to direct the work.

A young parishioner has spent countless hours working on our new website in recent weeks, while countless parishioners serve on the many committees and councils that keep our parish strong.

Not many like to hear about the stewardship of treasure—about financial generosity—and yet it too is inescapably biblical. Priests usually apologize for speaking about money; yet Jesus never apologized. Neither did Paul. There are a remarkable number of places where the New Testament deals with the need to be generous.

The subject of our assets, and the blessings that come when we no longer think like their owners but as their stewards, is so important that I'll devote the entire homily to it next week. So you can't say you weren't warned.

Following the Way All the Way

Every so often I try to offer some very down to earth advice in my homily. So here's some wisdom to remember: don't buy a cheap GPS.

I had a good GPS, but I leant it to Father Xavier, and it soon became clear that he needed it a lot more than I did. So when I was in Oregon last month I picked one up for a mere $99, with no HST.

Ever since, this useless device has told me to turn down one-way streets, directed me to drive to Surrey via Horseshoe Bay, and once even brought me back where I started after ten minutes of driving according to the instructions of that unpleasant voice that lives inside a GPS.

Not much point in having an unreliable GPS, is there? If we're not sure of the way, we need to be confident in the directions.

So we can understand the confusion of Thomas and Philip in today's Gospel. They want to know exactly how to get to this place where Jesus is going. And yet they don't need directions at all—because the one they're asking is Himself the way to the Father.

Think how important this is to us. No road map, no guidebook, and no GPS can take the place of having someone beside you in the car who knows the way. It takes away all the worry about getting lost or stranded.

Jesus, of course, helps us further still. He not only shows us the way, He is the Way, "the very incarnation and expression of the Absolute which we human beings seek and for whom we were made" [Glenstall Bible Missal, 301].

In other words, in His own person he guarantees that the journey we are making is the right journey: it's no good having the right directions to the wrong destination. As Christians, we're not only on the right road, we're heading to the right place. His Resurrection is all the evidence we need to confirm our decision to head towards the Father's house.

In the face of Jesus, who appeared on earth, we recognize the loving face of the Father, and we long for the Father's house, where the Risen Lord has prepared a place for us.

No-one has perfect faith, but the sure and certain directions that Jesus offers his followers really should relieve our troubled hearts from much of their distress.

Of course the journey to the Father isn't like a non-stop flight to Toronto or Montreal. We are pilgrims and travelers, and there are stopping places and turning points. The first reading shows the Spirit helping the Church at one important turning point. Traditionally, the seven men on whom the apostles laid hands are identified as the first deacons.

In our local Church we have high hopes that the ministry of permanent deacons will help many to know the Father better, and to reveal to the world the face of Christ His Son.

As you know, Archbishop Miller has asked me to direct the new permanent diaconate program in the archdiocese. It's been a big challenge to meet with many interested men and their wives, and to try and answer their questions.

One of the big questions I get asked is 'why are only men called to the diaconate.' There's not one short and snappy answer, but part of the answer I offer appears in the second reading of today's Mass. The diaconate is a ministry, not an honour. The greatest source of honour and dignity in the Church is not Holy Orders but baptism. It's our baptism that makes us all members of a chosen race and a royal priesthood.

Citizenship in the holy nation of God's own people comes from our rebirth by water and the Spirit.

This came home to me very forcefully yesterday when I officiated at the marriage of Meghan Magee and Chris Chapman, our parish's first youth ministers. In my homily I talked about the recent royal wedding to make the point that Chris and Meghan's was no less royal because of their baptismal dignity.

What I didn't mention was that their wedding was not an act of my priesthood but of theirs. I was only a witness to the sacrament that they celebrated with each other. And even the happiest Christian marriage is a holy sacrifice offered to the Father by virtue of the couple's share in the common priesthood of all believers.

What is true of our newlyweds is, of course, true of all of us. By living our baptism fully—by proclaiming the mighty deeds of God and living lives that reflect our royal dignity—we do the works that Jesus did, in the power he shares with us through His Holy Spirit.

And that, of course, is what it means to follow the Way, the Truth, and the Life, all the way to the Father's house.

Chris & Meghan’s Wedding

Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.

The words belong to Saint Catherine of Siena, but if they sound a bit familiar, it's because you heard them at the start of the homily at the recent marriage of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, better known as Prince William and Kate.

The homilist, Bishop Richard Chartres, continued: "Marriage is intended to be a way in which man and woman help each other to become what God meant each one to be, their deepest and truest selves."

Now let me admit that the royal wedding might seem an odd starting place for a homily at the marriage of a young woman named Meghan Magee!

But between the Queen's recent visit to Ireland and the fact that the streets of Dublin and Cork were empty as thousands of Irish republicans watched the royal wedding on TV, I think I can get away with it.

Because, you see, this afternoon we are celebrating another royal wedding. Even though Chris isn't wearing a bright red uniform, and Meghan won't be a princess when we're finished, they stand before this altar with truly royal dignity.

In the first place, as Bishop Chartres explained, "in a sense every wedding is a royal wedding with the bride and the groom as king and queen of creation, making a new life together so that life can flow through them into the future."

But Chris and Meghan were royalty long before their wedding day, not from an accident of birth, but from baptism. We know this from the First Letter of St. Peter, who declared the dignity of all believers when he wrote "you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood."

And when you combine the natural nobility of marriage with the supernatural dignity of the baptized, you end up with a reality so awesome that all the glass carriages and pageantry in the world can't add a thing to it.

Alas, the reality is not always recognized. We began this wedding with a greeting from St. Paul—"the grace and peace of God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you." At all too many weddings nowadays, the greeting to the couple might as well be "very pleased to meet you."

Some couples want two readings at the ceremony, to keep it short and allow more time for pictures. Others want three so that there's something to do for the cousin from Chicago who showed up unexpectedly.

But Meghan and Chris, you needed three readings just to share the basic outline of your faith with us.

You chose the shortest and the simplest Gospel reading in the book. It details the Creator's plan for man and woman, already created in His image and likeness. It is a plan that makes you one, even as Jesus and His Father are one.

The full richness of this plan emerges from the other two readings. The first reading, from the prophet Jeremiah, proclaims that your vows are not a contract, but a covenant—a covenant with each other and with God, who has already made a covenant with you.

Unlike Melissa and Joe a few years back, you didn't ask me to talk at your wedding about the complex topic of Pope John Paul's theology of the body—for which I thank you! But I must point out that Jeremiah's words point to a related subject, the law of God written on your hearts—what some call the natural law—and to your desire and willingness to follow all aspects of that law in your married life.

The second reading is a bold response to something Bishop Chartres mentioned in his homily: "We stand looking forward to a century which is full of promise and full of peril." The truth is that every life in every century is full of promise and peril; but you have embraced St. Paul's bold answer to the fears the future brings: nothing in all creation can separate you from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Nothing can, and—I believe—nothing will. For Chris and Meghan, you yourselves are really a homily on the readings you have chosen, because the plan for Christian marriage that you have welcomed is obviously part of a bigger plan that you have allowed to shape your lives long before today.

You have not "crammed" for this day; you have worked steadily to be who God meant you to be.

You will not slacken after this day; you will strive daily to be who God means you to be.

And I haven't the slightest doubt: you will set the world on fire.

That fire may burn brightly or glow gently—how your lives warm the world is up to God. But to paraphrase the words of Blessed John Henry Newman that I chose for my ordination card, 25 years ago:

God created you to do Him some definite service.
He has committed some work to you,
which He has not committed to another.

In the Sacrament of Marriage, God now consecrates you for that service, and unites you as you work to build His kingdom in your home and in the world.

Blessed John Paul, Pray for Us!

Instead of a homily on this Sunday when the Church rejoices in the beatification of Pope John Paul II, I made a few changes to an article I'd written for the Vancouver Sun just after his death and turned it into a sermon.

Follow me. These two words are the key to understanding the message of Pope John Paul II, according to his successor, Pope Benedict.

But the words don't belong to our newly-beatified Blessed John Paul. In his funeral homily, Cardinal Ratzinger pointed out that they belong to Jesus, who says "follow me" no less than eighteen times in the gospels.

Pope John Paul wasn't trying to make disciples for himself. For him, "follow me," meant only one thing: follow Christ.

Many modern celebrities cry out "look at me." John Paul proclaimed "look at Him!" Even by means of his personal charisma, the Pope directed our attention to Christ. At World Youth Day in Toronto he told young people to listen for Jesus speaking to them with "his gentle and urgent voice," just like the first disciples.

To even begin to understand the impact and appeal of Blessed John Paul, we must look at Jesus. If that sounds a bit odd or pious, it can only be because we have let Christ grow pale in our minds. Bad preaching or teaching can strip him of his compelling appeal and radical message. Pope John Paul was convinced that his chief task was to reintroduce the world—especially youth—to friendship with the real Jesus, the most attractive personality who ever lived, to the blessings that friendship with him offers and to the demands it makes.

For the late Pope, to know Christ was to know how to live and how to love, in good times and bad. It meant being loved, by God himself. Knowing Christ was like breathing the crisp air of the mountains that Karol Wojtyla loved to hike; there was nothing stuffy about it.

And of course John Paul taught without words. He forgave and embraced the man who tried to kill him, he accepted disability with good humour, and he carried on with determination and patience through pain and illness. No-one who saw the broadcast or the photo of him clutching a crucifix as he watched the Way of the Cross on his final Good Friday will ever forget the image.

Right to the moment of his noble and very public death, he was "a living gospel for all to hear," in the words of the preface from the feast of apostles.

These actions were not original: they imitated Christ, who forgave his executioners and who made his death a symbol of ultimate victory, much as the dying Pope did. Again, John Paul's wordless "follow me" meant "follow the one I am following."

I had the privilege to be in Rome for the papal funeral. Nothing in my experience begins to compare, not even the Pope's 1984 visit to Vancouver, in which I also took part. Picture what the streets look like downtown just after Rogers Arena or B.C. Place empties after a game—but then imagine the crowd doesn't stop surging by for four full days.

No-one was prepared for what happened. A young friend, a former seminarian married and living in Ireland, called me shortly after the Pope died asking where I'd recommend he stay in Rome.

"That depends," I said. "Are you coming on business or holiday?"

I really didn't get it! And if that wasn't enough, when he said something about wanting to pay his respects, I thought he meant... to me!

It wasn't long before I finally understood what was going on around me. Everyone I met had a story. A hasty flight from Medicine Hat. A fifteen-hour trip from Sicily by bus and boat—and an immediate return after filing by the Pope's body.

After nine hours in line, one young Italian said simply "how could I not say a last good-bye?"

But the big story was not fondness—it was faith. A senior Vatican bishop told how he'd met a young man the night before who pleaded to be admitted after the doors of St. Peter's had closed. The bishop explained to that it had proved impossible to accommodate everyone. Still the young fellow pleaded.

"I came here for the youth celebration during the Jubilee year 2000," he said. "I was a convinced atheist and I came to mock.

"But in the Pope's presence I was moved to think—and I found my faith."

Touched by the story, the bishop let the man into to St. Peter's through a side door. He knelt beside the Pope's body and sobbed for ten minutes.

Despite the joy we feel at today's beatification—and our hope for his eventual canonization—the lasting contribution of Blessed John Paul to the Church and to the world will not be determined by how well or how often he is remembered. It will be found in the sprouting of the seeds of faith he planted, in hearts young and old. In this sense, his work has not ended but is just beginning.

The good news that he proclaimed—messages of hope, of peace, of love, and of human dignity—did not originate with him and did not die with him. We need to respond to his enduring teachings with the courage and conviction that he himself showed.

There lies the challenge offered to us by the life and death of John Paul II: to admire or to imitate?

The challenge confronts, of course, every Catholic, and other Christians as well.

Will bishops and priests of the third millennium be formed by the example of Pope John Paul, and strive with all their energy to live the Gospel without compromise, preaching as much by what they do as by what they say?

Will each member of the Church attempt to live what we believe, even when the tide's running against us? Will we step out of the "cafeteria line" of individualistic faith, and embrace the uncompromising Catholic teaching that was the hallmark of his pontificate?

Other Christians as well, pressured to conform to the world's ways, can find strength from the example of the new Blessed. Will the legacy of Pope John Paul—whom a Protestant friend of mine called "the best Evangelical I ever knew"—encourage them to maintain unpopular positions that are faithful to the Gospel's more difficult teachings?

Already there are signs that the late Pope's willingness to carry on a humble dialogue with the members of other faiths has borne fruit. The numerous representatives of the Jewish and Moslem communities were impossible to miss in their places of honour at his funeral; will they, too, find the courage to persevere in a difficult task?

Throughout his long pontificate, John Paul II challenged all of us—Catholics, Protestants, Jews, Moslems, Sikhs, and all people of good will—to live our beliefs with greater charity, consistency and courage.

And at its end, without words, he invited all who suffer, who fear or face death, to live our trials with serenity and purpose, as he did.

John Paul II led—by following. And now may he intercede for the Church, the world, and for each one of us.

Neil McCabe Smith, 1929 - 2011

This week I had the painful privilege of celebrating two funeral Masses for my father. One took place in my parish, for he died while visiting BC, and the other in his, before his burial in Ontario. The homilies are similar, but I am posting both.

May he rest in peace.

***

Friday, April 29, 2011

St. Ann's Parish, Ancaster, Ontario

When Mom and Dad moved back to Ancaster after almost half a century, I was very happy that they both liked the pastor, Father Ray Modeski, and was delighted again when they liked his replacement, Father Dan Miehm, just as much.

(Dad had also always spoken very highly of Father Loftus, who was here in the 1950s, so St. Ann's must attract great pastors!)

I had a very private reason to be pleased that Mom and Dad liked their pastor: it meant there'd be someone to preach when this sad day came, as I knew it must eventually. Because I knew for sure that I wasn't the man for the job—when my Great Aunt Dorothy died at 99, I managed to choke up completely two minutes into the homily.

I figured God was trying to tell me something!

But I guess I figured wrong. I've already preached one homily for Dad and I'm up here this morning trying to do it again.

In Vancouver, I spent a lot of time at the start of Mass preparing the congregation for our family's ability to break the world record for tears. I even quoted a line from Bob Hope: "I come from a family where they cry at baseball games."

The congregation laughed loudly when I said "at the wedding of my niece Jennifer there were more tears than at most funerals." They thought I was joking!

Many of you here this morning don't need to be prepared; you've seen me and the rest of the family in action before. But in fairness to my Dad, I do have to point out that this teary family trait didn't come from him:

A good eight months after her mother died, Mom started to cry at a family dinner when someone mentioned Gram's name. Dad said with some exasperation "Oh, Jane!" His sister, our Aunt Pat, was at the table with us, and she promptly came to Mom's defense. She said "Neil, you cried when Mother died!" ... to which he responded drily, "Once."

Since I take after my mother—who also choked up at Dorothy's funeral and was gracefully rescued by Aunt Denise—I may well falter today, which is why I asked Father Dan to stand in the wings with a copy of my homily and to give me hand when I need it.

But as things turned out in Vancouver, after I carefully explained how the family's tears shouldn't be taken too seriously, everyone, including me, held themselves together wonderfully. Now many of my parishioners think I was making it all up.

It's too early to guess how things will go today for me and the rest of the family. We might behave ourselves as we did in Vancouver, or we may decide that today's our day to fall apart.

Whatever happens, please don't mistake our teary family trait for more than it is. We know that Dad had a great life and a peaceful end, and we really do feel that peace. Our outsides just don't always match our insides!

So bear with me, and my kind understudy Father Dan, as I do my best to share some thoughts with you this morning.

During his ten weeks of illness, Dad was in two hospitals; for much of the time he was at the hospital where Sheila had worked for many years, and it was a real blessing that some of the doctors and nurses who cared for him in the intensive care unit knew Sheila well.

Another blessing was the hospital chaplain, a young Baptist minister from Estonia. (I didn't even know they had Baptists in Estonia, and never did figure out how he made it to Vancouver.) But this gentle man always seemed to be there when we needed him most, and he helped me personally more than once.

He said something to Mom when things got bad, and it's stuck with her and with me. Life is a circle.... with a beginning and an end.

Certainly I feel part of a circle this morning, preaching in this church right next door to the classroom where I started kindergarten!

A priest friend of mine also told me something connected to this idea of the circle of life. When I called to say that Dad had died, he quoted these words from a book he'd been reading: "mourning is a romance in reverse."

I nearly dropped the phone. There's the circle again. And listen to the rest of the quotation: "the meaning of life is connected, inextricably, to the meaning of death; and if you love, you grieve and there are no exceptions - only those who do it well and those who don't." [The Undertaking: Life Studies from the Dismal Trade by Thomas Lynch, page 25.]

For all our weepiness, I think these words describe what Mom and the rest of us are feeling. If you love, you grieve, and there are no exceptions; it's a romance in reverse.

We cry because we are so thankful to Dad for loving us so much and so well; and we cry because we are grateful for having so many years to love him back.

But that's still less than half the story. It's not only about human love. It's not only about married love or the love found in a family.

On the contrary, the circle is completed by God's love. God's love is very much a part of our grateful celebration this morning.

The family chose Scripture readings that connect Dad's life and death with the faith that sustained him and us. We may not be the most pious family I know, but it truly was faith that carried us through a long Lent, to a painful Palm Sunday, and now to an Easter that is hard but hope-filled.

The readings give us more than comfort; they give us strength.

We chose the first reading because it sums up what has kept us going since Dad died: first, our belief that eternal rest is the reward for a life well-lived. All of us are thankful today that he lived his life as a faithful Christian and can rightly expect that his good deeds will be seen by the just Judge.

And if I don't say more than that about Dad, you can blame him: he was very specific in wanting no eulogy, and I don't want to cheat by turning this homily into one.

The first reading also reflects our joy that Dad "died in the Lord"—that he died after receiving the sacraments of the Church, and in the full hope of salvation that they promise.

He began his final journey with the Sacrament of the Sick on the morning of his heart attack; he continued it with the Sacrament of Penance the morning of his surgery, and concluded it with the Eucharist just hours before he died. While these saving signs were meant to comfort and strengthen him in illness, their ultimate purpose was to lead him safely to heaven, which is what we believe they did.

I should mention that I was naturally terrified of administering what used to be called "the last rites" to my own father; I was quite sure I'd break down. So I arranged for a generous chaplain to visit him at bedtime the night before his open heart surgery.

"Thank you so much, Father," he told the young priest when he arrived, "but my son will look after me when he gets here in the morning!"

And I did, somehow!

I also managed to give Dad Holy Communion one last time (known as Viaticum) on the day he died. I brought along another priest as back-up, but I managed the main prayers myself. Mom and all five children were there, and since it was a Sunday—Palm Sunday, at that—it sort of symbolized my parents' faithfulness to Sunday Mass.

Many people in Vancouver mentioned how blessed our parents are to have five children who all regularly practice the faith together with their families. I explained that there are a number of reasons for that, but none more important than the fact that our family never missed Sunday Mass.

Even on camping trips Mom and Dad planned in advance and knew where we could get to Mass; at Lake Rosseau, we went to church in Uncle Jack's motorboat. That really impressed people out in BC, for a ride in a small boat over choppy waters can be a sacrifice. On the glassy waters of a Muskoka lake it was a pure treat.

In any case, I really am convinced that this commitment to the Sunday obligation was the chief reason we've stayed so close to the Church. It certainly wasn't our outstanding piety at home: when I was in university I brought a priest friend home for dinner one Friday, and when the meal was served, Dad turned to Mom and said "Well, Jane, shall we be hypocrites and ask Father to say grace, or shall we start dinner as usual?"

We did say grace on Sundays, and I have to say that in recent years we manage to do so on weekdays as well, so we've improved a bit.

Let's get back to the readings.... We chose the consoling words of the Twenty-Second Psalm for a number of reasons. One of the reasons is the beautiful picture it paints of the heavenly banquet to which our earthly Eucharist leads. Many a Sunday Mass might have been hot and crowded, but somehow we got the connection to the green pastures and restful waters that God promises.

Another reason we chose that psalm is that it doesn't pretend that the Good Shepherd spares us every struggle and sorrow. Instead, it says He leads us, and walks with us, even in the darkest valleys. There were some dark valleys as we prayed and hoped that Dad would recover. But just before he died, I asked Mom and several of the other kids whether they felt closer to God or farther away after such tough times; they all said "closer," and that's my answer too.

From what I've already said, it should be pretty clear why we chose the second reading, where St. Paul teaches that Christians must not grieve like those who have no hope. I think we were afraid we'd be weeping buckets, and would need St. Paul to shake some sense into us.

But I've already explained that the tears we've shed, and the grief we feel, don't mean a lack of faith or hope. Even with tears, we celebrated Easter this year believing those words of St. Paul: that Jesus died and rose again and that God will bring with Him all who have died in Christ—including our Dad.

The Gospel story that we chose for today is one of my favourites—and it's one of the most tearful passages in all the Bible. But it does more than make us feel better about being so emotional. The tears that Jesus wept for Lazarus show us his human nature; his tears draw us closer to Him; and they give us confidence in his deep compassion and love for us, especially in times of sorrow.

In the end, our own tears don't matter all that much, considering the wonderful promise in the last book of the Bible, the Book of Revelation: God himself will wipe away every tear from our eyes, "and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away." (21:4)

***

Easter Monday, April 25, 2011

Christ the Redeemer Parish, West Vancouver

[Introduction Before Mass]

I'd like to begin with a word of welcome to you all, and to introduce specially the priests seated in the sanctuary. We're blessed to have with us the pastors of all four of Dad's children who live here:

Archbishop Michael Miller, my pastor, Father Stanley Galvon, pastor of Sheila and her family, Msgr. Bernard Rossi, pastor of Nancy and her family, and Msgr. Pedro Lopez-Gallo, pastor to Kevin and his family.

Beside the archbishop is our Vicar General, Msgr. Stephen Jensen and Msgr. Mark Hagemoen, Episcopal vicar for pastoral services. Beside me is my good friend and seminary classmate Father Don Larson.

Also in the sanctuary is Deacon Bryan Duggan, soon to the be the newest priest in the Archdiocese of Vancouver, Seminarian Pablo Santa Maria, soon to be the newest deacon in the Archdiocese, and Seminarian Daniel Jodoin, who won't be the newest anything in our Archdiocese, since he belongs to the Archdiocese of Grouard-McLennan in North Alberta.

I am deeply grateful to the Archbishop, to all the priests, and to all of you for being here with us this morning.

But I didn't make you sit down just for introductions.

If I don't say a few words before Mass begins, I'm afraid we're all going to find this funeral harder than it needs to be, and less uplifting than it ought to be.

As you have probably already noticed, I come from a family that has taken public displays of weeping to almost unheard-of levels. At the wedding of my niece Jennifer, there were more tears than at most funerals.

To quote Bob Hope, I come from a family where they cry at baseball games. (I'm sure there's a Canadian version of that line, but I don't want to jinx the Canucks.)

We don't really know where this family trait came from; certainly not from my father. A good eight months after her mother died, Mom started to cry at a family dinner when someone mentioned Grandma's name. Dad said with some exasperation "Oh, Jane!" His sister, my aunt Pat, was with us, and promptly came to Mom's defense by saying "Neil, you cried when Mother died," to which he responded drily, "Once."

I will try to explain more in the homily how our tears do not mean we are as devastated as we may look; Dad had a great life and a peaceful end, and we really do feel that peace. Our outsides just don't match our insides!

So I want to forewarn you about my difficulty in keeping myself together, lest you be unnecessarily uncomfortable.

Please expect me to falter, and to need help getting through this; but don't mistake this family trait for more than it is. My family and I are so grateful that you are here with us, and we ask you to take us as we are.

[Homily proper]

This is the hardest homily I have ever had to preach—and the easiest.

It's hard for the obvious reasons I touched upon at the start of Mass. But at the same time, a priest who can't preach at a funeral the day after Easter should look for another line of work!

To make things easier still—and still more difficult—each of the readings the family has chosen connect my father's illness and death with the faith that has sustained us through Dad's two-month illness, the faith that we profess this Easter Monday morning.

We chose the first reading because it sums up in a very few words what we believe: first, that eternal rest is the reward for a life well-lived. We're thankful that our father lived his life as a faithful Catholic and could rightly expect that his good deeds will be seen by the just Judge.

But this short passage also allows us to rejoice that Dad "died in the Lord"—that he died after receiving the sacraments, and in the full hope of the salvation they promise.

He began his final journey with the anointing of the sick on the morning of his heart attack, continued it with the sacrament of penance the morning of his surgery, and concluded it with the Eucharist just hours before he died. While these saving signs were meant to comfort and strengthen him in illness, their ultimate purpose was to lead him safely to heaven, which is what we believe they did.

The same note of hope recurs in our Psalm, which paints such a wonderful picture of the heavenly banquet to which our earthly Eucharist leads. Many people have commented on what a blessing it is for my parents to have five children who all practice the faith together with their families. While there are a number of reasons for that, if some of the younger couples would like to know my parents' secret, I'll happily share it with you: our family did not miss Sunday Mass. Not rarely, never.

Even on camping trips my Mom and Dad planned in advance and knew where we could get to Mass; at one cottage we rented, we went to Mass by motorboat. I'm really convinced that this commitment to the Sunday obligation was the chief reason we have stayed so close to the Church. It certainly wasn't our outstanding piety at home: I brought a priest friend home for dinner one weeknight when I was in university, and when the meal was served, Dad turned to Mom and said "Well, Jane, shall we be hypocrites and ask Father to say grace, or shall we start dinner as usual?"

We did say grace on Sundays, and I must point out that in recent years we manage to do so on weekdays as well, at least when I'm home!

Another reason we chose Psalm 22 is that it doesn't pretend that the Good Shepherd spares us every struggle and sorrow. Instead, the psalm proclaims that He walks beside us, even in our dark valleys. And certainly there were dark valleys as we prayed and hoped that Dad would recover. But just before he died, I asked Mom and several of my siblings whether they felt closer to God after these tough weeks, or farther away; they all said "closer," and that's my answer too.

From what I said at the beginning of Mass, it should be pretty clear why we chose to read those words in which St. Paul teaches that Christians must not grieve like those who have no hope. Our emotional family may be weeping buckets, but our tears are not for lack of faith or hope. They flow, instead, from an abundance of gratitude. We are thankful to our father for loving us well; and we are grateful for having so many years to love him in return.

My family and I may be shedding more tears than you've ever seen in one place, but on this Easter Monday we fully and firmly believe that Jesus died and rose again and that God will bring with Him Dad and all who have died in Christ.

The Gospel today is from the funeral liturgy, but we also heard it read on the Fifth Sunday of Lent. I preached on the gift of tears at all the Masses that Sunday, hoping to prepare the parish community for the sight of their weeping pastor.

In that homily I mentioned how I wondered as a child why people got so upset when someone died, since Christians believed that they were going to live forever. Didn't tears show a lack of faith?

But when Jesus wept for Lazarus, cried at the sight of Jerusalem, and was torn by anguish in the Garden of Gethsemane he answered that question. Since Jesus had perfect trust in the Father, his emotions can't have been a weakness. They were, on the contrary, part of his human nature.

In fact, those tears help to reveal his human nature to us, and to strengthen our faith in his compassion and love.

And though my family and I weep today, we rejoice in the promise made in the Book of Revelation: God himself "will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away."

Running not Trudging on Easter Morning

Did anybody here join in the Sun Run last week?

I would ask you to tell us your time, but if it was good you shouldn't be bragging in church, and if it was bad I don't want to embarrass you.

I entered a 10K race once, but I came in well behind a friend who ran with her baby in his stroller. So when reading the story of the first Easter morning, I can identify with St. Peter. He lost the race. This must have been so awkward for the first Pope that St. Luke's version of the story doesn't mention St. John! In Luke's Gospel, Peter was running alone; pretty hard to come in second if you're the only runner.

It doesn't much matter who reached the empty tomb first. What stands out is that Peter and John were running. But why? Why did the two apostles race to the tomb after meeting Mary Magdalene early on that dark morning? If someone had carried off the Lord's body, what were they supposed to do about it?

They ran to the tomb because Jesus challenged them to. Peter, the apostle who first recognized Jesus as the Christ, the Son of God, had the gift of faith. Not perfect faith—the Gospel says he wasn't sure what he'd find when he reached to tomb, since the two apostles did not understand that Jesus must rise from the dead—but faith nonetheless. Faith enough to run to the tomb.

John, the beloved disciple, had hope. Hope that came from knowing the love of Jesus. Love that would not—could not—abandon His friends, or "leave them orphans."

Was the race to the tomb a mere detail, something included in the Gospel to show another of the reasons why weak Peter was chosen to head the early Church? I don't think so, since he's only a runner-up to the spry St. John.

No, I think the racing apostles pose a challenge, a challenge to you and me.

Let's imagine ourselves huddled with the apostles that first Easter morning, still sick with grief. Mary Magdalene arrives with her news. What would be our reaction?

Would we have just a glimmer of hope, and tell her, "well, perhaps I'll just stroll over later in the day and take a quick look"?

Or would we run? Would we have enough faith in what Jesus had said to fly along the path, still uncrowded in the early dawn, panting with exertion, heart pounding with hope in God and His promises?

The truth, of course, is that we don't know. We don't know if, put to that test, we'd be Peters and Johns, or doubting Thomases.

But we do know how we came to church this morning. Did we race here in joy, eager to see and to believe? Or did we stroll in, just to take a quick look?

Maybe some of us didn't even stroll; we trudged! "It's Easter, so I guess we ought to go to church."

There may be reasons why some of us don't feel like celebrating this feast to the full. Perhaps we're feeling loaded down, like runners who've packed on the pounds since last Easter. We may even have turned away from God.

But think about Peter: three days earlier, he had denied Jesus three times. Who could blame him if he'd slunk to the tomb, or crawled to the tomb, or even just stayed put?

Yet he ran. He ran because he understood what an empty tomb could mean to him: that his failures could be forgiven. And that, dear friends in Christ, is what Easter means to us. However much we've failed, however many times we've denied Christ in word and action, our baptism opens the door to new life.

Now some of us aren't in Peter's running shoes. We've stayed more or less faithful, and we don't trudge to church on Easter morning. But have we raced here with the faith, hope and love that the good news of the Resurrection should bring?

In the second reading this morning, St. Paul offers us a spiritual energy drink. Easter is a time to get moving. He says "If you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above…" Set your minds on those things—focus on them—"for you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God."

What does this mean? Paul himself answered that question in his Letter to the Romans, which we read last night at the Easter Vigil: "Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death… so that just as Christ was raised from the dead… so we too might walk in newness of life."

Think of what he is saying here. Since we shared in the death of Christ through our baptism, we will share also in his victory over death.

Easter is, of course, an historic feast; we're celebrating something that actually happened. But it is also a very personal feast: we celebrate something that is happening to each of us.

Through baptism we went in to the tomb with Jesus; through baptism we rise with him. Most of us were baptized as babies, but this is not baby-talk; it's serious adult stuff, and gives us the answer to the deepest and darkest of adult problems.

In a few moments I will invite all the baptized members of this congregation to renew the vows of their baptism. Then I'll run through the church and sprinkle you with the water blessed last night at our Vigil.

This Easter morning let your hearts race with joy and conviction as we celebrate the central truth of our Christian faith: that the Lord has risen, and that "if we have died with Christ, we believe we will also live with him."

"Exsulting" at the Easter Vigil

A priest, a rabbi and an expert on the liturgy were together on a plane. There was an explosion, and it was clear that the plane was going down and they would all be killed.

The priest began to pray the Rosary. The rabbi began devoutly to recite the Torah. And the liturgist began to organize a committee to write new prayers for air crashes.

I tell the joke—a bit fresher than the old one about the difference between a liturgist and a terrorist (you can negotiate with a terrorist) only because I was really shocked when I turned to an expert's book so I could read up on the Exsultet, the glorious Easter Proclamation which we heard so beautifully sung at the beginning of tonight's liturgy.

Believe it or not, the liturgy expert—writing in the 1970s—suggests we scrap the Exsultet and replace it with something easier for modern people to grasp; he even says that we may become somewhat bored while listening to it!

Brothers and sisters, if the Exsultet bored you tonight, even somewhat, I'd be much surprised. For to be bored with this proclamation is, in a certain sense, to be bored with redemption: for the entire hymn is one great prayer of thanksgiving, summing up the history of our salvation.

After the splendid introduction that calls us to rejoice–not alone, but together with the angels, the saints, and all creation—the Exsultet begins at the beginning: with the sin of Adam. We admit that human beings went so wrong that they became captives to sin, needing not merely to be forgiven but to be ransomed. And not merely ransomed by some kind of payment, but with the blood of Christ.

The Vancouver Sun, in a sincere effort to grapple with the doctrine of the atonement while offending no-one, has an editorial this weekend that says "whether we're Christian or not, or religious or not, we can gain inspiration from the meaning of Easter." In other words, we can get a lot from Christ's passion, death and resurrection without believing it to be necessary.

But of course that isn't really true. If we don't believe in humanity's need for redemption—in our need for redemption—Christ's saving act is pure tragedy. We gather tonight to proclaim that we do need deliverance from the slavery of sin, the deliverance wondrously prefigured in the Old Testament by the Passover Lamb, the crossing of the Red Sea, and the pillar of fire. The redemption of Israel from slavery is completed once and for all by the Lord's own Passover that takes us from darkness to light.

If this makes no sense, then we'll be more than bored by the Exsultet—we'll be confused. Worse, we may be angry. For what kind of a Father gives away his Son to ransom a slave? Why was this necessary? Why did God allow this?

It's a question I'm asked from time to time by good people who have trouble with their faith. And yet, Scott Hahn says, "The heart of the New Testament is the new redemption accomplished by Jesus Christ. … In his own words, Jesus came to offer his life 'as a ransom for many' (Matt 20:28; Mark 10:45)."

"It is primarily the Exodus that shapes the Christian understanding of Christ's redeeming work. Jesus himself plays the role of the Passover Lamb whose sacrifice brings salvation…" [Catholic Bible Dictionary, 759]

It's not easy for modern people to understand this, living as we do in a society so unused to the idea of atonement that murderers are given day parole before the grass is grown over their victims' graves. Perhaps the history of our salvation really is over the heads of people who think that one tearful press conference makes up for any amount of infidelity, dishonesty, or injustice.

Clearly, it's not easy to understand that why the sacrifice of Jesus on the Cross was needed to save us; but the answer is not to dumb down the Exsultet, but to strive to understand just how much the Father must have loved us to accept such a perfect offering for our sins. The price of Adam's sin is paid; the Angel of Death has passed over us; the armies lined up against our souls have been drowned.

With even a minimum of understanding of the doctrine of the atonement, we can lift up our voices in the words of the Easter Proclamation on this "most blessed of all nights," this night that shines like day, this night that has the power to dispel all evil, wash guilt away, and restore lost innocence.

These are not abstractions! All the sacraments—baptism, confirmation, the Eucharist, and penance included—draw their power from the risen Christ. The Exsultet proclaims that the power of this night "brings mourners joy." These words are anything but abstract to me and to many others who are grieving, since "this is the night when Jesus Christ broke the chains of death."

Heaven forbid that the Church should take the advice of a liturgist from the seventies and replace the Exsultet with something easier to digest. It is solid food, meant to nourish the heart and soul with faith, hope and love from one year to the next.

While there may indeed be some people here tonight who were bored by the Exsultet—or by my homily on it!—I know who wasn't. I doubt the Easter Proclamation bored our catechumen, Maureen, on the night she will become a Christian, receiving the sacraments of Baptism, Confirmation and Eucharist. I don't think Jill and her son Kyle, who will enter into full communion with the Catholic Faith by their profession of faith, found nothing to hold on to as the lyrical words rang through the darkened church. And Melissa , who will be confirmed and make her first Holy Communion this holy night, showed no sign of nodding off so early in our celebration.

Were any of you bored, dear catechumen and candidates? I didn't think so. For you have longed for this night, lived for this night, as you reflected and meditated on the gift of salvation that is yours in Christ. I'm sure you find no trouble seeing this night as the "most blessed of all nights, chosen by God to see Christ rising from the dead."

You have already let the words of the Easter Proclamation echo in your hearts: "What good would life have been to us, had Christ not come as our Redeemer? Father, how wonderful your care for us! How boundless your merciful love!"

Maureen, Jill, Kyle and Melissa—tonight I will have the priestly privilege of celebrating saving sacraments with each of you. It's a joy I can hardly describe. But as I thought and prayed about tonight, I kept hearing the words of St. Paul: "I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth." The Apostle is telling us that God is the real source of conversion; but at the same time he is acknowledging that tending the seeds of the Gospel requires more than one gardener.

Father Xavier, our catechists, Kyle, Margherita, Rhonda and Dan, our other RCIA team members, Tim and Rolson, your sponsors Marilyn, Annette, Robert, and Monique have all given generously of their time and gifts to share the faith with you. And the entire parish community has prayed for you and with you, and will continue to do so in the days ahead.

My dear friends, may the Morning Star that rises in your hearts never set; and may the flame of faith burn there forever.