Homilies

Homily for Epiphany VI

These days our faith is tried. I’m not talking, specifically, about these days when we are together enduring a pandemic; or these days when we need to worship outdoors; or these days when we need to confront our own subtle prejudices; or these days when we feel as if we cannot give voice to the morality that is inseparable from the Christ we love.

These days when our faith is tried are the days since Our Lord’s crucifixion; the days since His Ascension; the days since the descent of the Holy Spirit in tongues of fire.

For while the devil certainly takes advantage of pandemics and unrest and church-distancing, that’s not his end game. His end game is to separate us from the intimate union, the bond of love, and the confidence and hope that we were given in Baptism, that is fed into us in the Eucharist, and that warms us every time we hear Our Lord’s absolution. The devil conspires with our basest desires and is cheered on by those whose god is their feelings. He conspires with them to make us wonder, and question, and think that God is distant or uninvolved or focused on others. And that God’s justice is hardly just.

The devil’s end game is to drive a wedge between us and Our Lord by driving a wedge between you and me; and by getting me to think that my prayers are nothing; and by getting us to be anxious about everything except skipping Mass and losing faith.

The devil’s end game is to drive a wedge between us and Our Lord by getting us to be anxious about everything except skipping Mass and losing faith.

That is how our faith is tried these days. And why we need to rejoice—yes, be glad about—and make use of today’s aggravations. For the things we find so irksome—pandemics, unrest, politics, meanness, being silenced and feeling hemmed in—these things truly do bruise and try us. And they work hard to crush us. But a mustard seed is not really true to itself, a mustard seed really doesn’t awaken, a mustard seed doesn’t show its true value—until it is bruised and crushed.

Today, Our Lord compares the kingdom of heaven to a mustard seed. And are we not citizens in that kingdom—a kingdom founded by the one who was bruised for our iniquities; crushed for our transgressions; and buried because we hid from Him? And yet, that all released a life full of vitality, and a vigorous mercy that we wish to live toward others. Like the mustard seed which, when planted, grows sturdy branches and brings forth many seeds, so our battered, hard-pressed, buried Lord arises to grow the holy Church made strong and true by His love.

In another place Our Lord compares faith to a mustard seed. Once again, the vigor of our faith relies not on our determination, but on the Lord planted and buried within us. For, like the mustard seed, Christ is planted in us and then comes alive, producing in us greater confidence, hope, and love.

The vitality of Christ growing the kingdom of His love in you and me is released when we are squeezed, compressed, and bruised by the many disordered desires within, and the many pressures from without.

This vitality—of Christ growing the kingdom of His love in you and me—this is released when we are squeezed and compressed and bruised by the many disordered desires within, and the many pressures from without. For faith and is a living force, strong and sure, when we are left with nothing else but God’s love for us. So, if we let it, if we can keep our orientation, if we don’t lose hope but hold to Christ, then we can see that these stresses and forces release a greater, more excellent faith.

Many times, our faith can seem simple and innocuous. Perhaps it feels even vague and indefinable. But when our faith is bruised by its enemies, when it is pushed to a breaking point, then faith can come alive—if we only let it. Then it proves its value and power—if we don’t hide it in a cupboard or toss it out on hard-hearted cement or bury it in sugary sentimentality.

The things that test our faith—the doubts and fears, the desire to give up or to give into our worst self—these things can actually release the sweet aroma of our life in God.

The things that test our faith—the doubts and fears, the desire to give up or to give into our worst self—these things can actually release the sweet aroma of our life in God. Very much like the incense we use at Mass. In the canister, in the plastic box, the incense is inert. But when it is placed on a burning coal, then its full fragrance, both spicy and sweet, disperses throughout the room and wafts even quite a ways outdoors. And that scent sticks to us, announcing that we’ve been to Mass because we smell as Christ did when He arose from the tomb.

Holy Valentine, whom we commemorate today, shows us what the robust energy and aroma in the mustard seed looks like when it is released because of hardship. For when the executioner came, and he bowed his neck, and was decapitated in malice—then Love Himself was diffused to the ends of the world so that, to this day, we connect St Valentine with love: the love that ultimately must emanate from God: for God is love.

Like many martyrs—and even like us in these days—Holy Valentine was “hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed—carrying in the body the dying of the Lord Jesus, that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our bodies.” And by his martyric death, by his willingness to sacrifice all for the sake of Christ, by his desire to let his hope in God outweigh the threats of others—St Valentine shows us that “that the transcendent power belongs to God and not to us.”

The mustard seed reveals the transcendent power of God. For which of us would have ever considered, on our own, that such a tiny object could both be a tree housing birds and add savory energy to our food? Yet in that seed is hidden a truth that has existed since before time—namely, that when we are pushed yet remain strong to Our Lord’s love, then we begin to become the humans we were designed to be.

May our Father grant us such strength and courage; by the prayers of Holy Valentine and of all the saints.

14 February 2021

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Candlemas Homily
Luke 2.22-32

Wise and aged Anna had a long view of all the events, rumors, conspiracies, and politics that swirled around her. It’s not that she was unaware or unconcerned. She simply did not let them control her. She refused to let everything out there define her values and her faith. And she would not let anything determine her outlook, except what she heard and sang and meditated on in the church’s liturgy. This woman, who had been a widow for 84 years, had a long view. Her focus was on her life in God.

Let our heart’s deepest desire be to develop and nurture the long view that we see in Simeon and Anna.

The old man Simeon also had a long view. Like Anna, he was too enwrapped and attentive in prayer to be anxious about worldly affairs. Not that he was uncaring or callous. But he left all in the hands of our heavenly Father, who knows better than all women and men how things should and will play out.

More than that, old Simeon with Anna believed that their prayers were more important than any worldly strategies. They were firmly convinced that fervent, heartfelt, and faithful attendance to God and His holy Word would bring about the consolation of Israel and the furtherance both of salvation and of intimate union between God and the world. Their long view, then, was not limited to humanity. Their long view aimed at the restoration of every created thing. Not fairness and rights, but creation’s recreation and renovation—that is what Simeon was justly and devoutly awaiting; what he desired with his prayers; and what he hoped to see when he looked into the face of the Lord’s Christ.

I’m inspired that the gift of seeing God in infant flesh is granted to a woman and a man who, from their youth, mastered their lust and other enervating passions. These two, who mastered and disciplined the needs that chase away our long view—they are the first, after Mary and Joseph, to hold God Himself in their arms. Among other things, this means that Our Lord truly desires our undivided focus. And that He will expand the fullness of the grace He is, within the hearts and minds, the bodies and souls, of those who can deny what everything else declaims to be so necessary, so important, so human.

Our humanity is found solely within this holy Child. Our true identity is inseparable from this son of the Virgin. Our longings are gratified and blossom to their utmost as we behold, and hold, and fix the attention of every hope on this One by whom the thoughts of many hearts are revealed.

Here, then, is what Simeon and Anna see: the One who gives hope to the hopeless, life to the lifeless, love to the unloved, and enduring friendship to the lonely.

This Boy Jesus is truly the light who enlightens our darkened minds. Minds made gloomy, dismal, and pessimistic by the anger that swirls around us; the doubts in us about how the world will go; and the urgings to live life to the fullest. These distractions from the life well lived in Christ—these chase us into the shadows, and away from the warming effects of Christ’s love.

Life can be lived confidently and fearlessly only in the light of Christ; when we embrace God’s wise commandments; and when we hold God’s loving-kindness tightly so that our hearts beat quicker and glow again, as they did when we first emerged from the baptismal font.

Life can be lived confidently and fearlessly only in the light of Christ; when we embrace God’s wise commandments; and when we hold God’s loving-kindness tightly so that our hearts beat quicker and glow again, as they did when we first emerged from the baptismal font. Then, and again now, the Sun of Righteousness illumines not only the darkness we need to shake, but also thaws and melts our fears so that we can pursue our the Father who is truly merciful.

Through this warming and brilliant love, Christ is the ‘light to lighten the Gentiles.’ He helps our diverse people see that His love matters most, and that His mercy exceeds both our tendency to judge and our limited ideas of who is in the right. And He lights your way—so that you can see God in the midst of turmoil; and so that others may glorify Him when they see your good works and hear your edifying speech. For in the light which Our Lord is, we are drawn into His long view—to love us in a way that strengthens who we truly are, and allows us to be Him to others.

Because Simeon & Anna have a long view, they hunger and thirst only for righteousness; and they know that things heavenly amplify things earthly. This is why they voice their desire to rest in peace on that day, in that moment. For when they saw the 40-day old Christ, they glimpsed heaven and saw the face of God. And with that, they saw the purpose and conclusion of their earthly prayers and all their good works.

As we witness Simeon and Anna’s encounter with the incarnate God, as we hear of others who have been graced with similar contact with God, we may wonder why we are not given a comparable experience—a tangible meeting with God that gives us true perspective, that chases away our worries, that lets us taste and feel our hope, that rivets our attention. For won’t our disquiet dissipate, and our faith come alive if we, too, get to see and hold God?

Yet we have something greater than these saints from time past. While they hugged the Christ Child to their chest, we receive Him our very being—knitted to our flesh and coursing through our veins. Their hearts figuratively embraced Him. Our hearts may literally encase Him. And in doing so we get to be—what does St Paul say—members of his body:of his flesh and of his bones.

In the Eucharist, we go beyond a visual encounter with God. Our intimacy with God in Christ soaks into our bones, and settles into the marrow of our soul. And from deep within begins our redemption, our salvation, our renewal, and our union with God.

For life in God to mature and intensify, for it to become anything close to what Simeon and Anna, Mary and Joseph, and other saints had—we must not let the cares and occupations of this life overwhelm us. Instead, let our heart’s deepest desire be to develop and nurture the long view that we see in Simeon and Anna.

That begins as we take in our blessed Jesus in Holy Communion. As we take Him up, let us bless God and say, “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word. For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people; a light to lighten the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel.”

Through the prayers of his saints, ancient and modern, may God grant us such faith, hope, and love; to whom belongs all glory: world without end.

7 February 2021

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Second Sunday after the Epiphany

Again, we have reached the third day. The day of resurrection. The day when crushed and shattered is fear—fear of life, fear in living, fear of death. Fear is Satan’s only weapon, yet a Stronger One than he has taken it from him. So let’s not go sniffing around for it, or try to reassemble it, or think that fear has something to do with us. The third day says things that worry us to death and things that paralyze our life—these fears no longer need to captivate and control our thinking, our living, our spirit.

Because it’s the third day. The day when life is restored, when hope is renewed, when faith is strengthened, when love chases away all contention and grief. It’s the day when all anxiety, all dread, all panic, is lifted from our shoulders, and placed on the back of Him who came to bear, and is able to bury all our fears.

Why do I keep saying that ‘it’s the third day’? Because the Holy Evangelist John tells us that on the third day Jesus first publicly displayed His glory—a beginning sign that would culminate in His greatest glory: dying our death, defeating our enemy, and pouring over us, and into us, the love which flows from His Sacred Heart into our font and into our chalice.

Recall St John’s words: On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee.

Now this event is not just about Jesus proving He is capable by changing water into wine. He deliberately chooses a wedding. Because weddings are where two, who are unlike, are fitted together in the mystery of love in order to produce, between them, a third person. Only at Cana, it’s about more than a natural marriage. At Cana, it’s about Christ the Bridegroom, fitted by His unlimited love to His Bride the Church, in order to produce you and me as children of God. And it’s about the uncreated God being fitted to a created body so that God might be able to live in us, and we can live in Him and His home with His Father.

That’s the glory Jesus is manifesting, displaying, and making openly known. It’s His glory. But it’s really our glory. Because Our Lord glories in giving us what is His.

Think about it: Our Blessed Jesus does the miraculous not so people glorify Him—He really doesn’t live for glory. He is beginning to show us what will make for our glory—that we are being fitted and enabled to live in His glory, without being overcome or overwhelmed. For what happens when we get too close to the sun in the sky? And yet now, at Cana, Christ is helping us see that when we approach this Son, we can live with and be embraced by the Son and His Father without their holiness obliterating us.

It’s our glory that Jesus, at Cana, is beginning to unpack. At the wedding, with the miracle, He starts saying that we will be united to Him, and in Him. Which means we can get as close to God as children to their parents; as husbands to their wives—without any fear that we’ll be mistreated or exploited or objectified or, worse yet, ignored.

But to be united in the family of the Blessed Trinity, there must first be a change. A change initiated by Christ. A change for the better. A change that repurposes who we are and how we live.

The water at the wedding was repurposed. Remarkably. It became something else, while keeping its key characteristic. The water was changed into wine, while still remaining a drinkable liquid. A better drink, but not so good that it couldn’t be handled, or had to be shelved and only admired.

The water was changed. Just as Christ’s blood would be changed so that it could be diffused, dispersed, and disseminated throughout all places in all centuries. For the blood of Jesus was watery when it flowed from Jesus’ pierced side. Yet it was for the best. For that blood, which is now in the baptismal water—that is the stuff of our birth in God: when we were born not from human bloodshed, nor from fleshly desires, nor of the passions of humans, but from and by and for God.

Born of God because Jesus changes His blood into water. Just as He changed water into wine. Different and better, in order to liven us up. Different and better, so that we might no longer wonder if there’s enough. Different and better, so that we might enter into the joy of the Lord at the wedding Feast of the Lamb of God in His never-ending kingdom.

All this, because it is the third day. For on the third day, He rose again from the dead. Which means that now the graves become gateways to heaven; and the sea must give up its dead, and Death and Hades must deliver the dead back to God.

That third day: it’s the day Jesus is found in the temple doing His Father’s business; and now the day Jesus changes water into wine. But these all point to that day which changes our lives forever—the day when we shall no longer sleep, but shall be changed “in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.”

That change, that transubstantiation of water into wine, like water and wine into the Lord’s life-giving blood—that change is what Christ Jesus manifests to us and for us ‘on the third day.’

Today is the third day. The day when we get to lay aside all earthly cares, and enter into the mystical union, the wedding feast. It’s the day when we get to draw so very near to God Himself as we take into our mouth and being Christ’s very own Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity. And so this third day is the day when we can begin to believe and take to heart that all that frightens, all that makes us uneasy, all that distracts, all that weighs heavily in us—all of that has, this day, been done away in us and for us by Him who came simply to glorify us so that, by the prayers and merits of the Saints, we might live unscathed with His Father in the unity of the Holy Spirit: throughout all ages of ages.

17 January 2021

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Epiphany Day Homily

While all things were in quiet silence, and the night was in the midst of her course, the almighty Word of God leaped down from heaven, from the royal throne, into the midst of the land that was doomed. Yet this mighty Word of God was made known only to the believing at first. The Virgin Mother and her holy Spouse, and the shepherds who heeded and trusted the angels. But, on that first Christmas, Our Lord hid Himself from the unbelieving—from King Herod, from the citizens of Jerusalem, and from Joseph’s own family who had rejected him and forced his pregnant wife into a stable.

Yet today the heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament reveals His handiwork. For the proclamation of His Epiphany, the preaching of His appearance, and the report of His arrival in our human flesh has gone out into all lands. It began with the angels singing “Gloria in excelsis Deo.” Then came the shepherds, those first preachers of Our Lord’s nativity. And now, today, we hear that the guiding star leads the Magi to become joyful heralds to those who live in the farthest reaches of the earth.

Now, no one is excluded. God in our flesh can be seen by all. Even those who refuse cannot deny to see Christ in glory on the cross.

Before the cross, there was a spectacular star. Who is this star that proclaims that the King is here? To be sure, it is a natural phenomenon. Yet with this star, the whole creation greets her Creator who lets Himself be created. But while it is an unique occurrence in nature, the Epiphany star is also a spiritual harbinger.

Consider this: How does Mary know that she bears and gives birth to the Son of God unless the angel Gabriel tells her? How do the shepherds know this infant is their Savior, Christ the Lord, unless the angel announces it to them? And how do the Magi know that the Child in Bethlehem is King Messiah worthy of all worship and sacrifice, unless the star proclaims and leads them?

None of this preaching—by Gabriel, by the angels, or by the star—none of this happens apart from the Holy Spirit of God. And so, the star in the East is more than a natural phenomenon. It is the work of God. In fact, we can be so bold as to say that it is the Spirit of God—not this time appearing as a dove, but as the pillar and tongue of fire concentrated in a heavenly orb, sitting over Bethlehem, alighting on the Son of Man.

Yet the splendor of this star and the glory of this day seem sullied when we recall the cruel machinations of wicked King Herod—a cruelty against Our Lord, a cruelty against all that is true and just, a cruelty extends even to this day.

Earthly rulers are too often in love with their corrupting and corruptible thrones. And they are often committed to wresting power from God.

King Herod is so afraid of losing power, that he fears a tiny infant, a helpless babe. And the Magi’s question—“Where is He who has been born King of the Jews?”—this question troubles and frightens Herod into horrific brutality; and all Jerusalem with him.

Yet do not let violence dampen your celebration. For as the Spirit of God proclaims through a star, as He preaches through simple shepherds and astute Magi, so He also uses the fury of Herod to fulfill prophecy and to further God’s mercy. Violence cannot stomp out God’s justice. The blood of martyrs, the blood of the most innocent, only increases and furthers God’s kingdom. And God’s mercy expands to overwhelm all hatred.

So do not be afraid. Even if things look bleak now. Even if there is much to fear. For who is with us? The Child who is God, who warned the Magi, who destroyed death by His death, who cannot be undone. This is the One who stands with us; Whose victory gives us hope; and Whose love encourages us to stand fast with Him.

That’s what the Magi did. They don’t give into fear. Instead, they heed the divine warning and so return to their own country another way. Then the ever-righteous, ever-protective Joseph takes the young Child and His mother by night and departs for Egypt. Not that the Holy Family flees in fear, but to expand the Lord’s reign. For in the land that once housed another barbaric Pharaoh who sought to kill the infant Moses—there the Son of God will remain. And with His presence, He will bless the gentile nation that once welcomed another Joseph. And in this way, the glory of the Lord will again be revealed; and the mercy of God will again be openly made known to all men—and especially to us.

Herod, that enraged tyrant, does not perceive any of this. Neither do the chief priests or scribes, who acquiesce to the horrid crime of slaying innocent boys in hopes of killing the Christ. But make no mistake—they all know that the babe at Bethlehem is the promised Messiah. You heard them say so themselves.

And their cruelty will confirm what they have declared. The slaughter of the innocent martyrs reveals that the new Moses, the true Messiah, has arrived. And one Herod’s barbarity points ahead to another Herod who will mockingly and gladly hand Jesus over to a tortuous death at the hands of Pontius Pilate.

Remember, the violence of devil-inspired men is how our salvation is accomplished. That is how the mercy of God comes to full fruition. And most significantly, that is how we live—by eating and drinking the flesh and blood of our God sacrificed on the cross. For what they meant as destruction we now get to receive for our salvation.

This is how we get to give thanks to the Lord who turns cruelty into our redemption. His thoughts exceed our imagination, and His wisdom is wiser than any Magi. For He uses the cruelty of Herod to further the Gospel of our salvation. And in so doing, Our Lord shows us that He is in the habit of deceiving the Deceiver, and of turning Satan’s accusations into the means of our salvation.

And so, we see that our rejoicing today is built upon two pillars. First, there is the Spirit-induced phenomenon of the star which leads Gentile kings into faithful worship. And this shows us that we also may worship Christ the King. And second, there is the satanic plot of Herod which the same Spirit uses not only to further the message to all peoples, but most importantly, to reveal to us the mercy of God resident in the flesh and blood of Christ Jesus.

What an epiphany, then, that we celebrate! For our joy is heightened not just by the fact that Jesus appears for all men, but also by the undeniable truth that His appearance means that the tyranny of sin is overthrown, the cruelty of man will not remain, the deceptions of the devil are turned to our good, and the reign of terror has ended.

Let us then give thanks not as we choose, but as Our Lord wills—by receiving into our mouths and hearts the flesh and blood of this Child whom angels praised, whom shepherds preached, whom Wise Men worshipped, whom Egyptians welcomed, and whom even Herod—in God’s mysterious way—revealed to be our King of mercy. For to this Lord Jesus Christ, together with His Father in the Holy Spirit, belongs all glory, honor and worship: world without end.

Matthew 2.1-12

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Homily for the Fourth Sunday in Advent
Luke 3.1-6

You would think that we should today hear something about the great Feast which we shall celebrate in a few days. You would think that we should hear about the announcement by the archangel Gabriel or the Blessed Virgin Mary—perhaps repeating what we heard at Mass last Wednesday and last Friday. Afterall, our Byzantine brothers and sisters are today hearing about the visit of St Gabriel to St Joseph, and the fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy that a virgin shall be with child, and bring forth a son, and they shall call his name Emmanuel. So shouldn’t we also?

Instead, we are blessed to hear another prophecy from Isaiah. We hear not about a virgin, but about a voice. Not about a virgin with child, but about a voice crying out in the wilderness. And we hear not the news about the birth of Emmanuel, but rather the exhortation to prepare the way of the Lord by repentance: which means living against the sins we confess by self-denial, by restraining and suppressing our pride, anger, judginess, anxieties, and other disordered passions.

We hear such a stern exhortation. We hear a voice that seems to dampen our mood. Yet, we must remember why the voice cries out, why the prophet prophesies, why the Forerunner runs before the Christ, urging us to set our hearts and minds straight.

The voice cries out not to scold but to refocus our soul, to reset our heart’s desire—all so that we might take comfort. For what does the prophet Isaiah say?

Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God. Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her, that her warfare is accomplished, that her iniquity is pardoned: for she hath received [from] the LORD’s hand double [forgiveness] for all her sins.

Notice how we receive this double forgiveness, this overabundant mercy, this mercy without boundaries. It comes not from our hands but from the Lord’s hand. It comes not as the result of what we’ve accomplished, but as a gift from the Lord.

But even though we don’t deserve what Our Lord gives, He determines that we are worthy simply because He created us, and knows that we are too weak to do what we must. He knows our nature and what we are made of. So, by His grace, we can attain His double forgiveness, appropriate it, and embrace it when we have prepared ourselves properly to receive, without conditions, what He so graciously gives.

And how do we prepare? It is a matter of the heart more than following rules or certain steps. We prepare by exercising humility. By denying our comforts for the good of others. But most importantly, we exercise humility when we trust the Lord’s Word more than the confounding noise in our head; when we let His will run our way; when we don’t let our fears and anxieties get the better of us, but instead cast all of these cares upon the Lord, confident that He truly cares for us. Those are ‘fruits worthy of repentance.’

The Holy Mother of God and St John Baptist are prime examples of this true humility. They did not walk around defeated, or looking for sympathy, or meekly giving in to every bully. That’s not humility. Instead, the humility they lived was a natural outgrowth of their faith that God’s will actually, and really, and truly is done. Always. No matter the conditions or restrictions by others. And so they show us what ‘fruits worthy of repentance’ look like.

And so the voice of the One cries out. He urges to ready ourselves to receive Our Lord to the fullest by setting aside all earthly desires, by quitting all anxieties about the cares of this life, and by making no excuses or room for what we think matters most.

The voice cries out, prodding us to train our flesh with fasting, and our hearts by giving, and our minds by prayer. The voice cries out, pleading with us to desire not the presents that break, or the gifts that offer fleeting happiness; but to desire this Son whom the blessed Virgin delivers; this Gift from the Father; and this Present whom the Spirit generously wishes to bestow on all flesh.

Yet how can we welcome Him aright, how can we embrace Him with fulsome joy, how can we truly celebrate His Nativity—unless our hearts have been prepared by Private Absolution. For what else fills the valleys we have pock-marked with our meanness and pettiness? What else levels the mountains and hills of our stubborn pride? What else straightens our crooked addictions and desires? What else makes plain the rough ways of our sins?

Is it not the Sacrament of Penance? Is it not the Lord’s doubling absolution which gently yet firmly meets and heals the wrong-doing we confess? And is it not hearing the Lord speak His comfort after we have said how we have offended Him, His Mother, His angels, His saints, and all in His church?

Let us then hasten to do what St John the Baptizer begs, entreats, and pleads with us to do. His voice cries out to the barren wilderness in our hearts. His voice cries out offering, presenting, and promising the dew and moisture of the Spirit who will bring new life and sturdy growth in our wilderness. His voice cries out, beckoning us to be truly and rightly prepared for this coming Feast. His voice cries out, inviting us to ignore him no more, but to lay aside all earthly care so that we might, with true and earnest hearts, take up the salvation that the Lord’s priests place in our ears and then on our tongues.

This plea by the holy Forerunner to prepare ourselves by seeking God’s absolution as we confess our sins—this plea is not a plea simply for those who feel guilty or know they did something bad. It is a plea for all. For those who are poor as well as those who are well-off; those who are strong in the faith as well as those who are weak; those who are at peace as well as those who are anxious; those who have kept the fast as well as those who have not; those who have little to confess as well as those who have much. I invite you, with me, to heed this voice that speaks to our wilderness: Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight his paths. For the Lord is at hand, and the Lord’s Feast comes soon, and the Lord’s Day is nigh.

May we, by the prayers of St John the Baptizer, not be afraid to prepare, by the Sacrament of Penance, the way which is our blessed Lord Jesus Christ; to whom with His Father, in the unity of the all-Holy and life-giving Spirit, belongs all glory, honor and worship, world without end.

20 December 2020

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Advent III Homily

My beloved spiritual children:

Rejoice in the Lord alway!

Those are the first words you heard when they were chanted at the beginning of today’s Mass. And in case they did not sink down, they were repeated in the Epistle: Rejoice in the Lord alway, and again I say rejoice!

The joy Holy Mother Church and St Paul urge is not the manufactured gladness or giddiness so common during this time of year. Neither is it a sentimental happiness or the seasonal delight we might feel.

Rather, they are encouraging the deep-seated joy that cannot be shaken by various trials or temptations; the rejoicing that simmers quietly within us despite many annoyances and hassles; the gladness that is undisturbed precisely because it is rooted and grounded in the promise, the hope, the vow by the Lord that, no matter what happens, His will is done and He will come through.

So this joy—this delight in the Lord’s mysteries available in all circumstances; this unmatched pleasure shown us in the holy virgins, steadfast confessors, and the faithful martyrs; this satisfaction in beholding our Lord God with our own eyes both in His Blessed Sacrament now and in the beatific vision in the life to come—this is the joy that this Mass desires to enkindle within each person here present, both living and departed.

It is a joy that is not diminished by sorrows or fears or sacrifices for the love of others; A joy that continues even in persecution; a joy we read about and that inspires us in the lives of St Mary of Paris in the concentration camp, or faithful Russians in the Gulag, or resolute Orthodox Christians in Syria—those who, more than we ever have, see in suffering and hardship, in being deprived of basic freedoms and rights, that the Lord has not abandoned them but is beside them, strengthening and leading them; that he is in fact their way of escape, and their way to live in miserable conditions.

However, when we have better comforts or when we only see what is in front of us—then this joy can be stolen by an all-consuming need to instruct others according to our self-determined truth; yet it is restored by quietly meditating on Truth himself. This holy joy can be stolen by the need to be right; but it is restored by aligning your way with and in the Way. This holistic gladness can be stolen by anger at those abusing your rights, by anxiety and fear for the future, by insisting that my truth be heard; but it can be restored by listening with inner stillness to the ‘voice of one crying in the wilderness, prepare ye the way of the Lord.’

How seemingly incongruent. Here, amidst traffic sounds, the screeching of competing voices in society, the clatter of what you and we and us must do—here, amidst all the noise that competes for our attention and that creates so much commotion and confusion in our minds—how can we, here in this place and time, even begin to distinguish and tune into the ‘voice of one crying in the wilderness?’

The temptation is to flee to the wilderness. Or that we think we’ll only be able to truly listen to St John’s voice once we’re able to make, or find, or set aside quiet time. Once the noise out there abates, once the chatter in our head subsides, once things slow down—we think that then, and only then, will we be in the right frame of mind to listen to the voice of the One. And only then, so we falsely think, can we truly begin to rejoice in that deep-down way that I mentioned before.

But it truly is possible to find the wilderness, and to listen to the voice, in this time and place. We simply need follow St John as he invites us to prepare a path and plow a road into the interior silence of our hearts. If we can only, for a moment, ‘be still and know that [God] is truly God.’

“Happy is that [person] who has so fled the world’s tumult, who has so withdrawn into the solitude and secrecy of interior peace that he or she can hear not only the Voice of the Word, but the Word Himself: not John but Jesus.” (Bl Guerric of Igny)

To get to that point, we need to make a path through the distractions and clutter in our head, down through the murkiness of our selfishness, past the tangle of our passions, avoiding the diversions of various temptations, into the deep of our heart and mind where we, not too long ago, saw our Beloved Lord. He entices us by saying, “I remember the devotion of your earlier days, you loved like a new bride—how you followed Me, called out to Me, searched eagerly for Me, longed for Me. I remember and can see that you remember and desire those days.”

Fortunately, blessedly, by God’s grace, riding within the Lord’s summons is His Spirit, which inspires and strengthens us to straighten and smooth out the rough ways. For the voice of the One doesn’t simply sound. The wind of the Spirit gently breathes into us the humility and gratitude to flatten the mountains and hills of our arrogance. That’s what is so good about St John the Baptizer. He reminds us of the need for repentance, the need to turn our heads and hearts away from the so-many-things that make us think they matter more that attaining our homeland; the so-many-things that shout down the voice.

The quieting so that we hear—that doesn’t happen magically or even miraculously. It takes work. Not heavy lifting, but diligence. Not one more thing, but the one thing needful. To be sure, every passion and all the voices inside and outside will resist this work and urge you to give up. But these don’t want you to taste the sweet and pleasant things along the Way. They want you to spin your wheels. And they see stumbling and falling behind as failure rather than as the way of Christ.

Remember Our Lord’s way. For His way needs to be our way. That’s what St John urges us toward: the Way of the Lord. And the Lord’s Way. That way is strewn with unpleasantness as we battle our own desire to do it our way; as we oppose the Way, Truth, and Life with my way, my truth, and the life I want.

But as we let the Word, who is Christ, enter, He will seek to align our ways with His Way. And His Word will ask to overcome whatever we think we ought to believe or say or think. In His Way, however, we will find true quietness—a quieting of our chaotic desires, a quieting of our undisciplined passions, a quieting of the noise that drives us to despair. And then, by the merits and prayers of the Saints, we will begin to see Our Lord’s Way and Word not as His truth or a truth or even the truth, but that He is truly the One who is the Way itself, in the Truth He is, toward the only Life there is; to whom, with His Father, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, belongs all glory, honor, and worship: world without end.

John 1.19-23
13 December 2020

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St Luke 21.25-33
Advent I Homily

It is too easy to be confounded, bewildered, perplexed. Not because we are stupid or incapable of clear thinking or making sense. But because so many voices say so many different things. About Our Lord. About His will. About His place. About His ability and desire to help, to rescue, to answer, to deliver, to save.

It is easy to be confounded. And when we are, then we quickly feel defeated, even routed and overwhelmed and crushed. Or we feel ashamed that we should know better. Or have stronger faith.

It is easy to be confounded. Because we feel left out. Left out of God’s design. Not consulted. Not informed. And so we are baffled, even when we’ve been told what will happen. Even when we were plainly told what would be next, and what would come after that.

We’re easily confounded because we believe science more than Our Lord’s word. Because we trust the experts more than the apostles. Because we rely on facts more than sure and certain promises that have been repeated for centuries. Because we’ve talked ourselves out of hope by talking constantly about stress and anxiety.

We’re easily confounded because we’ve misplaced our faith. We’ve placed it in everything we see or hear, everything down here.

“When these things begin to happen”—when you and I are dazed and confused, feeling as if the ground is shifting, and as if everything is out of control; when you and I are confounded, “Look up! Lift up your heads!” For whatever else is true, this is most certainly true: Any help we need in the big times, when we’re caught in the white-caps and things are spiraling and spiraling—any help we must have | will come only from above. Above what we see and feel and think and know. Above our own short-sighted sight.

That is why Our Lord says, “Lift up your heads!” For uplifted heads rise above everything that mystifies. And causes angst. And terrifies. Uplifted heads rise even above hope itself, and look with confidence.

“Lift up your heads,” Our Lord says. And we reply, “Unto thee lift I up my soul. My God, in thee have I trusted. Let me not be confounded.”

Our Lord does not seek to confound us. Or leave us in the dark. He is, after all, the light who shines into darkness and never goes out. So He calls us away from confusion, out of chaos, and into His life, into His warmth, into His light. And by doing this, the Light of the World beckons us into work and pleasure, goodness and beauty, and the company of other loved ones—both living and departed.

We’re confused and anxious and afraid because we’re looking down or looking only at what we can see. But Our Lord summons us to look at Him. Who He is. Which is who we can be. By His kindness. By His grace. If only we keep our eyes uplifted, and our hearts upraised.

“Lift up your hearts,” says the priest. And with these words he is mimicking Our Lord’s call to faith at every Mass. “Lift up your hearts,” because uplifted hearts are hopeful, just as uplifted heads are confident.

Our Lord’s encouragement to look up and lift up is not pollyannish. It’s not a command to ignore what’s going on around us. Or to rebel against what confuses or frustrates or angers. We still need to live here. But we need to live without fear. Not being afraid of what will happen next, or how we’ll be affected, or what so-called rights we’ll lose.

We need to live here. With our feet on this earth, but with our hearts and eyes, our hope and confidence, our faith and understanding rooted and planted in Our Lord and His kingdom. Just as the saints did. And especially the martyrs.

Like St Saturninus, whose heavenly birthday we commemorate today. This early French bishop aroused jealousy because, by God’s grace, his preaching gave people the courage to look up and see in Christ their redemption, even as they were surrounded by persecution. His feet, and theirs, were in this world. But their eyes and hearts were more sure about Our Lord and the life He lived in them and through them. And so this man, who lived unafraid and unconcerned with what the authorities said or did—he did not provoke or protest, but certainly stood firm when asked to compromise his faith. Unshaken in his refusal to let threats or riches tempt him, St Saturninus was cruelly tortured and killed. And yet he left us a legacy of holiness and righteousness.

To live unafraid is to live in holiness. To live without fear is to not let anxiety overrule or control. And to live without fear is to live righteousness, seeking God’s justice and mercy—for others, if not also for yourself.

This faith of not being confounded, of looking up, of lifting up our heads, of living without fear—this confidence that we don’t need to know all or be consulted, but simply take to heart what Our Lord says trusting that His statements far exceed mine or yours or theirs—this belief lies within the motto St Paul urges us to adopt:

Your salvation is nearer than you think. And nearer than you even believe.

So let’s live like it. “Let’s cast off the works of darkness. Let’s put on the armor of light” so that we can see clearly and not be so easily confounded or overwhelmed. “Let’s walk honestly”—honest about who we are, what we’ve done, and what we truly need; and honest about who, above all others, is able to lift us up. And let’s not feed our passions or fantasies. Instead, let’s “put on the Lord Jesus Christ,” giving no room whatsoever to what we think is best for us.

Then, and only then, will our confoundedness and worries dissipate. And we’ll be able to say, with free and ready hearts, “Show me Thy ways, O Lord. Teach me Thy paths. Lead me in Thy truth and teach me, for Thou art the God of my salvation.” So that every day I am, by Thy grace, empowered to pin everything I am and have on Thee.

To whom belongs all glory, honor, and worship: throughout all ages of ages.

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A Homily for the Last Sunday in the Liturgical Year

When we feel such anxiety, when there seems to be so much strife and division, when hatred and meanness abounds, when insult and vulgarity have become common speech, when the news feed make us afraid, when it seems that we’ve lost our sure footing—how, then, can we dare to give thanks? Or to praise the Lord of heaven? Or to sing Alleluia?

For isn’t Alleluia a joyful song? Doesn’t is feel natural only when we are hopeful and happy?

Yet at every Mass we sing “Alleluia.” Our hearts join with the chanters when they intone the words of praise. For you know that Alleluia means, “Praise the Lord.” And when these words are sung at Mass, the chanters do not sing a simple melody, but they sweetly send forth a beautifully elongated, melismatic “Alleluia”—urging us with their voices to believe that Alleluia should resound and resonate, not just for a few moments but for a lifetime.

It’s as if our chanters, with their God-given gift, are gently correcting every discordant note, every dissonate feeling; as if they are soothing our anger and desire so that we do not meet insult with insult. And it’s as if they are imploring us, with their many notes, to make “Alleluia” our never-ending and undying response to everything that happens to us. Especially these days. Especially here. Especially when it seems we’re at our wits end, and losing ground, and turning some dark corner.

Turn after turn, “Alleluia” is our song. That’s how we Christians—who are foreigners in this land, who refuse to see this place as our destination, who are citizens of a greater kingdom—with Alleluia in our heart and on our lips, that’s how we meet every fear and hope, every crisis and calm, every sorrow and joy.

But let us also understand that most of the things that make us anxious are things we have no control over; things that disturb us because we feel as if we are helpless. But perhaps we have forgotten that God is my helper; the Lord is with them that uphold my soul. And perhaps we were distracted when our chanters, only a few moments ago, reminded us of what Our Lord God clearly and consistently declares: I think thoughts of peace, and not of affliction: ye shall call upon me, and I will hearken unto you: and will bring again your captivity from all places.

Let us sing alleluia here on earth, while we still live in anxiety, so that we may sing it one day in heaven in full security. (St Augustine)

We are anxious because of what’s happening around us. But we should also be anxious—and even more concerned—because of what is going on inside our souls—our desire to give in, to be offended, to lash out, and to feel alone. Yet who is really alone when we have so many angels ministering to us? And what can harm us when the saints, by their fervent and holy prayers, intervene for us? And why should we give in to our base desires when we know that we are playing into the devil’s hand and driving us further from hope and pushing away God’s kindness?

To be clear, we live in anxiety. And that is how it has always been—especially for those who have been baptized into Christ.

Why do we live in anxiety? Can you expect me not to feel anxious when I read: Is not man’s life on earth a time of trial? Can you expect me not to feel anxious when the words still ring in my ears: Watch and pray that you will not be put to the test? Can you expect me not to feel anxious when there are so many temptations here below that prayer itself reminds us of them, when we say: Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us?

Every day we make out petitions, every day we sin. Do you want me to feel secure when I am daily asking pardon for my sins, and requesting help in time of trial? Because of my past sins I pray: Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and then, because of the perils still before me, I immediately go on to add: Lead us not into temptation. How can all be well with people who are crying out with me: Deliver us from evil? And yet, my beloved, while we are still in the midst of this evil, let us sing alleluia to the good God who delivers us from evil.

Even here amidst trials and temptations let us, let everyone, sing alleluia. God is faithful, says holy Scripture, and he will not allow you to be tried beyond your strength. (St Augustine)

And with every trial, he will give you a way of escape. An escape He has made, and which we must crawl through. An escape not where He magically whisks away everything bothersome or painful or distressing. But an escape in which He urges us to strive with Him, shouldering the cross that is a sign of victory through seeming defeat, and unimaginable and unending joy after heartache and sorrow.

So let us sing alleluia, even here on earth. Man is still a debtor, but God is faithful. Scripture does not say that he will not allow you to be tried, but that he will not allow you to be tried beyond your strength. Whatever the trial, he will see your through it safely, and so enable you to endure.

Like every Christian before us, we are living through a time of trial; but you will come to no harm—God’s help will bring you through it safely. You are like a piece of pottery, shaped by instruction, fired by tribulation. (St Augustine)

And what does this firing by tribulation get us? Remember the words St Peter preached at Easter shortly before his execution:

Though now for a little while you may have to suffer various trials, [both from others and more so from within], in this you rejoice, because the genuineness of your faith—which is more precious than perishable gold—your precious faith is being tested by fire so that you may redound to praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ. (1 Peter 1.6-7)

For isn’t Christ the one you truly love? And isn’t it His promises that bring alive your hope and joy? If so, why give permission to others to steal your joy or dampen your hope or mute your Alleluia song?

And listen: the happiness in our Alleluia means that we are secure and fear no adversity, no matter what is going on around us. And our Alleluia means that we look forward to the day when

We shall have no enemies in heaven, we shall never lose a friend. God’s praises are sung both there and here, but here they are sung by those destined to die, there, by those destined to live forever; here they are sung in hope, there, in hope’s fulfillment; here they are sung by wayfarers, there, by those living in their own country.

So, then, let us sing Alleluia now. Not in order to enjoy a life of leisure, but in order to lighten our labors. Sing as travelers sing. Sing, while you continue your journey. Sing to make your journey more enjoyable. Sing, but keep going.

What do I mean by keep going? Keep on making progress. This progress, however, must be in virtue; for there are some, the Apostle warns, whose only progress is in vice. If you make progress, you will be continuing your journey, but be sure that your progress is in virtue, true faith and right living. (St Augustine)

So let us continue to sing Alleluia together, even in the midst of anxiety and irritation. Sing, and keep going forward in virtue, with our eyes fixed on Jesus, who is the author and perfecter of our faith. For because of the joy He saw and anticipated, He endured the cross, despising the shame. And with His angels and the Saints, He and they await us so that our Alleluia becomes then more than it is now.

May Our Lord Jesus Christ, who is praised and glorified in His saints, have mercy on us and save us.

The St Augustine quotes are from excerpts of Sermon 256 as they appear in The Office of Christian Readings

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