December 8, 2010

The Immaculate Conception

Genesis 3:9-15,20; Psalm 98:1-4; Ephesians 1:3-6,11-12; Luke 1:26-38

Popular imagination has added an interesting slant to the story of the woman taken in adultery.

You know the story:

The Pharisees bring the woman before Jesus for judgment and Jesus says, "Let the person who is without sin cast the first stone."

They fell silent, and then, all of a sudden a stone came flying from the crowd. Jesus looks up, surprised and amused, and then says, "Hold it, mother? I am trying to make a point, here."

This joke likens the sinlessness of Mary to the sinlessness of good women and men we have known.

For we have known many good men and women who think that their holiness of life is their personal achievement.

As a result they develop a certain holier-than-thou attitude toward others who have not attained their level of holiness.

They become intolerant, angry and judgmental toward those they regard as sinners.

People like that would not hesitate to throw the first stone at a sinner caught red-handed, like the woman in our story.

That is why the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception, which we celebrate today, becomes a very important one.

It reminds us that Mary's sinlessness is not something that Mary achieved by her own power.

It is a gift of God, given to her right from the very moment of her conception.

It is in the genes, as they say.

In the same vein, those of us who happen to be holy, who sin less than the average sinner, should regard our holiness as basically a gift of God and not an achievement.

Our attitude should then be characterized by two basic attitudes, thankfulness to God, and humility before those who are naturally and spiritually less gifted than we are.

The doctrine of the Immaculate Conception tells us something about who Mary is. But maybe it tells us more about who God is and who we are in light of God's providential love.

Belief in the Immaculate Conception of Mary is belief in a provident God, i.e., a God who provides for the future,

who prepares His children for their assigned task in life even before they are born, a God who foresees and equips us with all the natural and supernatural qualities we need to play our assigned role in the drama of human salvation.

God anoints them already in the womb those men and women whom He created to be His prophets.

As He told Jeremiah, "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations" (Jeremiah 1:5).

God does not just throw us into this world wide wilderness and then leave us to fight it out among ourselves.

The theory of evolution with its doctrine of the survival of the fittest may describe human nature in its fallen state, in the state of original sin,

it does not describe life for the people of God redeemed by grace from the unbridled effects of the Fall.

As we rejoice with Mary, God's most favored one ("full of grace") on the feast of her conception,

let us thank God for His love and mercy which embraces us right from the moment of our own conception.

As Scripture says, "For who makes you different from anyone else?

What do you have that you did not receive?

And if you did receive it, why do you boast as though you did not?" (1Corinthians 4:7).

Everything is gift, everything good in us is God's grace.

For we all, children of God, are also favored ones and heirs of God's grace.

Yet Mary remains the most favored one, the mother of all favored ones, the one that enjoys the fullness of grace.

December 12, 2010

Advent 3 Cycle A

Isaiah 35:1-6a, 10; Psalm 146:6-10;James 5:7-10; Matthew 11:2-11

In the 1980 movie, Urban Cowboy, John Travolta played the character Bud Davis. After moving from a small town in rural Texas to a Houston suburb, Bud falls in love with Sissy (whom he met at a local honky-tonk) and marries her.

Lovers' quarrels, bar fights, a separation in which they each move in with someone else, and an eventual reconciliation comprise the plot of the film.

At one point in the movie, a song is playing in the background and Bud cries out, "Hey! Turn that up! That's my favorite song!"

The song, "Lookin' for Love" sung by Johnny Lee, went on to become the number one song on the country music charts in 1980.

The famous lines of the chorus go, "I was lookin' for love in all the wrong places / Lookin' for love in too many faces, / searchin' their eyes and lookin' for traces / of what I'm dreamin' of."

In this weekend's Gospel, John the Baptist isn't exactly lookin' for love, but he does send his disciples to find out whether Jesus really is the One to come.

Jesus' response uses the prophetic vision of Isaiah to describe what is happening.

The dream of restoration is being fulfilled: the blind see, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor hear the good news.

Advent is the season of hopes and dreams.

Throughout the season we hear the prophetic visions of Isaiah, filled with hope for a renewed creation and the fulfillment of God's promises.

Next Sunday we'll hear the story of Joseph's dream about a child who will save people from their sins.

During these weeks, children dream of Christmas gifts that will appear under the tree. And many parishes fulfill the hopes of the needy through the collection of gifts and food to help them at this time of year.

The baptized act as Christ in the world, having been anointed priest, prophet, and king at their baptism.

And so like Christ in the Gospel, members of the church today are called to help the blind see, the lame walk, the deaf hear, and to actively pursue the coming of God's kingdom whose fulfillment we await in joyful hope.

In his first encyclical, Deus Caritas Est, Pope Benedict XVI reflected on the work of charity by the church.

He said, "Christian charity is first of all the simple response to immediate needs and specific situations: feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, caring for and healing the sick, visiting those in prison, etc." (#31a).

In Urban Cowboy Bud Davis and Sissy eventually return to each other and find their love in the right place, in the reconciliation of their hearts.

John the Baptist wanted to know if Jesus was the One, and the answer was found in the actions of the Messiah: restoring sight, cleansing lepers, proclaiming the good news.

The hope of so many at this time of year finds fulfillment in the loving actions of Christians.

They look for love in the service we offer and the charity we give.

But what we do during this Advent season cannot be the only expression of love we give.

If it is, those in need really have been "lookin' for love in all the wrong places."

But if our love continues through Christmas and into the New Year,

if our dedication to acting like Christ endures, then the needy will have found "what [they're] dreamin' of."

January 7, 2011

Isaiah 42:1-4,6-7; Psalm 29: 1-2,3-4,9-10; Acts 10:34-38; Matthew 3:13-17

The contrast between the old and the new is a consistent feature of the New Testament.

Everything before Jesus is "old;" he came to usher in the "new."

This is expressed both by what Yahweh does—law in the past, love now—

as well as how he does it—sending prophets in the past, the Son in the present.

The notion is picked up in the Gospel;

in the past Jesus would have baptized John,

but now John, "to fulfill all righteousness" baptizes Jesus.

If we see ourselves as Gentiles, then we will know that God’s love and mercy is ours only by his gift, not by our deserving.

If we think of ourselves as God’s chosen people today,

then, too, we are God’s because he chose us.

In either case, our lives will reflect who we are and whose we are.

C.S. Lewis wrote the following in a "The Weight of Glory," a sermon preached June 8, 1941:

"…the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship,

or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare.

All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations.

It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another,

all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics.

There are no ordinary people….it is immortals who we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit

—immortal horrors or everlasting splendors."

If that is so in any fashion, if that is what we are, and what others are,

because of what God has chosen us to be in Christ,

then our task is clear: to manifest who we are in Christ so others may become what they have been chosen to be in Christ.

Today we celebrate not only Jesus baptism’, but also ours!

As we once again make our baptismal vows Let us make them with full awareness that they commit us once again to living the life Christ calls us to

so that we can be beacons of light for those searching for their God

January 16, 2011

2nd Sunday Ordinary Time Cycle A

Isaiah 49:3,5-6; Psalm 40:2,4,7-10; 1 Corinthians 1:1-3; John 1:29-34

What’s wrong with second place? What's wrong with playing second fiddle?

First place is worth fighting for, isn’t it?

Don’t we want our kids to be all they can be?

To be the best, achieve the most, get the highest marks, get into the best schools, live in the best neighborhoods?

What’s wrong with that after all?

I guess the greatest second fiddle of all time is John the Baptist.

I’m going to tell you something about John that some might not know.

John the Baptist had disciples.

He had people who followed him just like the disciples we know so well followed Jesus.

They were devoted to their master, John, but they faced a crisis.

When Jesus came along, John says, "Here’s the guy I was telling you about. Leave me and follow him."

John could well have ignored his calling to point to Jesus and had a great ministry. It’s great when people follow you and it could have gone to his head.

But it didn’t, the moment Jesus arrived on the scene John pointed him out and took a back seat.

We don’t even read about John’s death in John’s gospel, he just disappears.

And that’s what we learn from John.

We learn from John how to point.

When someone goes hunting for grouse or pheasants, the best thing he can take with him is a dog.

A dog trained to point.

Pointers can smell and hear the game and they point towards it and the hunter knows where the bird is and can make the kill.

We Christians are the pointer dogs of the world!

Our job is to point the hunters to the prey - Jesus Christ.

The hunters of course are the seekers of truth.

The hunters are those on a quest for justice or peace.

The hunters are sometimes broken sinners whose lives are being flushed down the toilet.

The hunters are sometimes broken-hearted people.

They all need God.

John pointed people to them.

So are we to.

How then do we point, its all very well that I tell you this but what do we do is point to Jesus.

Remember that we should always play second fiddle to Jesus.

That means that we should allow Jesus to guide the way we handle things and not ourselves.

Jesus says that if we should follow him that we should deny ourselves.

It means that when some one who we don’t like so much or that we know is incredibly different from us shows up

that we should still reach out to them…even if it makes us uncomfortable – deny yourself.

This is the hard part though, it is so much easier and more comfortable to be alright with our personal spirituality and not to worry that others also need Christ.

You and I stand in second place.

We’ll never get higher.

Because Jesus is in first place.

Our job is to point to him.

To be witnesses. (Acts 1:8)

It’s okay to play second fiddle, when first chair first is Jesus Christ

August 22, 2010

Twenty-second Sunday Cycle C

Sirach 3:17-18,20,28-29: Psalm 68:4-7,10-11: Hebrews 12:18-19,22-24a: Luke 14:1,7-14

 

Get a group of Catholic clergy talking, and sooner or later the conversation will turn to their experiences officiating at weddings.

Someone in the group will no doubt relate a moving story of an estranged family reconciled and reunited at the wedding of a son or daughter.

Before long, another cleric will begin reminiscing about a great-grandmother’s tears of joy as she watched the next generation of her family grow to adulthood and wed.

 But then – inevitably – someone else in the group will bring up with a sigh of resignation the difficult bride with unrealistic expectations and demands or the tipsy best man who barely made it through the service.

Truth is, no wedding ceremony ever seems to go exactly according to plan. Weddings just seem somehow to bring out the best – and sometimes the worst – in people.

 Clergy know that.

Indeed, we all know it.

And apparently, so does Jesus if our gospel account today is any indication. It is probably not for nothing that he sets his parable lesson today at a wedding feast where everyone is already anxious – trying their hardest to look and act their best – and vying for the best seats and places.

At first glance, this story appears to be nothing more than a straightforward, practical lesson in the twin virtues of courtesy and hospitality – among the most esteemed in the ancient world. “

When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet,” our Lord begins, “do not sit down at the place of honor.”

After all, there may well be other, more distinguished, guests who outrank you. Choose instead the lower places at table, he continues, “so that when your host comes, he may say to you, 'Friend, move up higher.’”

Common sense, we might rightly say, nodding our heads in agreement.

Just good manners.

But Jesus is, of course, no first-century Miss Manners, and he has far more important things on his mind than table etiquette and protocol.

Our selfish instincts, he knows, are not confined to wedding banquets and the dinner table.

In every age and culture, it has been part of human nature for folks to act in their own self-interest – sometimes even while seemingly acquiescing to the needs and wants of others.

We do it all the time, often without even thinking about it.

Whole economies are based on the principle of rugged individualism and self-reliance, the notion that, without interference from others, we are all better off depending on our own initiative and enterprise – acting in our own self-interest. Social scientists might even tell us that this is unavoidable and simply part of human evolution.

After all, all creatures have a natural propensity to foster and advance their own survival.

We are no exception.

As one bumper sticker popular in California puts it: “It’s About Me.”

That pretty much says it all.

At a certain level, of course, some might argue that there is nothing inherently wrong with this.

Flight attendants warn us to secure our own oxygen masks first before assisting others – and for fairly obvious reasons.

Therapists urge clients to be sure they are “getting their own needs met” before trying to reach out to others when already psychically exhausted.

And we are all learning anew the importance of self-care – taking responsibility for our own health and well-being every day.

But what takes place at the wedding banquet in Jesus’ parable is emblematic of different and much deeper truths.

“All who exalt themselves will be humbled,” our Lord concludes, “and those who humble themselves will be exalted."

This is not the practical experience of the workaday world we know so well.

And if we are to believe Jesus, the ordinary rules of human self-aggrandizement, greed, and pride suddenly no longer apply.

In the upside-down, topsy-turvy world of the gospel, everything is turned around. The humble are the exalted ones.

The poor are the rich.

The crippled and lame are the well.

And the blind are the ones who see.

And it is not about me after all.

The world turns out to be not as solid and real as we had believed.

Ultimately, our self-reliance turns out to be an illusion.

For we all depend upon one another whether we recognize it or not. And whether we like it or not, we all depend on God.

More than that, our Lord insists, it is only in emptying ourselves of our selfish impulses and accepting our sheer dependence upon God and others that we truly come to realize our own worth and value.

Only by humbling ourselves can we approach the One who humbled himself on the cross.

This is the paradox – and the challenge – of the gospel.

The kingdom, of which our Lord so often speaks, is a realm at odds with this everyday world of ours and its values.

In the spiritual realm of God’s kingdom, survival of the fittest takes on a whole new meaning.

And the second law of thermodynamics no longer applies: there is no limit – no end – to the energy of God’s love; it goes on forever.

The “resurrection of the righteous,” as Jesus calls it here, reveals our true and genuine nature.

And we will be repaid – not in ever higher salaries and exalted titles – but in the only currency that counts, the love God has for us and which we share with one another.

Any bride and groom who survive the wedding and go on to a happy married and family life soon enough learn first hand the important lesson of Jesus’ parable today; they soon enough come to know the meaning of selfless giving; they soon enough glimpse the kingdom at play in spouse and children.

But you do not have to be married to find God and his “angels” masquerading as “strangers” in your midst.

The kingdom, after all, is close at hand.

We pray today with the author of our reading from Hebrews, “Let mutual love continue.”

Now, that would make a nifty bumper sticker.

 

August 29, 2010

Twenty Second Sunday Cycle C

Sirach 3:17-18,20,28-29: Psalm 68:4-7,10-11: Hebrews 12:18-19,22-24a: Luke 14:1,7-14

 

Get a group of Catholic clergy talking, and sooner or later the conversation will turn to their experiences officiating at weddings.

Someone in the group will no doubt relate a moving story of an estranged family reconciled and reunited at the wedding of a son or daughter.

Before long, another cleric will begin reminiscing about a great-grandmother’s tears of joy as she watched the next generation of her family grow to adulthood and wed.

 But then – inevitably – someone else in the group will bring up with a sigh of resignation the difficult bride with unrealistic expectations and demands or the tipsy best man who barely made it through the service.

Truth is, no wedding ceremony ever seems to go exactly according to plan. Weddings just seem somehow to bring out the best – and sometimes the worst – in people.

 Clergy know that.

Indeed, we all know it.

And apparently, so does Jesus if our gospel account today is any indication. It is probably not for nothing that he sets his parable lesson today at a wedding feast where everyone is already anxious – trying their hardest to look and act their best – and vying for the best seats and places.

At first glance, this story appears to be nothing more than a straightforward, practical lesson in the twin virtues of courtesy and hospitality – among the most esteemed in the ancient world. “

When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet,” our Lord begins, “do not sit down at the place of honor.”

After all, there may well be other, more distinguished, guests who outrank you. Choose instead the lower places at table, he continues, “so that when your host comes, he may say to you, 'Friend, move up higher.’”

Common sense, we might rightly say, nodding our heads in agreement.

Just good manners.

But Jesus is, of course, no first-century Miss Manners, and he has far more important things on his mind than table etiquette and protocol.

Our selfish instincts, he knows, are not confined to wedding banquets and the dinner table.

In every age and culture, it has been part of human nature for folks to act in their own self-interest – sometimes even while seemingly acquiescing to the needs and wants of others.

We do it all the time, often without even thinking about it.

Whole economies are based on the principle of rugged individualism and self-reliance, the notion that, without interference from others, we are all better off depending on our own initiative and enterprise – acting in our own self-interest. Social scientists might even tell us that this is unavoidable and simply part of human evolution.

After all, all creatures have a natural propensity to foster and advance their own survival.

We are no exception.

As one bumper sticker popular in California puts it: “It’s About Me.”

That pretty much says it all.

At a certain level, of course, some might argue that there is nothing inherently wrong with this.

Flight attendants warn us to secure our own oxygen masks first before assisting others – and for fairly obvious reasons.

Therapists urge clients to be sure they are “getting their own needs met” before trying to reach out to others when already psychically exhausted.

And we are all learning anew the importance of self-care – taking responsibility for our own health and well-being every day.

But what takes place at the wedding banquet in Jesus’ parable is emblematic of different and much deeper truths.

“All who exalt themselves will be humbled,” our Lord concludes, “and those who humble themselves will be exalted."

This is not the practical experience of the workaday world we know so well.

And if we are to believe Jesus, the ordinary rules of human self-aggrandizement, greed, and pride suddenly no longer apply.

In the upside-down, topsy-turvy world of the gospel, everything is turned around. The humble are the exalted ones.

The poor are the rich.

The crippled and lame are the well.

And the blind are the ones who see.

And it is not about me after all.

The world turns out to be not as solid and real as we had believed.

Ultimately, our self-reliance turns out to be an illusion.

For we all depend upon one another whether we recognize it or not. And whether we like it or not, we all depend on God.

More than that, our Lord insists, it is only in emptying ourselves of our selfish impulses and accepting our sheer dependence upon God and others that we truly come to realize our own worth and value.

Only by humbling ourselves can we approach the One who humbled himself on the cross.

This is the paradox – and the challenge – of the gospel.

The kingdom, of which our Lord so often speaks, is a realm at odds with this everyday world of ours and its values.

In the spiritual realm of God’s kingdom, survival of the fittest takes on a whole new meaning.

And the second law of thermodynamics no longer applies: there is no limit – no end – to the energy of God’s love; it goes on forever.

The “resurrection of the righteous,” as Jesus calls it here, reveals our true and genuine nature.

And we will be repaid – not in ever higher salaries and exalted titles – but in the only currency that counts, the love God has for us and which we share with one another.

Any bride and groom who survive the wedding and go on to a happy married and family life soon enough learn first hand the important lesson of Jesus’ parable today; they soon enough come to know the meaning of selfless giving; they soon enough glimpse the kingdom at play in spouse and children.

But you do not have to be married to find God and his “angels” masquerading as “strangers” in your midst.

The kingdom, after all, is close at hand.

We pray today with the author of our reading from Hebrews, “Let mutual love continue.”

Now, that would make a nifty bumper sticker.

 

September 7, 1010

Twenty-third Sunday Cycle C

 Wisdom 9:13-18b: Psalm 90:3-6,12-17: Philomen 9:-10,12-17: Luke 14:25-33

 

Who are we without our stuff?

we are citizens of consumption

We are American consumers more often than we are American voters. Americans are brand-identified. Our patterns of consumption define us, and project who we are.

 We are PCs or Macs; Blackberries, Palms or iPhones; Nike or New Balance; fair trade or free trade.

We know how cool we are based on whether we choose Google Chrome, Firefox, Safari, or Explorer to surf the web

I'm not saying I am any different.

I know which type of countertop I prefer

I even know which fast food chain I would rather eat at. I buy as well as the next person. I just wonder who it is we are without our stuff.

The question raised first by the passage from the Gospel of Luke is: who are these people without their families?

The Gospel of Luke passage we heard gives a series of renunciations. "'Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple."

 The first two are renunciations of family and of life.

The third is a renunciation of possessions: "So therefore, none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions."

My favorite aspects of the Gospel of Luke include remarkable inclusion of women as agents, and the fact that this portrayal of Jesus is of a guy who enjoys his food and drink.

I can identify with that Jesus.

 Another characteristic of this gospel is the frequent mention of the need to give up or step away from material things.

The disciples were told they would need nothing to go on their journeys.

This makes me squirm.

I like to be prepared, and being prepared usually means buying the best tent or water bottle from the right sporting goods store.

What I like to think of as the most awkward part of this passage is the whole hate thing - "hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters."

Awkward

I've already been thinking about the worst-case scenario.

 I'm thinking about people who leave their families and don't speak to them ever again because of bad experiences with abuse or rejection.

I'm thinking about people who choose to cut themselves off, or are cut off because they have been abandoned or disowned.

But I want to know what this "hate" thing is about.

I find myself having a intercultural encounter with this text, written in a time when family/tribal affiliation was everything.

Everyone was "son of" or "daughter of."

Entire families converted, or didn't.

Families provided access, security, inheritance rights, a way to make a living.

When I think about who in this vast and varied collection of Scriptural traditions had no family connections enabling them to navigate their societies, I think of widows and orphans and aliens in a foreign land.

All these people were in such desperate disenfranchised straits because they did not have a family by which they were provided access to the means of survival.

So, Voluntarily stepping outside of the family structure seems, to be blunt, nuts. " it may be helpful to know that some scholars say this term translated as "hate" was not a rejection but a different understanding of priorities.

To hate one's family was a way of saying that family would not be the primary affiliation or the only choice.

In the passages leading up to this one, Jesus has been speaking to potential disciples hanging out at the home of a prominent Pharisee.

 Those listening were "interested inquirers and admirers." 

These were not committed disciples, these were the seekers of the day.

But Here Jesus is speaking to people who are considering commitment, and it sounds like he wants them to have a sense of the import of such a decision.

This text gets the point across.

Discipleship comes first, before family, before life, and before our stuff.

A decision to follow Jesus requires thinking all the way through the possible consequences of discipleship.

Jesus wants us to do a cost-benefit analysis and a risk assessment.

And the Gospel of Luke makes this message sticky by giving examples of what could happen when people don't plan ahead,

and by using the language of hate.

This dramatic language makes a point: that discipleship is beyond most experiences.

 It isn't convenient.

It might cost us everything.

After all, if loyalty to Jesus comes first, then everything, even the fundamental social structures of family and things, comes second.

This passage follows the parables where Jesus suggests to the host of a luncheon or dinner:

"do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors," but invite "the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind."

 Following through on inviting those who cannot repay you has to be dangerous.

The passage states: "Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple."

Seriously, Jesus?

Yes, seriously.

 Because following Jesus is serious business.

I like a challenge as much as anyone, but I'm not ready to answer this challenge with a definitive yes.

What about a definitive maybe?

How about a definitive I'll think about it?

Perhaps the life of Christian discipleship is a work in progress.

We may still be pondering these words of Jesus as we decide, each day, whether we will be disciples.

Who are we without our stuff?

The question is, who are we when we define ourselves as disciples instead of the people of stuff?

What might happen then?