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?

September 12, 2010

Sunday 24 Cycle C 

Exodus 32:7-11,13,-14: Psalm 51:3-4,12-13,17,19: 1 Timothy 1:12-17: Luke 15:1-32

 

“He eats with sinners”

Although the Pharisees and scribes saw him as going over to the other side, Jesus saw himself a bringing the two sides together.

He struggled to put things back together that other people were struggling to keep apart.

 

A shepherd leaves 99 sheep and goes after the one that is lost.

A woman loses one of her silver coins and frantically searches for  the one that is lost and then celebrates.

 

Both 100 and 10 are symbolic numbers.

They connote wholeness, completeness, fullness.

Each one of us has a drive for wholeness on every level.

We want physical, psychological, social and spiritual wholeness.

 

God desires this unity.

So the angels rejoice more when a whole is approached by the inclusion of what was formerly excluded than when an incompleteness,

even when it is a righteous incompleteness, remains one short.

 

In life, situations conspire to teach us the wilderness claims sheep foolish enough to stray and the coins lay forever unclaimed in the dark corners of houses.

We can become numb to the pain of missing what was once part of our total identity.

 

But Jesus doesn't settle for loss.

He also doesn't settle for sweet but private reunions.

If the finding of the one makes the 99 and the 9 whole, then it is not just good fortune for the shepherd and the women.

The whole community must gather.

When all the sheep and coins are together, then the neighbors and friends are brought in

Making whole translates into making merry with all the people.

The angels who are rejoicing in heaven are probably the same crowd who appeared to the shepherd a Jesus’ birth and announce “good news of great joy for all the people.

 

My father was never a “touchy-feely” kind of guy.

From pictures I know he was when I was small.

But, as I grew up, that all seemed to disappear.

He was a WWII veteran, shot down three times over Germany.

He spent two years in a concentration camp before being rescued at the end of the war.

During my teen years, when we would talk, it would often turn to arguments, mostly about politics and the war in Vietnam.

 

My mother was a wonderful woman, but that would change when she was drinking.

When she wasn’t drunk, my resentment would often burst into arguments with her.

 

So I left.

I lived with my grandparents for two years during high school, then got a job and rented out a room from an older couple and worked after school to pay for it and food.

I got a scholarship to college and worked my way through, rarely visiting home.

My parents and I drifted farther and farther apart during these years

Me thinking they couldn’t possibly love.

If they did, why did Mom drink; why didn’t Dad stop her from doing it?

They believing I didn’t love them; why would I stay away if I did?

 

Years later Dad was diagnosed with cancer, given two years to live.

I had begun reconsidering my view of them, so I started visiting them back home in Kentucky.

I was a priest in a parish with three priests, so I could get off to drive the 14 hours to see them.

During those visits, I found I could talk to Dad.

He never got comfortable with the with the whole “touchy-feely” thing, even at the end.

But he did get to the point where he expected me to hug him!

 

Years later Mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

I had been in Ethiopia, planning on staying there another four years.

But  I decided I couldn’t leave things like they were between Mom and me.

 

I asked Bishop Sullivan for a leave of absence and moved back to Kentucky.

I painted houses and lived with my cousin Stevie, visiting my Mom nearly every day.

She had stopped drinking.

We were able to talk about all those years I had been away.

About her addiction and her life that had led her to drink.

It was a wonderful year that ended when she died.

 

I remember going home once after college.

I had a good job and had bought my first new car.

A Toyota.

My Dad wouldn’t get in when I offered to take him for a drive.

“I’m not riding in any foreign car,” he said.

 

Years later, walking and talking to him right before he died, from out of the blued he turned to me and said, “That was a nice little car you had.”

 

And that's how I got my mother and father back, even though I never lost them.

And that is how I think life in time is.

 We walk with one another, but there is also an ongoing getting lost and returning, of not being there and suddenly being there again.

 Certainly, it is about physically being with one another.

But it is also about meeting spiritually.

When spiritual meeting happens, the angels get into the act.

They are a giddy group to begin with, but when they mix laughter and tears, merriment and sorrow, all creation goes along for the ride.

September 19th

Twenty-fifth Sunday Cycle C

Amos 8:4-7: Psalm 15:2-4b,5: 1 Timothy 2:1-8: Luke 16:1-13

 

 

The final set of primary elections have been decided and the candidates for the mid-term election in November are known.

 In the seven weeks between now and the November election we will be bombarded by television and radio ads, direct mail campaigns, robo-calls, get-out-the-vote efforts, and plain old-fashioned hand-shaking as candidates show up at every conceivable venue in an effort to court the vote.

Candidates in the United States, and their respective parties, will spend millions and millions of dollars on campaigns.

Outside special interest groups often may spend more than the candidates themselves in support of or in opposition to a particular candidate.

While we may dislike the proliferation of attack ads, and wish they didn't exist, the fact is that from the candidates point of view, these ads are effective—which is why we see so many of them.

 

What is often described as anger in the electorate this year puts incumbents at risk and propels newly minted candidates through the primaries.

The anti-incumbency feelings are equal opportunity players, engulfing both Democrats (like Arlen Specter of Pennsylvania) and Republicans (such as Lisa Murkowski of Alaska).

Like the steward who loses his position in this week's Gospel, no one is safe!

And like the steward in this week's Gospel, each side is looking for the right bargaining chips that will ensure their future success.

Each party weighs its options imagining that an attack ad against President Obama or one against Rep. John Boehner will win the day for their side.

In the meantime, projects like FactCheck.org, part of the Annenberg Public Policy Center of the University of Pennsylvania, try to uncover the truths and the untruths in each party's political advertising.

 Even their nonpartisan work meets with criticism and attacks.

Jesus' words in the Gospel point to the problems inherent for the Christian in trying to determine how to respond when it is time to vote:

"For the children of this world are more prudent in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light" (Lk 16:8).

But that doesn't mean that we Christians should abandon the political process or even suggest that it is so corrupt that it should be scrapped.

We must be part of it and we must approach it with as much integrity as we can muster.

Our Church tells us it is a moral imperative that we participate.

No one would ever accuse Amos of being a soft and cuddly prophet.

 He was among the most brash and uncompromising.

His sense of justice and of faithfulness to the Lord was unyielding, and he did not hesitate to call out the leaders of ancient Israel for their idolatry and their oppression of the poor.

From his perspective, the leaders were unjust stewards because they had turned away from God's path and sought their own comfort.

Christians may not have all the money that political parties are ready to spend in an attempt to access power—whether to keep it or to get it—at the local, state, and national levels.

But we do have our faith, and our commitment to love.

As we decide how to vote in the weeks to come, we must first be guided by that, and not by the ads that seek to sway us.

We must not be bought off with promises one way or the other in the same way that the unjust steward bought off his master's creditors with new promissory notes.

We must first be true to God.

And that means being part of the process.

September 26, 2010

26^th Sunday Cycle C

Amos 6: 1a, 4-7: Psalm 146: 7-10: 1 Timothy 6:11-16: Luke 16: 19-31

 

We were made for relationship.

 We were made to be in right relationship with God and one another, 100 percent.

But we don’t live that way.

We always have a relationship with something else, something that takes up part of that heart space so we don’t use all 100 percent for loving God and loving our neighbor.

Sometimes that something is money or seeking our own comfort over the needs of others.

 

In our reading today from 1 Timothy, Paul exhorts the faithful not to get too close to the uncertainty of riches, but instead draw close to “God who richly provides us with everything for our enjoyment.”

If you live in right relationship with God, it will show in this way, says Paul: doing good, being rich in good works, being generous and ready to share.

And living this way will allow us to “take hold of the life that really is life.”

Not the appearance of life – what this world trumpets as the good life – material comforts – but the life that really is life, the abundance that comes from living heart to heart, 100 percent now.

 

The story Jesus tells in the gospel could be an elaboration on this reading.

 It is easy to talk about righteousness in general, as a concept, in the abstract.

 It is quite another matter to deal with it in the particular.

 

“Poverty” doesn’t lie outside the rich man’s gate.

A poor, starving human being does. He is covered with sores, willing to eat scraps; a man, with a name: Lazarus.

 

The rich man, although his sumptuous lifestyle would have him deny it, has a need too.

he rich man needs to serve Lazarus as a brother.

Together they could help each other experience “the life that really is life.”

But during this life, the rich man does not notice Lazarus, much less care for him.

 It’s as if Lazarus doesn’t exist for him.

 A great chasm separates the two men, a chasm of the rich man’s making.

 

The scene shifts to heaven.

All is reversed. Lazarus is content.

The rich man is in torment.

The rich man longs for even a drop of water to cool the tongue that had tasted so many pleasing foods during his life.

 

And yet, the rich man still does not care about Lazarus.

In his torment, he wants to use Lazarus as a servant. “Send him to put a drop of water to cool my tongue,” he asks.

 

“No,” says Abraham.

 The chasm between you that you dug during your life has become impassable.

The gulf by which you were comforted in life has become un-crossable.

 

The truth of this parable is that the rich man needs Lazarus as much as Lazarus needs the rich man.

The independence that riches seem to bring is only an illusion.

The rich man thinks he can afford not to see Lazarus lying outside his gate.

 The rich man lives under the illusion that we are islands, contrary to John Donne’s wisdom, entire of ourselves.

We are separated by gulfs, and we can only build so many bridges.

The rich man lives with the illusion that we are intrinsically separate beings, our own possessions, and that to be responsible only for ourselves is enough.

 

Like Cain in Genesis, the rich man shrugs, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” assuming it is a rhetorical question, not dreaming that the answer may be “yes.”

 Yes, you are responsible, and your choices – to see, to notice, to serve, to love, or not – matter.

 

Perhaps for the rich man the gulf between himself and the beggar with his sores brings him a sense of safety.

Perhaps he feels there is little he can do, little difference he can make.

 Perhaps he sees the gulf as a necessary evil.

Perhaps the rich man is afraid of really being seen – of being revealed as inept or powerless or empty despite his material success.

 

Jesus’ parable points to something better for us, something better and more real – the reality that we were created not to be alone, but to be loved;

not to be users of one another, but to be partners in the world.

We were created not to dig chasms and let gulfs separate us, but to build bridges.

 

Who are we in this parable?

 We are not Lazarus, although we may be longing for something.

We are not the rich man, although we may have more than we need of material possessions.

We are the five brothers, the brothers and sisters of the rich man, still living, whom the rich man wishes to warn, to save from the torment of being on one side of a chasm;

 the torment of being separated from God;

 the torment of being able to envision only using people, not loving them, and ignoring the poor, not serving them.

We are the five brothers, in danger of waiting for some spectacular sign from God before we will take the message seriously.

 

No, says Abraham, you have all the sign you need.

 

And we do.

We have the Word, we have the prophets, we even have a man risen from the dead.

 

All of us have someone sitting by our gates –

someone who gives us the opportunity to fulfill the promises of our baptismal covenant, promises to seek and serve Christ in all people, to respect the dignity of every person.

 We have a choice: to build bridges or dig chasms.

And we can choose to use 100 percent of our capacity to love now and not wait for heaven.

October 3, 2010

27th Sunday Cycle C

Hebrews 1:2-3,2:2-4; Psalm 95:1-2, 6-9; 2 Timothy 1:6-8,13-14; Luke 17:5-10

"Jesus, increase our faith", the disciples begged.

Jesus responds to them by saying, "if you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, 'Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it would obey you."

A mustard see, you may know, is an extremely small seed - about the size of the head of a pin.

So Jesus is saying that we only need to have a very small amount of faith to be able to command a tree to tear itself up and replant itself in the sea.

Simple lesson, right?

Well, the trouble is - and here I can only speak for myself, but I have a hunch about the rest of you as well - I have never uprooted a mulberry tree on command.

Actually, I have never caused anything to be uprooted on command.

 Have you?

And in fact, I don't really believe that I have this ability tucked away somewhere in an unused corner of my brain.

I don't believe that I will ever be able to make a mulberry tree, or anything else, act in such a way.

I just don't see it happening.

But the problem is that my apparent inability to perform such awesome, moving tasks seems to lead to only a couple possible conclusions:

Either 1) Jesus was talking crazy talk, and didn't mean or didn't know what he was saying. Or 2) I don't have even faith the size of a mustard seed.

 

Again, some problems.

Jesus always knows what he's talking about, even when we find it hard to hear or do what he is teaching.

So we can scratch that choice.

Can it be that I don't have faith even the size of a mustard seed?

 Now, I don't want to say my faith is so great, or so deep, or so profound.

 But I think I can say with some boldness and sureness that my faith may even be pumpkin seed size!

So....back to square one it seems.

Maybe, just maybe, Jesus was trying to get us to understand something that we're reluctant to believe:

We already have been equipped, been gifted, with everything we need to follow Jesus, change our lives, and change the world.

Jesus says to us, "your faith is already big enough.

You already have all the faith you need to do whatever you want - to uproot trees, yes, but more importantly, to change lives.

If you aren't doing something because you don't think your faith is great enough, you're probably just making excuses."

 

Do you have faith?

Any faith?

Do you have any relationship with God?

Why are you here, again, this morning?

 If you have any faith at all, you are blessed and challenge.

You have enough faith to do great things!

And you have enough faith to have no excuse not to do great things!

 

Dorothy Day, who founded The Catholic Worker movement, was and is an inspiration to many for her commitment to helping the poor and living with very little herself so she could give to others.

She was so admired that people often sought her out just to see or touch her. Sometimes she would overhear people saying of her, "she is a saint."

This did not go over well, with her, however.

She would respond, "Don't say that. Don't make it too easy for yourself.

Don't escape this way.

 I know why you are saying, 'she is a saint.'

You say it to convince yourself that you are different from me, that I am different from you.

I am not a saint.

I am like you.

You could easily do what I do.

You don't need any more than you have; get kicking, please." (1)

 

That is Jesus' message to his disciples, and to us: get kicking, please.

Get to work.

You have what you need already, so just get to it.

In fact, in the concluding verses from our reading today, Jesus asks - are we to be thanked for doing what we are commanded?

We are commanded to act in our faith to love God and love neighbors, to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick, give to the poor.

We shouldn't view living out of our faith optional, but essential, not an elective, but an imperative.

There is no lack of concerns in this world for us to find a place to start making changes as we share and spread God's loving message of grace. e have the faith. Let's put it to use. 

October 10, 2010

Sunday 28, Cycle C

2 Kings 5:14-17;  Psalm 98:1-4; 2 Timothy 2:8-13; Luke 17: 11-19

With an election campaign season in progress, the topic of foreigners in our midst has become a political football.

Some would like to emulate the position of the Sarkozy government in France, which began expelling Roma from the country in August.

In the United States, there are those who suggest a reinterpretation of the 14th Amendment, which grants birthright citizenship.

A recent article in the New York Times describes Cesar Vargas, a graduate of James Madison High School in Brooklyn who is currently studying law at the City University of New York.

He was brought by his parents to the United States from Mexico when he was 5. Although he wants to be a military lawyer, he cannot join the armed forces.

He cannot vote. He cannot travel outside the country because he would not be allowed to return.

Mr. Vargas was brought to Washington to speak at a news conference held by Senator Durbin of Illinois to push for enactment of the Dream Act, which would give legal residency to children who arrived before age 16, subject to a variety of conditions.

Sadly, the problem with highlighting Mr. Vargas' situation is that once again people in difficult circumstances are being used, this time as a political pawn.

Kevin Appleby, director of immigration policy for the USCCB, said about this, "The tragedy is that the kids believe [the debate about the bill] is an honest process and get played by both sides. It can be very disheartening to them.

They deserve a simple majority vote based on the merits, not one caught up in procedure and pre-election politics."

It will be difficult to have any kind of dispassionate and coherent discussion about immigration in the weeks before the election.

 As Catholics, we have always been a church of immigrants, even as established residents continued to practice the faith.

 For instance, in the late 19th century in Milwaukee there was great consternation among the established German Catholics as the newly arrived Poles made their way to the city's churches.

The Poles successfully took their place in Catholic culture only to find themselves supplanted years later by large Hispanic communities who now worship in the very buildings that the Polish Catholics built.

A century ago a German parish in a farming community outside of Milwaukee was so opposed to welcoming Irish Catholics that the Irish had to build their own clapboard church just a block away.

A decade ago, both churches merged into a single community that is now home to the Vietnamese Catholic community as well.

One of those Poles, whose forbears succeeded the German Catholics in Milwaukee, now leads a church rich in ethnic diversity. In an August article in the diocesan newspaper,

 Archbishop Jerome Listecki pointed out that welcoming immigrants is rooted in human dignity.

He also clearly enunciated Catholic teaching as regards this perennial American issue.

We could focus on lepers this weekend—Naaman the Syrian, and the ten who were cured, one of whom was a Samaritan.

We could also focus on gratefulness—Naaman's desire to worship the LORD and the Samaritan leper's return to give thanks.

 But we could also think about foreigners many of whom, like Naaman and the Samaritan, are so grateful for where they are and what they have.

And we can recognize that as a church we have a lot to say to politicians of all stripes as we hold them accountable to respect life from conception and birth, through childhood and adolescence, to adulthood and natural death.