I read the book.  I saw the movie.  Finally last Saturday,  I had the opportunity to hear in person the woman behind the book and movie.  She told a story of conversion, rooted in coming face to face with evil and wrongdoing.  She told a story of being led by God’s grace to a place she never planned to go.

The woman was Sr. Helen Prejean, CSJ, who a number of years ago, agreed to simply write a letter to someone in prison, someone guilty of a horrible, senseless crime and sentenced to death.  That letter would lead her to death row  and to the death chamber at Angola, in her role as spiritual advisor for a convicted murderer.

Part of her journey of conversion would be learning the facts about the death penalty and about how the entire capital punishment system preys upon the poor and the non-white.  She spoke of Mr. Lloyd LeBlanc, father of a murder victim, who she says is the true hero of her book “Dead Man Walking”.  It was he and other victim’s families who taught her that she needed to reach out to the victims of these unspeakable crimes, even as she tried to offer the consolation of faith to the perpetrators.  (She originally thought they would not want to speak to her, and some did not.)  It was a story of conversion rooted in humility and in faith.

The occasion was a gathering of people here in Lafayette from across our state to explore the possibility of repealing the death penalty, even as some publicly boast of their support of judicial execution.  The meeting was hosted by the Pro-Life Apostolate of our Diocese, as part of their efforts to uphold the dignity and sanctity of all life created in the image and likeness of God.  It was a concrete expression of the teaching laid out in our Catechism:  “If, however, non-lethal means are sufficient to defend and protect people's safety from the aggressor, authority will limit itself to such means, as these are more in keeping with the concrete conditions of the common good and more in conformity to the dignity of the human person.”  The fact is that the death penalty is not the only possible way of effectively defending human lives against the unjust aggressor.

Just this past week, the family of a murder victim in Mississippi wrote a letter asking that the prosecutor not pursue the death penalty in the trial of their loved one’s killers.  They said that "They also have caused our family unspeakable pain and grief. But our loss will not be lessened by the state taking the life of another."  The story of conversion continues, one human heart at a time.

There is a saying that, “Before enlightenment, one chops wood and carries water.  After enlightenment, one chops wood and carries water”.

Much changed in the world and in our lives ten years ago today, on the day we have come to know as “9/11”.  It was one of those events that everyone remembers where they were when they heard, when they saw towers crashing to the ground.  Sadly, for some it was time for rejoicing; for others it was a time for revenge (rather than justice). For many it was a time for grieving.  There was fear.  There was confusion.  And there was faith.

For those who believe in the Gospel, it is always a time for faith, before and after and in between.  As we remember, perhaps it is always:

 ·         A time for fasting: for justice, peace and the protection of innocent human life.

·         A time for teaching: to better learn Catholic teaching on war and peace.

·         A time for dialogue: with Muslims, Jews, fellow Christians and other faith communities.

·         A time for witness: to live our values of mutual respect, human dignity, respect for life, and security without resorting to discrimination.

·         A time for service: to continue to provide assistance to those still hurting both here and abroad.

·         A time for solidarity: with all who live under the threat of violence and uncertainty each day. And…

·         A time for hope: in God’s grace, in ourselves, and in one another.

As we approach 9/11 and 10^th anniversary remembrances, I share with you excerpts from the U.S. Bishops’ pastoral letter regarding that event, issued in November of 2011.  I think it can serve as a reminder as well as perhaps an examination of conscience.

“After September 11, we are a wounded people. We share loss and pain, anger and fear, shock and determination in the face of these attacks on our nation and all humanity. We also honor the selflessness of firefighters, police, chaplains, and other brave individuals who gave their lives in the service of others. They are true heroes and heroines.

“In these difficult days, our faith has lifted us up and sustained us.   . . .   Jesus' life, teaching, death and resurrection show us the meaning of love and justice in a broken world. Sacred Scripture and traditional ethical principles define what it means to make peace. They provide moral guidance on how the world should respond justly to terrorism in order to reestablish peace and order.

“The events of September 11 were unique in their scale, but they were not isolated. Sadly, our world is losing respect for human life.   . . .  The dreadful deeds of September 11 cannot go unanswered. We continue to urge resolve, restraint and greater attention to the roots of terrorism to protect against further attacks and to advance the global common good. Our nation must continue to respond in many ways, including diplomacy, economic measures, effective intelligence, more focus on security at home, and the legitimate use of force.

“In our response to attacks on innocent civilians, we must be sure that we do not violate the norms of civilian immunity and proportionality. We believe every life is precious whether a person works at the World Trade Center or lives in Afghanistan. The traditional moral norms governing the use of force still apply, even in the face of terrorism on this scale.

“No grievance, no matter what the claim, can legitimate what happened on September 11. Without in any way excusing indefensible terrorist acts, we still need to address those conditions of poverty and injustice which are exploited by terrorists. A successful campaign against terrorism will require a combination of resolve to do what is necessary to see it through, restraint to ensure that we act justly, and a long term focus on broader issues of justice and peace.”

22nd Sunday in Ordinary Time

What do you do when the unimaginable is imagined, and more?  What do we do when the unspeakable crime is spoken in action?  Recently, we were shocked, and more, when news broke of the terrible death of a little boy, Jori, at the hands of his own father.  Having a disability that made him, in the eyes of his father, more of a burden than a gift, he was brutally murdered.  Then he was brutally dismembered.  Having been refused the dignity of the living, he was even denied the respect due to the dead.

Shock and outrage, disbelief and calls for justice all characterized the comments and reports.  Eventually, this precious child was laid to rest as his short life was remembered and honored by those who loved him and many who did not know him.  This is as it should be.  But I feel that something more must be said, without in any way diminishing the tragedy of this evil deed that led to Jori’s death.  What is the context in which this occurred?

You see, as horrible as this act was to behold, the killing and dismemberment of children by their parents is something that takes place every single day.  It is done about 7 years earlier, in the privacy of a “health care” clinic.  We have an entire industry devoted to making profits from the disposal of these children.  These innocents were simply “unplanned”, or they were diagnosed as having some disability, as did Jori, or they simply had the misfortune of being of the wrong sex.  The only differences between these children and Jori are those of time and location.  They were much younger, and they had not yet left their mothers’ wombs.  Just as Jori’s home became a place of danger for him, so these children are living and developing in a place of grave danger, their own mothers’ wombs.

Some will object that there is a huge difference between abortion and infanticide.  Again I say that the differences are of time and location:  how long since the child’s conception, and whether the child is still in the womb.  Once we have created an entire class of disposable human beings (the unborn), then the question becomes, which children are disposable?  The prominent “ethicist” Peter Singer has publicly suggested that parents who give birth to a child with disabilities be given six weeks or so after the child’s birth to decide whether or not to dispose of him or her.  The dying, the guilty, the enemy, all seem to be disposable.

Without a doubt, laws need to be changed.  But more fundamental than laws are attitudes of (dis)respect for life that are deeply flawed.  Who is next to be judged, “disposable”?

21st Sunday in Ordinary Time

A few weeks ago, our post-Communion catechesis on the Mass focused on the call to full, conscious and active participation by all who celebrate the Eucharist – it’s not a spectator sport.  That same catechesis also mentioned the essential role of silence in the midst of this communal act of worship we call the Mass. It spoke of the connection between our words and actions on the one hand, and our internal attitudes on the other, and how silence helps to foster that “right attitude”, so that we mean what we say and say what we mean in the context of our prayer.  Those moments of “private” prayer in silence enrich the community’s common prayer.

In my browsing around this week, I ran across the following quote that speaks eloquently of the silence after Communion.  I just had to share it with you:

 “During this time of silent prayer the priest leads us into the third and last of the three ancient silences in the Mass, the silence when we reach out to be in communion with Jesus and with everyone to whom he leads us. You are now seated beside Jesus. What is he saying to you? What have you to say to him? Is our Lord calling you to serve him in a special way by reaching out in active, loving service of any particular person or group? Is he inviting you to enjoy the vocation he has already given you—to be single, a husband, a wife, a father, a mother, a son, a daughter, a neighbor, a co-worker? Is he calling you to be single, to be married, to be a parent, a priest, a deacon, a religious sister or brother? Is he leading you to someone whom you have hurt or who has hurt you? You are now close to the saints and all your beloved dead; tell them of your love and receive theirs. Listen to Jesus comfort you in your suffering. See him reveal himself as the ultimate source of your joy. Let him give you strength for your work. Hear him answer your prayer” ["Mass In Slow Motion" © 2002–2011 Paul F. Ford. All Rights Reserved.]

Here we can see that the communal act of coming up to receive Communion, lifting up our voices together in song, leads us into a silence marked by a deep intimacy with the Lord, whom we have received.  It is that encounter with the Lord, present in priest & people & Word & Eucharist, that we continue to explore in this week’s catechesis.  The richness of these multiple ways in which Christ is really present speaks to how and why we can be transformed, converted, changed, made holy, in through our full, conscious and active participation in the Eucharist.  Together we enter into the song, so that together we might enter into the silence.

20th Sunday in Ordinary Time

In some ways it’s like the calm before the storm.  The last trips to the beach or to grandma’s are winding down.  Teachers are relishing their last days of freedom, school supplies are stacked in the corner, kids are resigning themselves to early wake-up calls or they’re wondering what that new teacher will be like.  The summer is ending, the school year is starting, and it’s what we’ve done so many times before.

In other directions it is anything but calm.  London is burning, the Somali’s are starving, the Arab spring is still a huge question mark as power shifts around from faction to faction.  Congress is still embroiled in its own particular brand of dysfunction, markets are in turmoil and everybody is arguing over who is responsible for the downgrade.  The western states are recovering from their huge wildfires while much of the south suffers a tremendous heat wave.  The list could go on and on.  Many problems are evident.  Solutions are in dispute.

  Yet somewhere this morning, someone got up at his or her usual time, made the coffee, fed the bird, dressed for work and showed up as usual.  For countless others, the dog still needed to be walked, the garbage taken out, the dishes and clothes still had to be washed.  Kids needed to be tended to, the grass needed to be cut and the dog needed to be walked – again.

In much the same way, we gather again here in this Church for Mass, as we do Sunday after Sunday.  We gather and we do pretty much the same thing we did last Sunday, with variations in readings and prayers as needed.  As a matter of fact, we gather this weekend and do pretty much what Catholics have been doing every Sunday for a little over 2000 years.  We tell the stories and we break the bread, we eat and drink the presence of the Lord.  And when we get home, the dog still needs to be walked – again.

There is a tremendous value in that kind of routine, that kind of ritual.  It needs to be there in our communal life, and it needs to be there in our personal life.  In the 4^th century and the 8^th century and the 15^th century, the Catholics who gathered knew nothing of stocks and bonds or Facebook or Twitter or choosing the right soap for the dishwasher.  They had their own challenges, their own disruptions of daily life, their own disasters and triumphs.  They gathered and so do we.

In and through all of that, God is God.  We are not him.  And he remains God.  That is why no matter what’s happening in the world out there, or in my little world, I need to come back to God, over and over and over again.  I need to stay in touch with the source of my life, with my hope and salvation, whether or not the dog needs to be walked -- again.

19th Sunday in Ordinary Time

To this day, the most useful and appropriate definition of “grace” I have ever heard comes from a book written some 40 years ago by Fr. Piet Fransen.  Therein he speaks of grace as “the living and loving presence of God in us, in the Church and in the world.”  Over the years when I’ve thought about or spoken about God’s grace, this simple description has served me well.

Yet, as the years have gone by, I have also come to believe that this simple definition, or any definition really, cannot begin to capture the reality we point to with the simple word, “grace”.  It is not that the definition is wrong, but rather that the experience of grace remains truly amazing, beyond description, beyond comprehension, beyond definition.  What does a living presence look like, when it is God’s life we point to?  What is it to experience the love of a God without limit or boundary?  What are we, who am I, and what does it mean for God to be present there?  Can I really grasp the mystery that is church, or the complex reality that we call the world?

Ultimately, I cannot define grace, nor can I define God, for to define is to describe limits, where with God there are no limits.  Yet I still speak of grace, I can sing of grace, I can believe in grace, because time and again I see the results, in us, in the Church, and in the world.  As with some other things we cannot define, I know it when I see it.

Most often we experience grace when we reach our limits.  Now and then I come up against that wall I cannot climb, that abyss I cannot leap, that darkness I cannot penetrate.  I desperately want to do what I simply cannot accomplish.  Like Peter, having gotten out of the boat, and as his fear pulled him beneath the waves, we cry out, “Lord, save me”.  At that moment, through words themselves inspired by grace, we open the door to grace:  God doing in us what we cannot do of ourselves.

This does not mean that we are helpless, but rather that we are always in need of help.  We do what we can, so that God can do in us what we cannot do.  We become willing, so that God’s will can be done.  We show up – for prayer, for worship, for service, for celebration, for sorrow – we show up.  Sometimes we have to get out of the boat, and go to Jesus across the waves.  We might feel lost, but as someone said, “Lost is a place too”, and it is a place where we can be grasped by God’s grace, by the hand of Jesus reaching over the waves.

This weekend I mark 30 years of service as a priest in the Diocese of Lafayette.  That is grace.

18th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Way back in seminary college, I had a philosophy professor who explained to us one of the harsher realities of life.  He began by drawing an inverted triangle on the board (with the point at the bottom and the base at the top).  He explained that at the beginning of life, the choices available to us are like this triangle, expansive in their variety and possibilities, with so many paths one could take, so many directions one might go. Over this he drew another triangle, this one right side up.  He pointed out that as we journey through life, and make the choices demanded of daily living, our options begin to narrow.  Quite simply, things that are possible for the 20 year old are just no longer viable options for the person cruising through mid-life. 

Several years later, I encountered a morality professor who applied this same basic insight to individual choices.  He pointed out that every time we choose one thing, there is something else that must remain not chosen.  In addition, he showed how even when we choose the good, there is often something not so good that necessarily accompanies the choice.  My favorite example is that of choosing to take a walk in the fresh air.  This is good for one’s health, building up that old cardio-vascular system.  It probably improves our attitude as well, if we find the walk relaxing.  It may even contribute to our spiritual well-being, as we notice the splendor of God’s creation and are moved to give thanks.  All this is fine and good.  This wise professor then went on to point out that this same walk will also wear out my shoes.

All of this points to the fact that humanity is made of creatures who have limitations.  So often our frustrations in life stem from our unbounded expectations and desires, confronted by our limited capacities.  No matter where we are, there are other places where we cannot be at the same time.  Choose spending time with friends and you will not be reading the latest novel.  Embrace a particular hobby with zeal and enthusiasm, and there will be other talents and abilities which will not be developed.  Choose to be a mechanic and you will probably not build bridges.  We could go on and on.  Every choice we make demands that something else be left not chosen.

If we focus on what is not chosen, we shall remain forever frustrated.  If on the other hand, we accept our humanity and our limitations, this will actually free us to live fully the choices we have made.  It is precisely in choosing, and in choosing well, that we become the persons God made us to be.  And that is gift.

17th Sunday in Ordinary Time

This last week, we celebrated the memorial of Blessed Kateri Tekakwitha, the first Native American person to be proclaimed “Blessed”.  Blessed Kateri (a Mohawk rendering of the name Catherine) experienced tragedy early in her life when smallpox invaded her village and she lost her entire family to the disease.  In addition to leaving her an orphan, the disease left her terribly disfigured and with weakened eyesight.  After being adopted by a kindly uncle, she continued to attract interest from the young men.  She soon realized that they were interested not in her but rather in becoming her uncle’s son-in-law, who was a powerful chief.  Having no interest in such a loveless marriage, she chose celibacy instead.  She would not let herself be used as a path to power and wealth.

The same day we remembered Kateri, we heard from Exodus the story of God sending Moses to the king of Egypt to demand the freedom of the Israelites.  God told Moses that the king would not let them go freely, but would have to be coerced into setting free his slaves.  For the Egyptian king, the Israelites were a financial asset, a labor force not easily relinquished.

In both cases, we see individuals being treated as things.  We see Kateri being sought after as a bride because she could assure power through her uncle.  We see the Hebrews being kept in slavery because they were a huge part of the Egyptian government balance sheet.  In neither case were the people involved being treated as persons with a dignity and worth prior to and apart from their earning power.

It is sometimes said in Catholic social teaching that persons are always ends, and never just a means to an end.  Every dealing with persons must begin with the truth that this is a person with a purpose in life, rooted in having been created in the image and likeness of God.  What someone can do for us, or what they might cost us is never the first concern in our relations with others.

We move from ancient Egypt through colonial America to our own day, and see the same thing being done.  Consider the immigration controversy.  For the most part, immigrants are seen either as a financial asset (migrant farm workers to harvest our crops) or as a financial liability (needing schooling and health care).  While those elements are part of the situation, we must always remember that we are dealing with persons created in the image and likeness of God, with certain rights not derived from status or law.  Whatever laws are passed with regard to persons, we must always treat them not as liabilities or assets but as persons.

16th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Last week in Sunday’s homily I took the opportunity to say a brief word about the idea of freedom, in connection with our nation’s  Independence Day celebrations.  As I reflected on that idea of freedom, I decided to try an say a bit more about something that is such a central idea, not only for our nation, but also for our faith.

Living in the “land of the free” means for the most part that we experience a certain liberty from restraints imposed upon us from the outside, particularly by government.  Of course, these freedoms are not absolute and could not be if a free society is to endure.  Part of the function of government is to devise reasonable limitations on freedom so that individuals are not harmed and liberties are not abused.  One’s driver’s license (itself a privilege and not a right) allows one to drive on the nation’s highways, but only below certain speeds, and always in accord with certain rules and conventions (stop at stop signs and red lights, etc.)  That being said, we could debate all day about what constitutes “reasonable” limitations on freedom, but our politicians are already taking care of that conversation.

From a faith perspective, we have the concept of free will.  This quality or attribute is essential to our understanding of ourselves, our relationship with our God and countless other aspects of our nature.  We are capable of virtue and heroism, generosity and sacrifice (which cannot be coerced) precisely because we have free will.  Having free will is also the foundation of the possibility of sin, since sin by its very nature must involve a choice that is free, to a greater or lesser extent.

Last week, I spoke of the possibility of abusing that freedom.  Suppose you hand your car keys to your brother to go to the drug store.  Hours later your brother returns having visited the track, the bar, his girlfriend and the gym.  While he was free to do that, he most certainly abused that freedom.  Chances are you won’t be giving him that freedom again any time soon.

When we use our free will to act in ways contrary to God’s will, we abuse the gift of freedom.  We call that sin.  But this is where God deals with us differently from the way we deal with one another.  He doesn’t take away our freedom.  Instead he leaves us free, in hope that next time we will use that freedom rightly (what Pope John Paul II called “authentic freedom”.)  In our relationship with God, the things that limit our freedom come from within.  Our desires for and attachments to things that do harm will consistently drag us into abusing our freedom, using our free will to commit sin.  Maintaining true freedom demands that we first look within.

15th Sunday in Ordinary Time

When you’re raising up a child, you start with the basics-- honesty, respect for self and others, responsibility, etc.  When you’re building a house, you pay attention first to the foundation, since on that everything else will rest.  It seems wise to apply this same basic principle to our task of welcoming changes in the language of the Mass this fall.  And that is why over the next eight weeks or so, we are going to be spending time after Communion looking at the basics of the Eucharist, the source and summit of our life together as Church.

Next November, we will no longer be able to just rattle off our responses and pray prayers like the Gloria and the Creed without even thinking about it.  There will be changes, such as “And also with you” becoming “And with your spirit”.  And maybe that’s a good thing.  Alongside the discomfort and the almost inevitable frustration will be an opportunity to stop and ask, “What am I saying?” and “Do I mean this?”

Before we even get there, however, there is other work to be done that will greatly benefit all of us.  When the First Sunday of Advent comes, all we will be seeing will be the differences.  At the forefront of our experience will be the things that have changed.  That’s okay, because we will have to be attentive to those changes for a while, until we become comfortable with the new stuff (which we will, in the same way we became comfortable with our current prayers).  It remains important to remember that much about our common worship will not be changing.

Unlike the changes some will remember from the late sixties, the elements and actions and flow of the Mass will not be changing.  The Entrance Rite will still be the Entrance Rite, we will be using the same Lectionary and the same readings from Scripture, the Preparation of the Gifts will still be followed by the Eucharistic Prayer and the Communion Rite, and yes, we will still have a collection (sometimes two!).  The music we sing at Entrance and Communion and at the end of Mass will remain pretty much the same.  What will be changing will be many of the words that we pray when we carry out those actions.

So over the next few weeks, we will be spending time revisiting our fundamental understanding of the Mass.  (See “Roman Missal Update” elsewhere in this bulletin.) In this way, when we actually start using the different texts in late November, and we hear someone say, “Everything is changing!” (and someone will!), we will know that is not true.  Just the words are changing.

Feast of the Body and Blood of Christ

At the celebration of the Eucharist, there are two main processions.  One is the Entrance Procession, with which the Mass begins, and the other is the Communion Procession, by which the community is fed.  One thing they have in common is that ideally they are accompanied by song.  The sung prayer at the Entrance not only accompanies the ministers’ journey to the altar, but also, even primarily, serves to gather us together as a community. Having all come together from different places, we unite our voices as a way of uniting our hearts.

The sung prayer at Communion actually serves a similar purpose.  There is a sense in which receiving Communion is an individual action.  While we come up in procession as a community, each of us receives the Body and Blood of Christ in turn, one after another.  The fact that we sing while we are doing this reinforces the fact that this happens for us as a part of a community, gathered in common prayer.  The Eucharist, and all the sacraments for that matter, never happens in isolation, but always in the midst of community.  While private prayer is an essential part of the spiritual life, the celebration of the Eucharist is first and foremost common worship.  (This is why we do not pursue private devotions or pray the rosary during Mass.)

Underlying this common action and common prayer is a common dialog.  “The Body of Christ – Amen”. “The Blood of Christ – Amen”,  This dialog is repeated over and over and over the whole time we are receiving Communion and singing God’s praises.  What is truly powerful about this dialog is that it affirms several different things.

First, the dialog calls forth from the communicant a profession of faith.  As the minister describes what is to be received, the one receiving states that s/he believes this to be so.  The dialog affirms that what is to be received is not just a piece of bread or a sip of wine, but something so much more – the Real Presence of the Christ, alive in our midst.

A second meaning is offered to us by St. Augustine, who in teaching about the Eucharist, said “Become what you receive”.  He draws our attention not only to the fact that we are  being spiritually fed, but also being transformed.  We are meant to become, by God’s grace, the very Body of Christ which we receive.

Our third focus also flows from Augustine, who also said, “Become what you are”.  If we step back from the individual and view the action of the entire community, we see the Body of Christ, coming up to receive the Body of Christ, in order that they might become the Body of Christ.  Now that is something to sing about.

Trinity Sunday

When one looks at the history of religions, one cannot hardly overlook the tremendous shift that took place with Judaism, followed by Christianity and Islam.  Prior to this, the classic pattern was to believe in many gods, each having power/responsibility for some part or aspect of the world.  Judaism, Christianity and Islam departed from this in their bedrock belief in only one God, rather than many.  So “monotheism” came into human consciousness.

Yet a fascinating shift takes place with the birth of Christianity, as faith began to affirm that this one God was three persons, a truth which we name the Trinity.  In no way a rejection of monotheism, it is an expansion in understanding of who and what this one God is.

Fr. Ron Rolheiser speaks of this belief in this way:  “But from the time of Jesus’ resurrection onwards, Christians began to struggle with simple monotheism. They believed that there is still only one God, but their experience of God demanded that they believe that this God was somehow “three”. Stated simply, when Jesus rose from the dead Christians immediately began to attribute divinity to him, yet without identifying him as God the Father. Jesus was understood to be God, but somehow different from God the Father. Moreover, inside of their experience, they sensed still a third divine energy which they couldn’t fully identify with either Jesus or God the Father, the Holy Spirit.”

As this Sunday we celebrate Trinity Sunday, we rejoice in this truth of our faith.  The Catechism teaches this:  “The Trinity is One. The divine persons do not share the one divinity among themselves but each of them is God whole and entire: "The Father is that which the Son is, the Son that which the Father is, the Father and the Son that which the Holy Spirit is, i.e. by nature one God."

As is immediately obvious, speaking about and explaining the Trinity is not easy task.  There is no other reality like God, Father, Son & Spirit, with which we can make comparisons.  While the things we say about the Trinity are true, such as the statement quoted above from the Catechism, there remains much that simply cannot be spoken, because we believe in a reality (God, Trinity) that goes beyond human comprehension and description.

This fact brings us to another gift of this Trinity Sunday.  Because God has revealed himself to us, we can truthfully affirm one God in three Persons.  At the same time, we recognize that God is bigger than that, beyond our words and ideas.  Our God is so much bigger than us.  That is a good thing.

Pentecost Sunday

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been exploring with you the possibility of choosing some form of penance, or more accurately, some form of self-denial on the Fridays of the year.  This week, I want to take up that same theme of self-denial, with a little bit different focus.  I want to explore not so much the act of denying ourselves some thing but rather the denial of our very selves.

First let us say that this is not meant to be some warped sense of humility that says we are nothing, or without inherent value as daughters and sons of the Most High God.  It is not about trying to deny our inherent self-worth as having been created in the image and likeness of God.  Rather it is an attempt to be embrace an authentic humility based on the truth about who we are and about who God is, thus enabling a relationship with our Creator that is founded on reality and truth.

This is precisely where denial of self comes into play.  There are few enemies more threatening to a healthy spirituality than the ego.  The ego is that little boy or little girl lurking within us that shouts out, “I want it now!”  It is that desire to get what I want when I want it, exactly as I ordered it, thank you very much.  It is about satisfying the self.

Compare that if you will to the example of Jesus:  “I came not to do my own will, but the will of the one who sent me”.  He came not to be served, but to serve, giving his very life as ransom for the many.  Not only his life-giving death but his entire life was lived in denial of self.

This is where true humility begins to make itself felt.  This denial of self we are talking about is rooted in the recognition of and acceptance that we are not God.  While we might say that this is rather obvious, when we are driven by the ego, we often attempt to play God.  Humility attempts to let God truly be God in our lives.

Consider this:  How much of our prayer tends to revolve around telling God what to do?  Yes, we may phrase it as a request, but how often do we expect God to conform to our will.  It is not that we are not allowed to bring to God the desires of our hearts.  We offer petitions at Mass.  But are they requests, or are our “prayers” the demands of the ego?

Then consider this:  How much our prayer is about asking God what he would have us do?  Isn’t this what it means to let God be God, beginning with the belief that God actually knows what is best for us?  This is why the ego is the mortal enemy of humility.  This is why denial of self is essential to a healthy spirituality and a right relationship with God.  God is God.  We are his.

Feast of the Ascension

Over the last couple of weeks I’ve been exploring the possibility of our choosing some act of true self-denial on all the Fridays of the year, the day of the Lord’s death.  In this we assert the value of strengthening our ability to reject even what appears good to us. We recognized that what for one person is true penance might be totally inconsequential to another.  We also asserted that many things that appear good to us, and therefore are attractive and tempting, are not truly good.  Practicing self-denial helps us in building moral character and the ability to discern and avoid sinful choices.

One area of struggle for many is the battle against recurrent sin – we find ourselves confessing the same thing repeatedly.  While we recognize that thought, deed or omission as sinful, there remains something about that choice which appears good to us, some pleasure or satisfaction of perceived need that continues to attract us.  If we live our lives built around the pursuit of anything and everything which appears good to us, we shall remain mired in sin.  We must develop the ability to say no to things which are “apparently good”.  As simple as it sounds, choosing even some small act of self-denial on a regular basis can build up our ability to resist the “apparent good” of the sinful act.

This aspect of Friday penance is focused on the interior spiritual life, though anything which helps us avoid sin will be of benefit to those around us.  However Friday penance has the potential for building up the community as well.  The many who participate in Operation Rice Bowl will understand this easily, since they are accustomed to connecting their self-denial with a donation to the needy.  But whatever our chosen act of penance, it can lead us to a deeper concern for those do without the basics of life, as we experience doing without something we have chosen to forgo.  Perhaps our very act of penance, such as giving up some favorite activity, will free up time that can be spent reaching out to someone in need, visiting the sick, or being of service in some other way.  In this way, “self-denial” does not remain focused on self, but expands to enrich the lives of those around us, in imitation of Jesus, who on that first Good Friday laid down his life for us, as one who came not to be served but to serve.

This is why we choose Fridays for this penance.  It’s not just about me, but rather about becoming the person God made me to be, for the service of those around us.  So choose some penance.  It matters little what it is as long as it is something you desire.  And then do it, Friday after Friday after Friday.  It works.

Sixth Sunday of Easter

Last week, I made two suggestions.  First, I suggested that we reclaim the Fridays of the year as days of self-denial, in remembrance of the day of the Lord’s death.  Second, I suggested that we each take responsibility for choosing some practice which for us is truly self-denial.  And I promised to say something of why.

One thing that is at the heart of many types of penance is the will to say no to something which we perceive as good.  When we deny ourselves something we like, it is not a judgment of that activity or thing but rather a simple act of the will, choosing not to indulge ourselves.  There are other types of self-denial where we avoid something we enjoy, knowing that it is not good for us, or we engage in some activity we would rather avoid, knowing that is the right thing to do.

Believe it or not, this is related to the motivation for sin.  St. Thomas Aquinas pointed out long ago that human beings always choose the “apparent good”.  In other words, even when we sin, there is some “good” in the act that is apparent as well as attractive to us.  I choose revenge for the self-satisfaction it brings.  There is always some good we seek, some self-gratification, some pleasure, some satisfaction, in every sinful act.

This is precisely the challenge of avoiding sin.  We must reject something which in some way appears good to us, an “apparent good”.  Of course, few actions are so simple that they only have one consequence, or one result.  Through moral training, and through the use of our intellect, and often through our own experience, we discover that some apparent goods are not really so good.  Having someone fall in love with us and entering into a relationship appears to be good, unless we are married to someone else.  Avoiding embarrassment, expense and inconvenience is apparently good, unless that is achieved through getting an abortion.  Savoring rich foods and fine wines is delightful, unless it destroys our health.  In every sinful action, we perceive some “apparent good”, which is why we choose it.

This brings us back to the practice of self-denial as a staple of our spiritual lives.  We human beings desire the good, including those things that are only “apparently good”.  How do we develop the ability, the will-power, the willingness to say “No” to sinful actions and omissions that are apparently good?  One way is to practice.  So we might, on Fridays, choose to deny ourselves something that is good.  This “penance” shapes and forms the kind of person we become.  We cease to be someone who simply pursues whatever looks good to us.  We are able to discern and choose what is truly good, and avoid what is evil.  Penance builds virtue.

Fifth Sunday of Easter

When I bring to mind Fridays in Lent during those long-ago days of my childhood, the first thing to come to mind is fish sticks.  These were of course served in Mrs. Orelie Simon’s lunchroom at Morse Elementary.  Close on the heels of fish sticks are grilled cheese sandwiches and fried eggs.  For me at least, this is what it meant to abstain from meat on Fridays.  Every Friday, all year long.

I was struck this past Lent by the proliferation of restaurants offering Lenten menus.  What this meant for the most part was that one could chow down on scrumptious seafood dishes (not to mention the boiled crawfish) while legalistically practicing “self-denial”.  It’s one of those things that makes you go “Hmmmmm”.

I suspect that there are those who lament that change of church discipline that limited meatless Fridays to the Lenten season.  I suspect there are those who would like to bring it back, citing things like Catholic identity and obedience.  To do so would be a serious error, and would obscure the real meaning of self-denial.

What exactly did the Church change about the Friday discipline?  The teaching is that one must abstain from meat on the Fridays of Lent.  We got that part.  The second part of the teaching, we seem to have missed:  That the other Fridays of the year remain days of penance, in remembrance of the day of the Lord’s death.  While it might seem that this change made it easier for Catholics, in reality it made it much harder, for it left to each one of us the responsibility of choosing some act of self-denial on the other Fridays of the year.  For the most part we haven’t bothered.  And I’m suggesting that we start bothering.

Why not just go back to the “good ole days”?  While there conceivably was a time in Western Europe when abstaining from meat was a realistic penance for everyone, it just isn’t so today.  This discipline isn’t about meat.  It’s about self-denial.  What about those countless people throughout the world who are too poor to ever eat meat?  What about those whose primary diet is fish, rather than beef or chicken or boudin?  What about those people who live in places where seafood is abundant, and where replacing a burger with a plate of crawfish etoufee’ from the Lenten menu is anything but self-denial?

I am suggesting for us a two-fold practice.  One, we recover the practice of self-denial on Fridays throughout the year.  Two, we accept the responsibility for choosing some practice for ourselves that is really and truly self-denial. It might well be giving something up, or it might be doing something extra.  It might be not eating meat, for the meat and potatoes types.  Or it might be having a hot dog instead of grilled tilapia.  More next week on what this can do for us and why it is important for our spirituality.

Fourth Sunday of Easter

As the old saying goes, oil and water don’t mix.  And usually they don’t.  Yet one place that oil and water come together in an astounding and life-giving way is in the sacramental life of the Church.

Oil and water.  Too much of either, in the wrong place or at the wrong time, and disaster and destruction will soon follow.  Our recent experience has shown this to be all too true.  While for many, the BP oil spill is a memory, for others it remains an on-going reality as their lives and livelihoods continue to be impacted.  Today in the news are the stories of the destruction taking place now as the Mississippi River does what rivers sometimes do.  When spilt or released, whether from wells or lakes or the sky, water and oil have to go somewhere.  And sometimes the results destroy lives.  Yet oil and water are essential to our lives and our ways of living.

One of the wonderful things about the sacraments is their use of simple gifts to symbolize Christ at work in our midst.  We use bread and wine in Eucharist, which becomes flesh and blood.  Touch, in the laying on of hands, and words of consent and belief are at the core of Christ’s sacramental activity.  And of course there is oil and water.

Next weekend, four of our young people will be anointed with oil by our Bishop as he confers Confirmation, completing a process of initiation into the Church that was begun in the waters of Baptism. During this Easter season, we continue to be attentive to those waters of new birth, as we periodically recall our Baptism with a sprinkling rite at Mass.  We were of course anointed with oil at Baptism as well.  The Bishop’s anointing at Confirmation “seals” us with the gift of the Holy Spirit. These sacramental moments, using oil and water, unite us to the death and rising of Christ.  Through Baptism and Confirmation and of course Eucharist, we become full members of a Church that has for over 2000 years proclaimed Christ risen from the dead.  Oil and water.

St. Paul spoke of this relationship with Christ in this way:  “It is not I who live, but Christ who lives in me”.  It is an experience of Christ dwelling within us that we seek.  We would be remiss, however if we did not also mention discipleship.  We who are baptized and confirmed share in Eucharist in order that we might be of service to others.  Being joined to Christ through the sacraments means we are committed to imitate the one who came not to be served, but to serve.  In Christ we are enabled to perform this service.  Oil and water.

Third Sunday of Easter

I was pleasantly surprised this week to see an article from National Public Radio with the headline, “Is It Wrong To Celebrate Bin Laden’s Death?”  The article was accompanied by a photo of the crowds gathered outside the White House following the announcement of the death of Osama Bin Laden.  The exuberance was understandable, given the memories of 9/11, and the two long bloody wars that have followed and continue to wreak violence on far too many of the innocent.  Still, stopping for a moment to ask the searching questions is imperative.

But the first question we must ask actually precedes that asked by NPR.  What exactly were these people celebrating?  The gatherings and dancing were certainly occasioned by the death of the man who has been the face of terrorism for this last decade.  But was it his death itself that gave them joy?  Were some expressing relief at the hope (well-founded or not) of a less dangerous world?  Did some see this event as a step toward peace?  It is right to strive for justice for all.  But at what point does justice become revenge?

You may remember  the images of rejoicing in the streets after 9/11.  I was horrified at such a display.  But I have to say that the videos of the crowds in Washington and at Ground Zero this week brought back memories of those other crowds.  This is why we have to be willing to ask these questions.  There has simply been too much death, too much violence, too much hatred. 

The Vatican issued the following statement on Monday:  "Osama bin Laden, as we all know, bore the most serious responsibility for spreading divisions and hatred among populations, causing the deaths of innumerable people, and manipulating religions for this purpose. In the face of a man’s death, a Christian never rejoices, but reflects on the serious responsibilities of each person before God and before men, and hopes and works so that every event may be the occasion  for the further growth of peace and not of hatred."

I would not presume to know what is in the hearts of those in the streets, or those who remained quietly at home.  Nor can I imagine the lingering effects of grief felt by those who lost loved ones on 9/11 and in the violence of war that has followed.  But as followers of Jesus, certain sentiments are simply not acceptable for us. We cannot allow ourselves to rejoice at the death of another. Without a doubt, Bin Laden was a purveyor of hatred, and had an uncanny ability to stir up that hatred in the hearts of his followers.  However, if his actions stir up hatred in our hearts as well, have we not also become his followers?

Second Sunday of Easter

Throughout the year, the pattern is the same.  At the heart is the Gospel passage, read semi-continuously, from Matthew, Mark, Luke or John.  Closely linked to that Gospel passage is a reading from the Old Testament which highlights a particular theme or event in the Gospel.  The second reading is chose separately from these two, offering a semi-continuous reading from one of the letters of the New Testament.  So we become quite accustomed to this pattern of readings chosen from Old Testament, New Testament letters and Gospel.  The Responsorial Psalm of course is another essential element inviting us to respond to the word of God proclaimed in the entire Liturgy of the Word.

During the Easter season, however, the pattern is disrupted.  During these weeks between the celebration of Easter and Pentecost, our first reading comes from the Acts of the Apostles.  This book of the New Testament is actually a continuation of the Gospel of Luke, so that these two works are often spoken of as Luke-Acts.  While we hear in the Gospels of these Sundays about the appearances of Jesus to the disciples after his resurrection, we are treated to stories of the earliest days of the Church. 

While the Acts of the Apostles talks about the history of the early Church, it remains important not to read it exactly as a history book.  The goal, as with all the Scriptures, is to lead people to faith by telling the stories of those early days.  While we are treated to several of the speeches of Peter, the purpose is not to simply know what Peter preached, but rather that in hearing these stories, we too (and hearers of the Word before us) might come to faith in Jesus, crucified and risen from the dead.

At the same time, it does give us some insight into the Church in those early days.  There was of course a tremendous enthusiasm and zeal for the message that they had received and for the mission of proclaiming the good news that had been entrusted to them.  There were signs and wonders meant to confirm the truth of their message, intended to convince their listeners that indeed their message was not simply their own, but had rather come from God.  There is concern for the poor, and the beginnings of organization around certain prominent figures, with Peter at the center. There was also persecution, even unto death, as well as conflict and division, as they learned what it meant to be Church.

It would take time, literally centuries, for many of the structures and specific ministries we associate with the Church to develop.  Our Church today looks quite different in so many details.  Yet our message is the same – Christ Jesus, risen from the dead, alive in our midst.  This is our hope and salvation. Alleluia.

Easter Sunday

Have you noticed that something has been missing, for several weeks now?  Yes, for some seven weeks, there is something we have not had at our celebrations of Eucharist.  Yes, flowers in church is a good answer, but not the one I'm thinking of.  I'm talking about the fact that since Ash Wednesday, our Alleluia has been silenced.  We have not said it, we have not sung it.  During Lent, we do not sing Alleluia.

And now, as we celebrate the resurrection of the Lord, it is back.  We sing alleluia again, even as we rejoice in Christ's victory over sin and death, as we ponder the mystery of the empty tomb, as we stand both joyful and fearful with those first believers who encountered the risen Lord.

So what does this say about what we did during Lent?  Did we silence the Alleluia because Christ wasn't risen for a while?  Did we forget his resurrection, or were we playing a game of pretend?  Or is there something much deeper at stake here in the silencing of the Alleluia?

Without a doubt, Christ was just as alive and active during those forty days of Lent as he is on this Easter Sunday.  So it's not about some change in Christ.  Perhaps then, it's about a change in us.  Or more to the point, it's about us needing a change.

Consider first that all liturgy is about enabling an encounter with Christ.  It's not just about God, it is about creating a space where God can reach in and touch and transform our hearts.  On Easter, it is about allowing the light of the risen Christ to shine in all the dark corners of our hearts.

Consider then what we have just been about during Lent.  As we practiced self-denial, we were reminded that sometimes we desire things that are not good for us.  As we were called to practice acts of charity, we were confronted with the many ways in which selfishness rules our lives. As we devoted more or better time to prayer, we confronted how easily it is to banish God from our daily lives. 

All these things are darkness, the darkness in our lives that can only be conquered by the Light of Christ, risen from the dead.  So having confronted our darkness, we sing Alleluia once again, proclaiming our need for the one who is the light of the world. 

That is the task of these weeks of Easter:  to encounter Christ in his sacraments, that his light may shine in the darkest corners of our hearts.  He is risen, and his light conquers death and darkness.

Passion/Palm Sunday

At one of the weekday Masses at the beginning of Lent, I took a moment at the end to mention the virtue of perseverance.  We had added an extra communion minister for our daily Masses, and it was certainly needed.  As I looked around at Mass this morning, I realized that we could probably get by without the extra minister.  Perseverance.

I’ve heard from several people of late that their Lent hasn’t gone as planned.  I know mine hasn’t.  Best laid plans, sincere intentions and a willing spirit seem to fade as the days go by.  It’s not that we actually decide to not show up, or not spend the extra time, nor is that we consciously give up.  Rather, life seems to just get in the way. Perseverance is tough.

I don’t think there is a lot to be gained by wallowing in guilt or just beating ourselves up, if this Lent didn’t shape up as we had planned.  That being said, nor do I think a little time given to self-evaluation is out of place.  Maybe begin by looking back at previous Lents, and asking if there is a pattern.  It might be beneficial to do a little soul searching, and honestly ask what got in the way of fulfilling our goals for this season of grace.  Out of this little examination of Lent-consciousness, we might discern that next year needs to be different.  Maybe my commitments need to be shifted, or added to, or subtracted from. With an eye on growth, any disappointment we might be feeling can be transformed into a path to greater self-awareness and perhaps deeper conviction that we need God’s grace.

This little self-eval also can be a moment of grace for the days immediately before us.  Lent is not over.  Quite to the contrary, we find ourselves entering into a week we name “Holy”.  It is holy because of what we remember and celebrate during these days, it is holy because of the one who stands at the center of that week, it is holy because of what can happen in and among us during these blessed days.

What can I do to open myself up to the graced experiences that this week offers?  Can I commit to celebrating the “Three Days”, on Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday night?  Three days is usually easier to handle than forty!  How can I keep holy these days, this week, as a final opportunity to prepare for the great feast of Easter?

I really don’t know what God has in store for any of us this week.  And while certainly God’s grace is always available to us, there is the possibility that you and I might be a bit more open, a bit more desirous, a bit more teachable and transformable in these days ahead.  Perseverance is a virtue.

5th Sunday of Lent

“It is in giving that we receive.  It is in pardoning that we are pardoned.  It is in dying that we are born to eternal life.”  So prayed St. Francis in the prayer that bears his name.

As we have been getting things in place to celebrate Holy Week, I find myself aware that the Triduum begins in the evening.  We will gather at 6 pm to celebrate the Evening Mass of the Lord’s Supper.  While it will not yet be dark (as it will be for the Easter Vigil), it will be at the close, the darkening, of the day.

While I know that the sun will rise in the morning on the next two days, there will be shadow hanging over all.  As we rise on Good Friday morning, we will be aware that Christ has begun his Passion, and the events leading to his crucifixion will continue to play out.  Accusations, most un-answered, will be flung about, a conviction will be proclaimed, and punishment will be decided.  The cross will be carried, both by him, and by us in the person of Simon of Cyrene.  The sky will darken, clouds will loom ominously over the landscape, and He will hand over his spirit.

From here the darkness can only deepen.  It is the darkness of hopes and dreams shattered, given voice by two disciples on the road to Emmaus:  “We were hoping that he would be the one to redeem Israel”.  Their hopes of salvation were laid in a tomb, and the stone was rolled across the entrance.

The dark dawn of that Saturday morning would be no better.  At that point, we might feel lost, as if adrift in a wasteland.  The path that had been so enthusiastically embraced was crumbling and disappearing.  What do we do now?  Where do we go?  Fear will lead to an upper room, cowering behind locked doors, barely speaking for there seems so little to say.  The darkening of the days that had begun on Thursday had not yet relented as night fell on the second day.

What is there left to do then, early on the morning of the third day?  Tend the tomb, anoint the body, freshen the flowers that are reminder of what might have been, rather than hope for what will be.  Yet it was precisely out of that oppressive darkness that a Light would shine.  They would go to the tomb, and it would be empty.  The one who died would speak to their hearts, call them by name, tell them where to go that they might find him, meet him, know him, love him.  He would love them into life.

“It is in giving that we receive.  It is in pardoning that we are pardoned.  It is in dying that we are born to eternal life.” 

Yes, the gospel last weekend was long.  And yes, this weekend’s gospel is also long.  And as fair warning, next weekend’s gospel will also be rather lengthy.  Why are we reading these long stories???

One of the central activities of the Church during the Lenten season is the final preparation of people seeking to be baptized into the Catholic faith.  They are called “the elect” and become Catholic through a process called the Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults (RCIA).  This process culminates in the celebration of the sacraments of initiation (Baptism, Confirmation, & Eucharist) at the Easter Vigil on Holy Saturday night. The three Gospel passages that we hear on the 3^rd through 5^th Sundays of Lent this year have a connection to Christian initiation that goes back to the earliest days of the Church.  These gospel stories are so central to this process of welcoming new members that in parishes where there are adults to be baptized, these readings are used every year on those three Sundays of Lent.  In parishes like ours who are not preparing the elect, we hear these readings only in Year A of the three year cycle of the Sunday readings.  This is Year A.

Essentially the Church is saying that these stories of the woman at the well, the man born blind, and the raising of Lazarus are so important to who we are as Catholics that we must hear them repeatedly.  They are truly stories worth telling, over and over and over.  What can they say to us about our own Catholic identity?

All three of the stories tell of intimate encounters with Christ.  The woman of Samaria comes to faith in Jesus as Messiah, and she receives the gift of living water.  The man born blind has his life transformed as he is given back his physical sight and as he comes to see Jesus as a prophet.  Lazarus is literally called forth from the tomb by Jesus, as death is transformed  into life.  Each story is an invitation to us to encounter Christ with the same intimacy and the same life-transforming results.

Without Christ, we dwell in a land that is dry, parched and lifeless.  Without Christ, we wander blindly in a darkness much of our own making.  Without Christ, we are left in the death imposed by our sin.  Christ alone can quench our thirst.  Christ alone is light in the darkness.  Christ alone is life everlasting.

The challenge to each of us is to essentially identify with these people whose stories we tell.  We need to see how we are like the Samaritan woman, drawing water from a well that does not satisfy.  We need to see how we are as sightless as the man born blind without the light of Christ.  We need to recognize that we are dead and lifeless without the life that Christ bestows through his salvific death and resurrection.

These stories are worth telling because they are our story.

At one of our weekday masses of the second week of Lent, we prayed these words from Psalm 138:  “Guide me, Lord, along the everlasting way”.  The thought that came to mind is that this “everlasting way” is not a dead end.  Quite to the contrary, it is a way that leads to life – life everlasting.  I then recalled the reflections from Pope Benedict that I shared in this space last week, where he speaks of Lent (and the Christian life) as a journey.  He reminded us that this is a journey “which consists not so much in a law to be observed but in the very person of Christ, who we must encounter, receive and follow.”  To travel on this “everlasting way” is to journey toward our true destiny.

This brings us very easily to the three central practices recommended to us for our Lenten observance.  Consider prayer.  If our Lent is an encounter with Christ, then prayer will be absolutely essential.  Last weekend I preached on the important of private, daily prayer, where we carve out time in our day to do nothing else but be with the Lord in prayer.  This private prayer then becomes the foundation for our communal prayer, especially the celebration of the Eucharist.  Again we quote Pope Benedict:  “And it is above all in the liturgy, in participation in the holy mysteries, where we are led to undertake this journey with the Lord; it is putting ourselves in Jesus' school, reflecting on the events that brought us salvation, but not as a simple commemoration, a memory of past events. In the liturgical actions, where Christ makes himself present through the power of the Holy Spirit, those salvific events become actual.”  There we encounter and receive.

Having received, we strive to follow this Christ, who cared for the poor and the outcast.  We can see how the practice of charitable acts speeds us on this journey with Christ.  This second of the core practices of Lent reminds us quite simply that it is not just about us.  It remains impossible to walk with Christ without being attentive to others who share the journey with us.

Have you ever packed too much for a journey?  Have you found yourself struggling to make the connection, to continue the journey, to reach your destination because you just had too much baggage?  So we embrace self-denial as also necessary to this journey.  What attachments to I need to sever, in order to be free to depart?  What excess baggage needs to be left behind?  The practice of self-denial is a school of discipline for the journey that “consists in the very person of Christ”.

Prayer.  Charity.  Self-denial.  These truly “guide us along the everlasting way”.

The remarks that follow are taken from the Holy Father’s general audience address on Ash Wednesday.  Note that Lent as a journey echoes our Lenten closing song, “Jerusalem my Destiny”.

“Lent is a journey; it is to accompany Jesus who goes up to Jerusalem, the place of the fulfillment of the mystery of his passion, death and resurrection; it reminds us that the Christian life is a "journey" to undertake, which consists not so much in a law to be observed but in the very person of Christ, who we must encounter, receive and follow. Jesus, in fact, says to us: "If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me" (Luke 9:23). That is, he tells us that to arrive with him to the light and the joy of resurrection, to the victory of life, of love, of the good, we must also take up our cross every day, as a beautiful page of the "Imitation of Christ" exhorts us: "take up your cross and follow Jesus; in this way you will go to eternal life. He went before, carrying his cross, and died for you on the cross so that you would carry your cross and be willing to die on it. Because if you die with him, you will also live with him. And if you are his partner in sorrow, you will also be so in triumph" (L. 2, c. 12, n. 2).

“In the holy Mass of the First Sunday of Lent we will pray: "O God our Father, with the celebration of this Lent, sacramental sign of our conversion, grant your faithful to grow in the knowledge of the mystery of Christ and to give witness of him with a fitting conduct of life" (Collect). It is an invocation that we address to God because we know that only he can convert our heart. And it is above all in the liturgy, in participation in the holy mysteries, where we are led to undertake this journey with the Lord; it is putting ourselves in Jesus' school, reflecting on the events that brought us salvation, but not as a simple commemoration, a memory of past events. In the liturgical actions, where Christ makes himself present through the power of the Holy Spirit, those salvific events become actual. There is a key word to which recourse is often taken in the liturgy to indicate this: the word "today"; and it must be understood in its original, not metaphorical sense. Today God reveals his law and lets us choose today between good and evil, between life and death (cf. Deuteronomy 30:19); today "the Kingdom of God is at hand; repent, and believe in the Gospel" (Mark 1:15); today Christ died on Calvary and has resurrected from the dead; he has ascended to heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father; today we are given the Holy Spirit; today is the favorable time. To participate in the liturgy means, therefore, to submerge one's life in the mystery of Christ, in his permanent presence, to undertake a journey in which we enter into his death and resurrection to have life.”

I want to begin with the end.  It’s not like you haven’t read the book, or seen the movie, so I won’t be telling you anything you don’t already know.  When we start out on a journey, it is good to know where we are heading.

Beginning on Thursday, April 21^st, 2011, we will celebrate the Triduum.  On Holy Thursday, we will gather in the evening to celebrate the Evening Mass of the Lord’s Supper.  On Friday, we will gather for the Commemoration of the Lord’s Passion.  Then on Saturday evening, April 23^rd, we will be blessed to once more celebrate the Easter Vigil of the Lord’s Resurrection, the holiest liturgy of the year.  This is something momentous, and is in no way diminished by the fact that it happens every year.  As especially graced moments of encounter with God, it is God who makes these three days special.

When we begin with the end, we see that all the devotions of Lent are not really an end in themselves, even though we benefit from them in mysterious ways.  The Church gives us an entire season to prepare to enter more fully into the central event of our faith, the passion and death and rising of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Consider the services on Holy Thursday evening.  On that night we recall the very institution of the Eucharist.  We turn our attention to the things Jesus did and the words he said at that Last Supper, and the fact that he told us ever so clearly to do what he did in memory of him.  So we heed his command, so much so that the sacrament that we call Eucharist is celebrated as the source and summit of our life together as Catholics.  That sacrament is an action of worship that is sacrifice and memorial and thanksgiving and meal.  As gift of the Sprit, it is the “foretaste and the promise of the paschal feast of heaven”.  Because we want to hunger and thirst for that heavenly food and drink, during Lent we say yes to hunger, by fasting and abstaining.

On Good Friday, we recall the sacrifice that reconciled mankind with God.  We are taught that Jesus freely laid down his life.  He accepted death, death on a cross.  Because we want his sacrifice to be ours, we strive to join our little sacrifices to his.  That may come through the suffering and loss that is part and parcel of life and living.   During Lent, we choose to deny ourselves by doing what we call penance and self-denial.  We strive to be set free from our attachments, so that we may be united to Christ in both his death and his rising.

At the Easter Vigil, we gather in darkness to light a single candle that is Christ.  We observe Lent so that his Light may be our light.

When I looked back to what I wrote in this space last year, I found the article below.  Yes, it might be cheating, but it just says what I wanted to convey. And I knew I needed to hear it again.  I hope it is helpful.

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”  This old chestnut is a clear reminder that good intentions are just not quite enough.  Only intending to take out the garbage will leave the house smelly and unkempt.  Only intending to tank up the car will leave one stranded on the side of the road.  The sincere and heartfelt intention to spend more time in prayer, on its own, will not draw us any nearer to God.  The best intentions in the world just don’t get things done.  It is about taking action.

Yet the Gospel passage we read each Ash Wednesday reminds us that intentions do matter.  Why we do something makes a difference.  Jesus says, “Take care not to perform righteous deeds in order that people may see them”.  If one performs some act of charity, that is basically a good thing.  Yet two seemingly identical acts of generosity can actually be radically different depending on the intention behind them. One day we reach out to those in need out of genuine concern for their needs and well-being.  Another day, we give to the poor so that others may see our generosity and think well of us.  It is the second of these against which Jesus warns us.

In the next few days, (hopefully!) we’ll be firming up our Lenten commitments for this year. And a very good question for each of us to ask as we get ready for Lent is, “Why am I doing this?”  What is my goal, my purpose, in choosing to do this or that?  Practices involving prayer, penance and charity are recommended to us.  What is my intention?

There is one attitude or intention that can help us stay on the right track.  In choosing our Lenten practices, we might try beginning with the question, “What are the things in my life that make me less generous to others, less open to God’s grace, less committed to being of service to others?”  In other words, can I come out of this Lenten season not just being more spiritual, less sinful, more holy (as good as those things are), but also more able and willing to be of service to others.  In a way, it’s the difference between seeking simply my own personal happiness/holiness, or on the other hand, striving to heighten the well-being of others.

The actions we perform may be the same.  We might still spend more time in prayer, show up at daily Mass, deny ourselves food and pleasures, kick in something extra to Operation Rice Bowl, etc., etc., etc.  But why am I doing it?  What are my intentions?  Will my Lent be an exercise in selfishness or in self-giving?  Whatever we choose to do or refrain from doing, the intentions make a difference.

 “Forgiveness is the answer to the child's dream of a miracle by which what is broken is made whole again, what is soiled is made clean again.” The quote is from “Markings”, a book by Dag Hammarskjold, who was Secretary-General of the United Nations in the late 50’s.

He speaks of what is broken, of what is soiled.  Both images speak eloquently of what it is that needs to be forgiven.  Perhaps it is trust that has been broken, or a promise that was not kept.  Perhaps a lie or fabrication covered over the truth about oneself or about another.  Where forgiveness is called for, something broken truly stands in need of being made whole.  Something soiled stands in need of being made clean.

And what does this gracious act of forgiveness have to do with miracles?  Perhaps he knew, as we do, that true forgiveness is often elusive, not easily granted, and sometimes difficult to receive.  Sometimes what is broken resists being made whole.  And yes, at least in our experience, it seems that some things simply cannot be made clean, no matter how diligently we scrape and scrub.  Often part of the brokenness is fear: fear of being hurt again, fear of being betrayed once more, even fear of being made to appear foolish or naïve.  While forgiveness may not be on the order of multiplied loaves or storms make still, it definitely belongs to the realm of the miracle.

We will soon find ourselves sliding into Lent, a time when we traditionally focus on our own need for forgiveness, and rightly so.  But wasn’t it just two Sundays ago that we heard these words from Matthew’s gospel:  “Therefore, if you bring your gift to the altar, and there recall that your brother has anything against you, leave your gift there at the altar, go first and be reconciled with your brother, and then come and offer your gift.”  Therefore, as we approach this season of seeking God’s forgiveness, are there people in our lives to whom we need to offer the miracle of forgiveness?  Are there people from whom we need to seek the miracle of forgiveness?

Just the other day, I was once more speaking with someone struggling to forgive herself, to believe that God could forgive her.  This is an all too common struggle.  This is one reason why it is so essential to offer and receive that forgiveness miracle with one another. So often it is there we learn to accept God’s forgiveness and to offer true forgiveness to ourselves.

I don’t know if it was noticeable, but our ushers were doing something extra the last two weekends while taking up the collection.  They were counting heads.  This is not something we normally do, and we won’t be doing it again, at least not until sometime in May.  I don’t know how much numbers from weekend to weekend tell us, really, since people in Lafayette tend to be all over the place when it comes to attending Mass.  But the reason behind the counting does definitely matter.

During the season of Lent this year, the diocese will be sponsoring a campaign entitled “Catholics Come Home”.  It is an outreach program aimed at Catholics who have for whatever reason given up on the practice of their faith.  Sometimes this change in practice is traceable to a particular event (somebody made them mad, so they went away).  Sometimes the person was baptized, and perhaps even confirmed, but never really practiced their faith.  In other cases, people just get “busy” and stop bothering to attend to living out their Catholic faith.

Whatever the reason for departure, this campaign wants to let people know that the door to return is open.  The core of the program will be a collection of television commercials which will be broadcast in our area during Lent.  I have seen several of these and I think they are excellent.  We plan to hang a banner visible to the drivers on Pinhook, and of course offer welcome and assistance to anyone moved to return who contacts us here at St. Patrick.  For more information about the organization behind this outreach, you can visit their web site: http://www.catholicscomehome.org/.  (While we’re talking websites, you might also want to check out the revamped website of the Diocese:  http://www.diolaf.org/.)

As individuals, there are several things we might do.  We might begin by being attentive to the commercials as we encounter them, asking how they speak to us.  Though aimed at people who have left the Church, they might awaken us to the reasons why we have stayed.  What does my Catholic faith do for me?  Why is practicing my faith important to me?  Be prepared to engage in conversation about the commercials with friends and colleagues who are non-practicing Catholics.  Perhaps even initiate the conversation. 

We do still have our outreach cards at the back of the Church, which list our Mass times.  They are an easy way to invite someone to come and worship with us, so pick up a few and carry them with you.  Perhaps most importantly, pray for the success of this campaign.  Whatever the reason a Catholic has drifted away from practicing the faith, we want to let them know that they are welcome.

This past week at daily Mass, we have been reading the beginning of the book of Genesis, which of course draws us back toward our very beginnings.  It also led me back to a small pamphlet issued a number of years ago by the Louisiana Bishops entitled “Use of the Bible Today:  Creationism and its Faith Implications”.  A few excerpts follow.  After illustrating the basic principles for interpreting Scripture, the Bishops wrote:

Applying these principles, the Church rejects any teaching of atheistic evolution, or any laws of science that try to disprove the existence of the Giver of all laws of science. The Bible teaches certainly that God is Creator of all things, and this truth is helpful for salvation. Whatever complex processes may be involved in nature have been left by God for the discovery and wonder of the human mind.

Catholic biblical principles of the teachings of the Church do not require that we take the stories of creation as historical and scientific accounts, therefore we cannot draw from the Bible any scientific conclusions. As noted above the Bible is God's Word of salvation, not an encyclopedia of the physical word. As Pope John Paul II repeated recently, speaking to a group of scientists, " . . . the Bible . . . does not wish to teach how heaven was made but how one goes to heaven." (Origins, Vol. II; #18; p. 279)

Through reading Sacred Scripture we know that God's love entered human history. The stories of creation (Genesis, chs. 1-3) which set the stage for God's work in the formation of his people clearly establish the spiritual truth of man's creation by God. Like so many other truths in the Bible, however, this divine truth articulated in human language must be understood according to the interpretative principles spoken of earlier. To neglect these principles is to fall prey to serious errors regarding the meaning of the Sacred Text. Several years ago Pope Pius XII, the great champion of biblical scholarship, pointed out the need for "discovering and expounding the genuine meaning of the Sacred Books" with the aid of ancient languages and biblical criticism. (Divino Afflante Spiritu, par. 23; C. Carlen, transl.)

Another way of stating this is that “Genesis teaches us not HOW God made the world, but THAT God made the world.”  This is why, for example, any attempt to put a date on creation based on biblical history is doomed to fail.  As long as we do not attempt to turn the Bible into something it is not (e.g. a science or history book), it remains a reliable source of truth about God’s love entering into history. 

One morning this week, I stood at the bathroom sink and turned on the hot water.  It trickled.  I opened the faucet wider, and it still trickled. Suddenly I found myself facing the prospect of having only cold water to take care of morning ablutions.  (You may have noticed that it was a bit chilly this last week.) In this case, patience paid off, and the trickle soon became a more substantial stream.  I was grateful.

What struck me then was how accustomed we are to having at hand, convenient and ready, things like hot water flowing from the tap, at numerous places in the home.  Next came to mind the countless people who would be grateful for any water flowing into the home, making unnecessary the trips outside to the well.  This is of course true only for those who have a well.

Or consider our roads, which reach to our very doorsteps.  Setting foot (or tires!) on these streets and highways can take us to countless places, down the street, across town, or to far-flung locations scattered east and west, north and south.  Yet this week, we suddenly found those friendly paths becoming treacherous and slippery, as unusually frigid and wet weather swept our area.  Even going down to the corner for milk or bread suddenly became something to think twice about.  Perhaps waiting in traffic is not as bad as slipping, sliding and crashing into oncoming traffic!  Can we find a bit of gratitude there, for roads without ice?

As the people responsible for various activities realized what the weather had in store for us, events began to be cancelled – even sporting events! (Now, you know that takes a lot!)  Schools and businesses were shutting down, knowing that travel to and fro would be at the least dangerous if not impossible.  Suddenly our daily routine is disrupted as we scramble to make arrangements for children not in school, and as other events and appointments have to be cancelled and re-scheduled.  How we depend on those daily activities and the ability to travel to them to shape and form our daily lives!  There too, perhaps we can find something for which to be grateful, something we take for granted on a daily basis. 

All of this brings me to our celebration of the Eucharist.  The Mass is offered to us as the source and summit of our life together as Catholics.  Its very name, Eucharist, means thanksgiving.  How fitting then that after we have been nourished by God’s Word and received spiritual food and drink, the Body and Blood of Christ, we take some time to be quiet, and to give thanks.  That period of shared silence after Communion is both challenge and opportunity to look more closely at so many things in our lives which we assume will just be there.  Sometimes it just takes a little cold weather for us to even notice.

As the anniversary of Roe v. Wade has passsed, and with the reform of health care again in the news, I share with you these thoughts from a talk given by the late Cardinal Joseph Bernardin:

“Over the past years I have addressed many issues in the light of the consistent ethic [of life]. In addition to the central question of abortion, I have spoken about euthanasia and assisted suicide, capital punishment, the newer technologies used to assist human reproduction, and war and peace, to name a few.  The foundation for all of these discussions is a deep conviction about the nature of human life, namely, that human life is sacred, which means that all human life has an inalienable dignity that must be protected and respected from conception to natural death. . . .

“For advocates of a consistent life ethic, the national debate about health care reform represents both an opportunity and a test.  It is an opportunity to address issues and policies that are often matters of life and death, such as, who is covered and who is not; which services are included and which are not; will reform protect human life and enhance dignity, or will it threaten or undermine life and dignity?  It is a test in the sense that we will be measured by the comprehensiveness of our concerns and the consistency of our principles in this area.

“In this current debate, a consistent life ethic approach to health care requires us to stand up for both the unserved and the unborn, to insist on the inclusion of real universal coverage and the exclusion of abortion coverage, to support efforts to restrain rising health costs, and to oppose denial of needed care to the poor and vulnerable.  In standing with the unserved and the unborn, the uninsured and the undocumented, we bring together our pro-life and social justice values.  They are the starting points for a consistent life agenda for health care reform. . . .

“When many of us Americans think of justice, we tend to think of what we can claim from one another.  This is an individualistic understanding of justice.  But there is another American instinct which has a broader understanding of justice.  It has been summarized by Father Philip Keane, a moral theologian, who wrote, ‘Justice shifts our thinking from what we claim from each other to what we owe to each other.  Justice is about duties and responsibilities, about building the good community.’”

This talk on the essential role of social justice values in the building of a “good community” was given by the late Cardinal in May of 1994.

One of the ironies of the whole pro-life debate is that it touches on a particular type of procedure that is intended to bring life into the world.  That procedure, or set of procedures, is called ‘in-vitro fertilization’.  It is something of a last resort for couples with an earnest desire for a child of their own who are battling the disappointments of infertility.  Many fail to understand the church’s rejection of this procedure, since it is rooted in a desire to bring life into the world.  But not every method of conceiving new life is consistent with human dignity.

The Church’s objections fall into two main areas.  The first is in the fact that with in-vitro fertilization, the conception of a child is removed from the loving embrace of a husband and wife, and transferred into the laboratory.  The concern here is that the child is treated primarily as a product, rather than a person, leading to conversations about manipulating the sex and other characteristics of the child as well as in the desire to discard any embryo that doesn’t meet standards of acceptability.

The second area of concern focuses on the methods involved.  It is not unusual for a number of ova (the woman’s eggs) to be fertilized.  Then only the strongest are selected, as mentioned above.  Some procedures call for the implantation of three or more embryos into the mother’s womb, in the hopes of having at least one successful pregnancy.  Leftover embryos (is there such a thing as “leftover people”?) are frozen for possible future use, creating the huge problem today of unwanted frozen embryos languishing in cold storage facilities.

As if that isn’t enough of an attack on these newly conceived children of God, another issue arises when the implantation into the mother’s womb is too successful.  If for example four of the embryos actually implant successfully and begin to grow toward birth, there is often recourse to a procedure called “selective reduction”.  Since being pregnant with multiple babies puts all the fetuses at risk, they examine the children carefully, and abort those who seem weakest.  I once heard a mother of twins who had been through this procedure say “Oh, I had a reduction” as casually as if she had had a bunion removed from her big toe.

The procedure is often unsuccessful, frequently requiring multiple attempts to actually bring a baby or two to term.  This is at a cost of tens of thousands of dollars for each attempt.Yes, having recourse to this procedure is rooted in the desire of a couple to have a child of their own, and that is wonderful.  But when one looks at what is involved, I am reminded of the question one Catholic ethicist puts to these couples:

“How many of your children are you willing to kill in order to have a baby?”

Having moved into the new year, we find ourselves approaching the anniversary of Roe v. Wade, which legitimized abortion on demand.  While threats to life come in many forms (hunger, poverty, euthanasia, capital punishment, war), one would think a child would be safe within its own mother’s womb.  A few quotes from Church teaching on the sanctity of life seem appropriate:

“The inviolability of the person which is a reflection of the absolute inviolability of God, fínds its primary and fundamental expression in the inviolability of human life. Above all, the common outcry, which is justly made on behalf of human rights-for example, the right to health, to home, to work, to family, to culture- is false and illusory if the right to life, the most basic and fundamental right and the condition for all other personal rights, is not defended with maximum determination.”  (Pope John Paul II, Christifideles Laici (1988), no. 38)

”It is impossible to further the common good without acknowledging and defending the right to life, upon which all the other inalienable rights of individuals are founded and from which they develop. A society lacks solid foundations when, on the one hand, it asserts values such as the dignity of the person, justice and peace, but then, on the other hand, radically acts to the contrary by allowing or tolerating a variety of ways in which human life is devalued and violated, especially where it is weak or marginalized. Only respect for life can be the foundation and guarantee of the most precious and essential goods of society, such as democracy and peace.”(Pope John Paul II, Evangelium vitae (1995), no. 101)

“At this particular time, abortion has become the fundamental human rights issue for all men and women of good will. .... For us abortion is of overriding concern because it negates two of our most fundamental moral imperatives: respect for innocent life, and preferential concern for the weak and defenseless.“ (U. S. Bishops:  Resolution on Abortion (1989))

“Among important issues involving the dignity of human life with which the Church is concerned, abortion necessarily plays a central role. Abortion, the direct killing of an innocent human being, is always gravely immoral (The Gospel of Life, no. 57); its victims are the most vulnerable and defenseless members of the human family. It is imperative that those who are called to serve the least among us give urgent attention and priority to this issue of justice.“ (A Pastoral Plan for Pro-Life Activities: A Campaign in Support of Life (2001), Introduction)

Last week in the homily I reflected on the question the magi might well have asked as they started out for the homes:  What will this child be?  What kind of king has been born to us?  Today, we find ourselves witnessing the child grown into a man, accepting Baptism at the Jordan, perhaps still asking much the same question:  What kind of king is this?  As we have prayed through this last week between Epiphany and the Baptism of the Lord, the gospel readings at daily mass have offered us a series of examples of his ministry which began at the Jordan.  In their own way, each provides part of an answer to our questions.

On Monday, we encounter Jesus just after John had been arrested.  He leaves Nazareth and goes to Galilee, where he begins to preach.  His message is clear:  “Repent, for the Kingdom of heaven is at hand.”

On Tuesday, it is evening, after a day of preaching, and Jesus, the disciples and crowd are hungry, in a deserted place.  Taking five loaves and two fish, he takes and blesses and breaks and shares, feeding the multitude and filling baskets with what remained.

On Wednesday, we find the disciples in fear of their lives and Jesus walking toward them on the water.  The one whom they thought to be a ghost turns out to be the one who stills the winds and the seas, even as he calms their fears.

On Thursday, Jesus has returned to his home town of Nazareth for a visit.  In the synagogue, he stands and proclaims God’s word from the prophet Isaiah, affirming the fulfillment of the passage in their hearing.  He reveals himself as one sent to bring glad tidings, good news to the poor.

On Friday, as he travels around, Jesus encounters a man in need of healing, as he would time and time again. Jesus responded to the man’s humble pleading, making him whole.

So who is this child in the manger?  Who is this newly baptized King?  He is the one who calls us to a life of conversion and growth and repentance.  He is the one who feeds us in our hunger for true food and true drink.  He is the one who comes to us in our fear, calming the crashing waves of our fright. He is the one bearing a message of hope and good news for all those who recognize their poverty and need for him.  He is the who heals our brokenness, who soothes our souls.

As we contemplate the god-man, child-king, savior and redeemer, dare we add one more image to our list?  Should we not be willing to lift our gaze from the crèche to the cross?  The child in the manger is also the king on the cross, laying down his life, that we might live to him forever.

There’s a priest in our diocese who told me that some years ago, he started building in some quiet time around the coming of the new year.  For him, not being much of a party animal, this usually happened on New Year’s Eve.  He then used that quiet time to reflect on the year just gone by.  And he did so in the context of prayer.  Rather than just asking the standard “Christmas” question, “Did I get what I want?”, he would dare to explore the idea of what God wanted.  What were the areas of his life over the past twelve months where the will of God has been the guiding force?  What were the activities and endeavors that left little room for the Spirit of God to offer guidance and direction?  Had he expended time and energy, effort and endeavor on things that simply were not life-giving?

These reflections then became the springboard for entering into the new year.  Again, the central question was not focused on getting one’s own needs met, but rather how could one be of service.  Rather than exploring what needed to be done to achieve one’s own personal goals, this approach opened the door to at least asking, “What does God want?”

At first glance this might seem like a daunting question.  How do I figure out what God wants?  If one is asking the question about the big picture, it can be complex.  Do I move, do I stay?  Do I buy, do I rent?  Do I get more or let go of more?  This becomes much more manageable if I begin with the simple.  Often doing God’s will begins with doing the simple, sometimes unattractive task that is right before me.  Just do the next thing.  We usually know what that is.  And oftentimes, we will discover the presence of God precisely in doing that one simple thing.

I would guess that there are a lot of resolutions floating around these days.  The very idea of making resolutions is a hopeful one.  It begins with recognizing things that aren’t their best and actually believing that they can be different.  Ironically, that project often disappoints, as many January 1 resolutions don’t even make it to February.

Recall the great events that we have been celebrating these last ten days:  Christmas, the Holy Family, the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God, the Epiphany.  All of these events are just oozing and dripping with the activity of God’s grace.  The life-giving and lasting changes that happen in the coming year will almost certainly be those enabled by God’s grace. “ What does God have to offer me this year?”  “Where is he leading me?”

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