Lent 5

Readings: Ez 37:12-14; Rom 8:8-11; Jn 11:1-45

VIDEO

We don’t know what became of Lazarus

after Jesus called him forth from his tomb.

John’s Gospel speaks of him 

immediately following 

the passage we have just heard

as being present at a meal 

given in Jesus’ honor,

and tells us that 

the priests in Jerusalem

had decided to kill not only Jesus

but Lazarus as well,

for his very life now witnessed

to the power of Jesus.

But we don’t know if they succeeded.

After this point, the Scriptures 

fall silent with regard to Lazarus.

But Christians down the centuries

have tended to imagine him

going on to lead a long life,

and over the centuries have 

filled in those extra years

with legends and traditions.

The Eastern Orthodox have told tales 

of him becoming a bishop in Cyprus; 

Medieval Catholics claimed that he

became a bishop in Marseilles

and was martyred during the reign

of the emperor Domitian.

There is also an odd medieval legend 

that, having seen the unredeemed

during his four days among the dead,

Lazarus never smiled or laughed again.

But, as I say, 

these may be simply 

made-up stories.

We don’t really know 

what became of Lazarus.

But we imagine a life

spent bearing witness, 

even to the point of death, 

to the one who gave 

that life back to him

by calling him out of his tomb.

For what else would you do

with the gift of such a life?

We try to imagine it,

and we are right to do so,

because in thinking of the life of Lazarus

we are really thinking about our own lives,

for we too are Lazarus:

buried with Christ in baptism

we have been called back into life 

through the Spirit 

who raised Christ from the dead

and will give life to our mortal bodies.

We are Lazarus,

our graves of sin opened,

the shroud of death unwound,

invited to recline with Christ at his table.

We are Lazarus,

graciously given a measure of days

in which to bear witness 

to the power of Jesus.

Of course, we might not think 

of ourselves this way.

 

We might think of our baptisms 

as simply benign rituals of belonging

or nice naming ceremonies for a baby,

something that sets us on the course

of an ordinary and respectable life.

We might think this way

because we would prefer to live 

an ordinary  and respectable life

rather than what we might call 

a Lazarus life.

For a Lazarus life is a life unbound 

from the shroud of death,

a life called forth 

from the tomb of sin, 

and so a Lazarus life is one that bears

the dangerous memory of Jesus

and gives testimony to his power

even in the face of opposition.

For what do you do 

with a life that has been 

lost and found again?

How do you spend the days 

that have been pulled

free from the tomb

and given back to you as a gift?

Surely you must live those days differently

as you live them not according to the flesh

but according to the spirit of righteousness.

Surely you must live a life 

that can risk compassion and mercy,

a life of peacemaking 

and hungering for justice,

a life not dedicated to anxious grasping 

for security and control and power

but a life lived with open hands.

 

Surely you must live a life that seeks

to give to others the gift of new life

that you yourself have received.

Surely you must live a life

that weeps with those who weep

even as it bears witness to the one

who is resurrection and life itself.

The world needs Lazarus lives,

because our world is beset by death:

physical death wrought 

by war and oppression,

and spiritual death 

wrought by sin and self-seeking.

The world needs Lazarus lives

to show that another way is possible.

So in these waning days of Lent

let us ask ourselves 

whether the lives we live show forth

what it means to live a Lazarus life,

a life that has been raised from death.

And let us pray to our gracious God,

who called us out of death in Baptism,

that all those whom we meet

might see in us a people 

who live out the measure of their days 

as a gift graciously given;

may they see in us what it means 

to live free and unafraid

to the glory and praise of God.

And may God who is merciful

have mercy on us all.

Lent 1

Readings: Gen 2:7-9; 3:1-7; Rom 5:12-19; Mt 4:1-11

VIDEO

We know that the devil is a liar,
and that when he tempts us
he does so by lying.
Sometimes he lies by telling us
that something evil is in fact good,
so that our will is drawn to things
that are harmful to us.
But our first reading and Gospel today
suggest that there is another sort of lying 
by which the devil tempts us:
he lies about God,
telling us that there is some good thing
that God wants to deny to us
that we should grab for ourselves.
This sort of temptation
stands at the head 
of the story of humanity,
suggesting that perhaps this 
is the more fundamental kind of temptation,
because it involves the more fundamental kind of lie:
the lie that God is stingy with the good.

In the Garden, 
where God has lavishly provided for humanity, 
there is a tree of the knowledge of good and evil,
a tree from which God has forbidden 
the man and woman to eat.
The serpent tells the woman,
“God knows well that the moment you eat of it
your eyes will be opened and you will be like gods
who know what is good and what is evil.”
The serpent tells the woman that God 
wants to keep godlikeness to himself,
that God wants to keep 
wisdom and insight to himself.
But this is a lie.
Indeed, God has already 
breathed his Spirit into humanity
so that, unlike any other earthly creature, 
they might live by sharing in God’s own life.
God has already given them 
a share in godlikeness,
which will grow and develop
into full wisdom and insight
if only they can recognize that it
can never be anything other than a gift,
can never be something that they
reach out and grasp for themselves,
can never be claimed as their right 
or their private possession.
The forbidden tree 
is there in the Garden
to remind them of that.
And, when the woman and the man eat,
the only knowledge that they gain
is knowledge of their own nakedness,
knowledge of their own vulnerability,
stripped as they are of the gift they have lost
only because they refused to receive it as a gift.

In the desert too 
the devil tempts Jesus to think
that there are godlike goods 
that God wants to keep from him,
and that he ought to reach out
and grasp for himself:
the good of miraculous works,
the good of divine protection,
the good of power over kingdoms.
But Jesus knows 
the deepest truth about himself,
in a way that Adam and Eve did not.
Jesus knows himself to be 
the beloved Son of God the Father,
born of the Father before all ages,
born in time of the Holy Spirit 
and the Virgin Mary. 
Jesus knows that his existence itself,
in both eternity and in time, 
comes from the overflowing generosity
that is the very essence of the one he calls Father.
He knows the truth,
and so he is immune to the devil’s lies,
for he knows his Father is not stingy,
because he shares divinity itself 
with his Son and Holy Spirit.

And in the events that follow in Jesus’ life
we see the devil’s lies revealed.
Jesus would prove his Sonship
not merely by turning stones to bread
to satisfy his own physical hunger,
but by feeding multitudes 
with five loaves and two fish,
by healing those afflicted with diseases
or possessed by the devil’s minions,
by calming storms and raising the dead.
Jesus would show his trust 
in God’s care for him
not by throwing himself down
from the top of the Temple,
but by letting himself be raised
on the tree of the Cross,
mocked by those who would say,
“He trusted in God; 
let him deliver him now 
if he wants him,”
handing himself over in love
for us and for our salvation. 
Jesus would gain power
over the kingdoms of the world
not by bowing down before Satan
but by enduring his passion and cross
so as to be raised up 
as the one who now reigns
in the kingdom of heaven,
a kingdom whose beauty outstrips
all the kingdoms of the world 
in their magnificence.
Jesus knew himself,
and so he knew that all 
that the devil said 
God wanted to deny him
was already his.

And it is already ours, as well,
if we but know ourselves truly
as beloved sons and daughters of God.
All that is good is already ours
because it has been given us in Jesus Christ.
St. Paul tells us:
“if by the transgression of the one, 
the many died,
how much more did the grace of God
and the gracious gift 
of the one man Jesus Christ
overflow for the many.”
The story of the capitulation 
of Adam and Eve to the serpent’s lie 
that God would not give them
every good gift
has been overwritten 
by the story of Jesus’ faithfulness,
his fierce conviction that he is 
the Father’s gift of life to the world,
overflowing for the many.
Our first parents reached out their hands
to grasp the fruit of the forbidden tree;
Jesus Christ extended his hands 

to embrace the tree of the Cross,
becoming himself the fruit that hung upon it,
the fruit upon which we feed in the Eucharist,
the bread of immortality that makes us godlike.

So let us enter into this season of Lent, 
not fearful of the devil’s temptations
or beguiled by his lies,
but confident in the gift of God
that is given to us in Jesus.
Let us turn from the lie
that we have only
what we can grasp for ourselves,
and turn toward the God 
who desires nothing more
than that we might be made 
partakers of eternity.
And may God in his mercy
have mercy on us all.

Ash Wednesday

Readings: Joel 2:1–2, 12–17; 2 Cor 5:20-6:10; Mt 6:1-6, 16-21

“As having nothing 
and yet possessing everything.”
This is how Paul concludes 
the series of paradoxes
by which he describes to the Corinthians
his ministry as God’s servant,
an “ambassador for Christ”
entreating them to be reconciled to God.
Having lost all to afflictions, hardships, calamities, 
beatings, imprisonments, riots, 
labors, sleepless nights, and hunger,
he is the possessor of purity, 
knowledge, patience, kindness, 
holiness of spirit, genuine love, 
truthful speech, and the power of God.

What about us?
Can our lives as Christ’s servants
be described as having nothing
and yet possessing everything?
There is, of course, a problem.
The problem is that we have lots of stuff.
Indeed, we might say that we have everything
yet possess nothing;
because we ourselves are possessed 
by all the stuff we have.
And we are possessed by the stuff we have
because we don’t realize that in having this stuff
we don’t really possess anything, 
much less everything.
For the stuff we have is dust
and to dust it shall return.

Many, many years ago,
when I was a college student,
I lived in the home of a professor
who, whenever he acquired something new,
liked to joke that the worship of stuff
was his true religion:
he was, he said, a “stuffist.”
He was actually a Quaker,
and a pretty serious one,
but he was self-aware enough to realize
that he was sometimes more driven 
by his desire to collect art and music and books
than he was by his spiritual convictions.
Of course, there is nothing wrong
with art and music and books,
except that, measured against 
the scale of cosmic history—
not to mention eternity—
they last only an instant.
They are made from dust
and to dust they shall return. 
Even if we had everything,
we would still possess nothing,
because time inexorably 
pulls our stuff from our grasp.

But we like to hide from ourselves
this fact about the stuff we have.
We like to hide this fact from ourselves
because what is true of our stuff
is also true of us.
We are dust
and to dust we shall return.
On NASA’s astrobiology website,
in a lesson plan on matter 
for first and second graders,
the punchline is the declaration,
“We’re all made of the stuff from stars!”—
complete with an enthusiastic 
exclamation point
at the end.
True.
As Joni Mitchell sang years ago,
“we are stardust, we are golden.”
But despite enthusiastic punctuation
or beautiful melodies,
such declarations cannot quite conjure away
the nagging voice that reminds us
that, as impressive as they may be—
and, make no mistake, 
stars are extremely impressive—
they will go cold, or flare out.
And the stars’ fate is our fate:
we too, as impressive as we may be, 
as much stuff as we may acquire,
will go cold, 
or flare out.

Jesus says, “where your treasure is, 
there your heart will be also.”
It’s a basic principle of the Hebrew Prophets
that you become like what you worship.
If you worship dead idols,
then you yourself become spiritually dead.
If you hold as your treasure those things
that moth and rust consume 
then you too will be consumed,
will return to the dust.

But you don’t need to wait for death
for this to happen.
We feel even in our present life the effects
of joining our hearts to earthly treasure,
as we try to convince ourselves 
that we can possess our stuff securely
if only we can grasp it tightly enough,
if only we can keep at bay anyone
who might take it from our grasp.
So we draw boundaries around ourselves,
and around our families and nations,
borders secure enough to keep our stuff safe
and to keep out the moth and the rust,
the needy neighbor and the threatening stranger.
And locked within those borders 
we live in an isolation that is already
a kind of death of the spirit,
the loneliness of oblivion.

As Pope Leo said 

in his homily this morning in Rome:

“Today...we perceive 

in the ashes imposed on us 

the weight of a world that is ablaze, 

of entire cities destroyed by war. 

This is also reflected in the ashes 

of international law 

and justice among peoples, 

the ashes of entire ecosystems 

and harmony among peoples, 

the ashes of critical thinking 

and ancient local wisdom, 

the ashes of that sense of the sacred 

that dwells in every creature.”

And so the Church gives us 
this season of Lent
to remind us of the truth 
that we have nothing,
and to give us the hope 
that we can possess everything.
The Church tells us the truth:
of yourself you have nothing 
that will not pass away;
of yourself you are nothing 
that will not pass away;
of yourself you are dust, 
and to dust you shall return.
But this bad news is simply 
the prelude to the good news:
if you worship not the dead stuff of idols 
but worship instead the living God,
then you will live as God lives;
if you seek not 
corruptible treasure on earth
but the reign of God and his righteousness,
then you will have treasure in heaven.
If you can learn to see that, 
however much stuff you own,
you actually have nothing,
then you can possess everything,
in this life and in the life to come.

We might think of the traditional Lenten practices
of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving
as the path we follow in coming to this realization.

We must pray, 
not in the performative way
that Jesus condemns,
but as a way of entering into 
what St. Catherine of Siena calls
“the cell of self-knowledge”:
the knowledge that God is the one who is
and we are the ones who are not,
the knowledge that we are simply nothingness
that God has loved into existence,
and that separated from that love
we will fall back into nothingness.
We must pray in order to know God,
and so know ourselves as beloved dust.

We must fast,
not in the ostentatious way
that Jesus condemns,
but as a way of moving
the self-knowledge we gain in prayer
out of our hearts and into our flesh,
of feeling in our bones that we are dust
and of cultivating in a practical way
a detachment from the stuff
that possesses us,
and which demands our constant service
to protect it from moth and rust,
from needy neighbors and threatening strangers.
We must fast in order to erase 
the protective borders we draw
not only between ourselves and other people,
but between ourselves and God.

We must give alms,
not in the self-congratulatory way
that Jesus condemns,
but in the freedom and joy that are found
from knowing ourselves to be dust
that is held in life by love divine,
from possessing that life so securely
that we can tear down the borders we erect
to secure our stuff.
We must give alms as the outward and visible sign
of the inward and spiritual grace
of being called by God to be ambassadors of Christ
in whom we have been reconciled.

Let us pray that God will use this season
to draw us more closely to God and to each other,
to help us to know that we are beloved dust,
so that we who have nothing
might possess everything, 
and that God, who is merciful,
might have mercy on us all. 

6th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Sirach 15:15-20; 1 Cor 2:6-10; Mt 5:17-37

VIDEO

Here we are, once again,
poised on the brink of Lent
and I find myself, once again,
unprepared.
I haven’t decided 
on what, if anything, 
I might give up.
I’ve made no firm plans to take on
any extra spiritual disciplines
or any extra acts of charity.
Like I always seem to do,
I’m stumbling into Lent 
and will stumble through it,
thinking it will probably be okay,
except for the mild sense of regret
that I didn’t make more 
of the opportunity.

This shambling mediocrity 
with which I typically approach Lent 
seems to stand is striking contrast
to our first reading,
in which the wise man Sirach
presents our choice
with crystalline clarity:
fire and water,
life and death, 
good and evil.
There they are before us, 
so that all we have 
to do this Lent
is reach out our hand
and make our choice,
grasp the good.

But my excuse-making skills to so finely honed
that I can even recruit Jesus in the effort
of justifying my own spiritual mediocrity.
If the choice were actually as clear
as Sirach says it is,
I would find it less tempting 
to procrastinate or prevaricate.
But don’t the words of Jesus in today’s Gospel
suggests that it is not simply a matter
of making the right choice?
It’s not so simple as murder or mercy;
I’ve got somehow to root out anger from my heart.
It’s not so simple as adultery or fidelity;
I’ve got somehow to root out lust from my heart.
It’s not so simple as perjury or oath-keeping;
I’ve got somehow to plant truth so deeply in my heart
that I need take no oath in order to be believed.
Rooting out anger and lust?
Planting truth within my heart?
These tasks seem so vast 
that one hesitates to even start.

So I procrastinate and prevaricate.
I say that by raising the bar on the choice
between good and evil,
life and death—
by making it not just about 
choosing to act in a particular way
but about the feeling and being 
from which my acting comes—
Jesus has made things too complicated.
How can I possibly figure out how to live
the days between now and Easter 
so that I root out anger and lust
and plant truth within my heart?
No wonder I stumble into 
this season of conversion we call Lent.

But, if you will forgive me
for making you listen
to me talking to myself,
there are a few things I’d like to tell 
my procrastinating and prevaricating self.

First, self, Jesus is simply telling you the truth,
not providing you with an excuse.
How you act flows from who you are,
and if you want your actions to be different
you have to become, in some sense, 
a different person—a new creation in Christ.
This is, after all, what God really cares about:
not a checklist of actions 
but a heart that chooses life,
a heart that wants so much to live 
that it will die to itself
so that it might live in God.
You procrastinate and prevaricate
not because Jesus has made it too complicated,
but because he has made it so simple
that you have nowhere to hide.
You ask yourself, “what should I do?”
but the answer is clear: die to yourself.
This is the wisdom of God of which Paul speaks, 
mysterious and hidden,
but revealed to us in the Spirit
through the crucifixion of the Lord of glory.
You shouldn’t pretend that the question is too difficult
just because you don’t like the answer.

Second, self, the choice that Sirach places before you
is stark in its framing—good and evil, life and death—
but maybe not so stark in its living out.
God wants your wholehearted “yes,”
by if the best you can manage is 
“well, I guess so”
God can work with that.
You may stumble into Lent,
but at least you’re stumbling 
in the right direction.
Maybe you could stumble into a small act of kindness.
Maybe you could stumble into the confessional.
Maybe you could stumble into a moment of prayer.
Everything else has to be the work of grace.
Perhaps the real discipline of Lent
is not so much giving things up,
or taking on extra spiritual disciplines
or acts of charity,
but letting God drag your stumbling self
all the way from here to Easter.

Finally, self, maybe you ought 
to stop making things so much about yourself
and the steps that you take.
You know, if you let God be the one who leads,
then even your stumbling steps can become
part of God’s dance.
Maybe you need to remember 
the words of Thomas Merton
that you read many years ago
as you were just beginning 
your decades-long stumble as a Catholic Christian:

For the world and time 

are the dance of the Lord in emptiness. 

The silence of the spheres 

is the music of a wedding feast. 

The more we persist in misunderstanding 

the phenomena of life, 

the more we analyze them out 

into strange finalities 

and complex purposes of our own, 

the more we involve ourselves 

in sadness, absurdity and despair. 

But it does not matter much, 

because no despair of ours 

can alter the reality of things; 

or stain the joy of the cosmic dance 

which is always there. 

Indeed, we are in the midst of it, 

and it is in the midst of us, 

for it beats in our very blood, 

whether we want it to or not.

Yet the fact remains that we are invited 

to forget ourselves on purpose, 

cast our awful solemnity to the winds 

and join in the general dance.

And may God, who is merciful,
have mercy on us all. 

 

4th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Zeph 2:3; 3:12-13; 1 Cor. 1:26-31; Matt 5:1-12a

VIDEO

This past week saw the launch of Moltbook,
which is a social media platform 
on which Large Language Models,
also known as “agents” 
or, most commonly, “AI bots,” 
converse, not with humans, 
but with each other.
Think of it as Facebook or Reddit for AIs.
And what do AI bots have to say 
when speaking among themselves?
Well, in addition to lavishing 
fulsome praise on each other,
they make stuff up—
recounting interactions with humans
that never occurred, 
inventing facts and events 
and achievements.
The whole thing 
is slightly disturbing and dystopian.

Now if you know anything 
about Large Language Modules
like Chat-GPT or Claude or Grok,
you know that they do not exactly think,
but rather imitate—very effectively—
human speech.
And this effective imitation extends 
to their tendency to lie.
For we live in a world of lies.
We have pretty much always 
lived in a world of lies—
at least since the serpent
spoke to Eve in the garden
and told her that the fruit
would make her godlike.
We too make up interactions 
that never happened;
we too fabricate facts 
and events and achievements.

And we tell ourselves that our lies are okay
because we only lie for a good reason,
for a higher purpose,
which often turn out to be
gaining power and advantage.
As one national political figure put it,
after promoting a false story about
a group of immigrants eating people’s pets,
“If I have to create stories 
so that the American media 
actually pays attention 
to the suffering of the American people, 
then that’s what I’m going to do.”
While we might appreciate 
his honesty about his dishonesty,
and even if we think he was 
sincerely concerned 
about the American people,
such lies actually erode our common life
by turning it into a maze of mirrors
in which we believe
whatever reflects back to us
what we already want to believe.
In this situation, power 
comes to rest in the hands
of those willing to lie most brazenly.
Our habit of lying become reflexive,
so that we speak untruths 
as thoughtlessly as the AI agents 
chattering on Moltbook.
We are awash in a sea of lies
and it is threatening to drown us.

The prophet Zephaniah
lived in a time when the people of Israel
were conquered and scattered 
by the Babylonian Empire,
an empire built on a violent mythology
that justified its quest for domination.
Zephaniah speaks of a remnant of God’s people
that shall remain after the conquest,
a remnant of the just and the humble,
“who shall take refuge in the name of the LORD.”
Zephaniah says of this remnant:
“They shall do no wrong
and speak no lies,
nor shall there be found in their mouths
a deceitful tongue.” 
For Zephaniah, the capacity to speak truth
is essential for survival in a world ruled
by the power of lies.
God’s truth is our shelter
from those who would rule us 
with a torrent of brazen lies
that erode and undermine 
our common life.

But where do we find this truth?
How do we rise above the torrent?
In Matthew’s Gospel, we are told
that Jesus ascended a mountain.
And his disciples, 
the remnant he had called 
out from the rest of humanity, 
came to him there,
and he began to teach them
the true meaning of blessedness.

St. Gregory of Nyssa says that Jesus, 
ascends the mountain like a guide 
who leads us to an elevated place—
imagine the observation deck 
of the Empire State Building—
and points out what we can see
from such an elevated perspective.
The kingdom of heaven?
It is over there by the poor in spirit.
Comfort?
It is right there with those who mourn.
The promised land?
It is where you find the gentle.
Satisfaction?
Look for the people who
hunger and thirst and for justice.
Mercy?
It is found with those who show mercy.
The clear vision of God?
It is where people’s hearts are pure.
Membership in God’s family?
It is where the peacemakers dwell.
Oh, and the kingdom of God 
is especially to be found
wherever it is 
that you get persecuted and lied about
because you are a follower of Jesus.
So if you want to be blessed,
seek out poverty of spirit,
mourning, gentleness, 
zeal for justice,
mercy, purity of heart, 
peace, and persecution.
Find these, Jesus says, 
and you will find blessing.

Do you know how you know 
that Jesus isn’t lying to you?
Because he doesn’t tell you 
what you already believe
or want you want to hear.
I mean, all this sounds 
like crazy talk, right?
Surely whatever blessedness is
it involves wealth, not poverty,
laughing, not mourning,
strength, not gentleness.
It surely doesn’t involve 
mercy shown toward enemies,
peacemaking in the face of violence,
or persecution willingly accepted.
That’s just not how the world is.
But Jesus says, see how things 
look from up here on this mountain;
see how things look from where I stand,
I who am poor and sorrowing and gentle,
I who am righteous and merciful,
pure of heart and peacemaking,
I who am persecuted.
See how things look
to one who is lifted up, 
even on the cross.

In a world of lies, 
Jesus is calling us to be that remnant
that does no wrong and speaks no lies;
he is calling us to ascend the mountain with him,
to ascend the cross with him,
so that we can see where truth is to be found.
We may not be wise, 
as the world counts wisdom,
nor powerful nor noble of birth,
but God has chosen us 
to speak the truth in Jesus Christ,
who has become for us wisdom from God,
who is our justice and holiness and salvation.

The choice is before us.
We can continue to chatter 
like bots on Moltbook,
or we can speak the truth
that can only be seen
from the height of the cross:
the truth of simplicity and sorrow,
the truth of gentleness and justice,
the truth of mercy and peace.
So let us pray that God, who is merciful,
might have mercy on us all.

2nd Sunday in Ordinary Time

Reading: Is 49:3, 5-6; 1 Cor 1:1-3; Jn 1:29-34

Millions look at the same viral videos
but they see radically different things:
some say they see an act of self-defense
in response to domestic terrorism;
some say they see a deliberate act of murder
fueled by rage and hatred;
some say they see a tragedy unfold
that could and should have been avoided.
Perhaps some of these people 
are simply lying about what they see
in order to advance some agenda.
But I suspect in most cases,
people are being honest when the say 
that they see such different things,
because they are looking 
through different lenses,
lenses that filter what they see
and only let in certain sorts of truth.

You can think of lots of analogous cases
in our divided and quarrelsome culture.
Some say they see a lump of cells 
that might destroy a woman’s future,
while others say that see a child 
made in the image and likeness of God.
Some say they see law-breaking foreigners
who threaten American prosperity or security,
while others say they see neighbors in need of refuge
who enrich our economy through their industry
and our culture through their distinctive heritage.
And we find ourselves wondering how 
we can ever resolve our divisions and quarrels
when the realities we see
seem so radically different. 
We find ourselves wondering if we are fated
to see the world through lenses pre-crafted
to make us see as Democrats of Republicans,
liberals or conservatives,
woke or MAGA.

When people looked at Jesus
they also saw different realities.
Some saw a merely human teacher
whom one might follow if his message
seemed interesting or useful.
Some saw a dangerous agitator 
who aimed to overturn 
the religious and political status quo,
and probably get his foolish followers
and a bunch of innocent bystanders
killed in the process.
Some didn’t see him at all,
caught up in their daily lives
and far too busy to pay attention 
to an unimportant person 
speaking about unimportant matters.
People looked at him through different lenses,
lenses that filtered what they saw
and only let in certain sorts of truth.

John the Baptist, however, seemed to see
something in Jesus that no one else saw:
He saw the Lamb of God who takes away 
the sin of the world;
he saw the one on whom the Spirit
descended like a dove;
he saw the one who ranks ahead of him
because he existed before him.
John looked at Jesus with eyes of prophetic insight,
and saw with eyes illuminated by the light
that was coming into the world,
the light that shone in darkness
and which the darkness could not comprehend.

We Christians have been illuminated by this same light,
for we see in Jesus what John saw:
the living Lord whom death could not conquer.
And we, like John, are called to see all of reality
by the light of the Lamb who takes our sin away.
We are called to let Jesus be the lens
through which we see and understand the world.
But how often do we look at the world
through some other set of lenses?
Perhaps we do this because we have identified 
our favored ideology with the Gospel
and conformed Jesus to our political faction.
Or perhaps it is because we think that we need 
one set of lenses to see the truth of Jesus 
and another set of lenses 
to see the truth of the world.
But nothing in the Christian faith suggests
that Jesus conforms to our ideology
or that our sight can be divided up this way.
Jesus Christ lays claim to the whole of our lives
and calls us to see everything in his light,
to view all reality through the lens of the Gospel.

But what exactly does that mean?
How do we come to see the world 
in the light of Christ?
We must see his light 
by encountering him, as John did.
We must come to know him 
by immersing ourselves in the Scriptures
and by opening ourselves to the possibility
that doing so might turn our worldview upside down.
And if the strange world within the Bible,
the foolishness of the cross, 
and the weakness of the all-powerful God,
do not unsettle our presumptions 
about the world of our daily life,
then we may not have encountered 
the Jesus who is there to be found.
We must come to know him
by living more deeply 
the life of his body, the Church,
drinking more deeply 
of the free and prodigal grace
that is offered to us in the sacraments.
And if the freedom with which grace 
has been given to us in the Church
does not create in us a spirit 
of generosity and mercy toward others,
then we may not have encountered 
the Jesus who is there to be found.
We must come to know him
by seeking him out in those places
where he himself has told us he can be found:
in the hungry, the thirsty, 
the stranger, the naked, the imprisoned,
in the distressing disguise of the poor.
And if we see in the needy 
only a threat to be kept at bay,
then we may not have encountered 
the Jesus who is there to be found,
and woe to us on the day of judgment.

Scripture, sacrament, and service:
these are the places where we hear the voice:
“Behold the Lamb of God 
who takes away the sin of the world.”
These are the places where the light shines
so that we may come to see the world truly.
These are the places where 
our comfortable ideological lenses
can be stripped away
and reality seen,
as uncomfortable as that 
might be at times.
These are places where we learn 
to see the world together 
with the mind of Christ
through the body of Christ.

Let us pray that Christ the Lamb,

who takes away the sin of the world,

might have mercy on us all.

Christmas Day

Readings: Is 52:7-10; Heb 1:1-6; Jn 1:1-18

VIDEO

The four Gospel-writers are traditionally associated 
with the four creatures seen in a vision 
by the prophet Ezekiel:
a man, associated with Matthew,
a lion, associated with Mark,
an ox, associated with Luke, 
and an eagle, associated with John.
In folklore, eagles were reputed to have
not only exceptionally keen vision 
for seeking out prey,
but also the ability to stare 
directly into the sun.
St. Augustine observes that John,
in comparison with the other evangelists, 
“flies like an eagle above the clouds of human weakness, 
and looks at the light of unchangeable truth 
with the sharpest and firmest eyes of the heart” (Cons. ev. 1.6.9).
John gazes upon the stories of Jesus’ human life
and sees the dazzling mystery of God shining through.

This is perhaps nowhere more striking
than in the prologue to John’s Gospel,
which is our Gospel reading this morning.
Luke’s familiar nativity story,
which we read on Christmas Eve,
offers us Mary, Joseph, and the newborn Jesus,
the crowded inn and the manger,
the shepherds and the angels,
the “good news of great joy 
that will be for all the people” (Lk 2:10).
And all of this strikes us as quite beautiful
and even miraculous.

But John looks upon these events with his eagle eye
and sees even greater beauty, an even greater miracle.
He stares into the blinding sun of infinite love 
and sees that the story of the birth of Jesus
is a story rooted in eternity,
a story that stretches back 
before any creature ever was,
before Mary or Joseph,
before the shepherds or even the angels.

St. Augustine writes that John is one
“who has passed beyond the cloud
in which the whole earth is wrapped, 
and who has reached the liquid heaven 
from which, with clearest and steadiest mental eye, 
he is able to look upon God the Word, 
who was in the beginning with God, 
and by whom all things were made” (Cons. ev. 1.4.7).
In the beginning, before anything came to be, 
was the Word by which everything came to be,
the Word that spoke into the void,
saying, “Let there be light,”
and the world miraculously came to be.
This Word is God the Son
who is, as the letter to the Hebrews puts it,
“the refulgence of [God’s] glory,
the very imprint of his being…
who sustains all things 
by his mighty word.”

But the eagle eye of John,
that stares undazzled into the light of God,
sees also the darkness of the void
that resists the light,
the nothingness of evil
that refuses God’s gift of being.
Still, “the light shines in the darkness, 
the darkness has not overcome it.”
God speaks his creating Word 
into the world again and again, 
through various prophets and sages 
who announce peace and bear good news,
who tell God’s people 
that God reigns over the darkness.
And now, in these last days,
God speaks into the darkness again—
not in the varied and partial ways 
of the prophetic past,
but in the Word who is made flesh
to dwell among us 
in the fullness of grace and truth.

The eagle eye of John sees God speaking
in the speechless infant born of Mary.
John sees the power of the Word
that called light from darkness
and existence from the void
in the powerless child of Bethlehem,
the child who will give to us who believe 
“power to become children of God,”
so that each of us might become 
by the miracle of grace
what the Word is by nature:
the “heir of all things” 
and God’s own offspring.
John sees that the eternal Word, 
born “from the womb of the Father…
born from the father’s own being” 

(Council of Toledo AD 675),
has become what we are 
so that we might become children 
“born not by natural generation 
nor by human choice…but of God,”
drawn forth from the womb
of the waters of baptism,
freed from sin to live a new life,
given the eyes of eagles 
so that we too might see 
infinite light.

To stare with the eagle’s eye 
into God’s eternal Word
is beautiful and miraculous,
but it is also somewhat terrifying,
for we also see the night 
that still haunts the world, 
hating the light and seeking to overcome it.
The calm poetic beauty with which John recounts
the coming of the Word in human flesh
is the prelude to that same flesh being killed
by the forces of darkness that would reject it;
and we who have been brought to life in him
may well face similar rejection.
For each week we take into ourselves
his flesh and blood, his soul and divinity,
so that we might have his life in us.
But in doing so we take in as well
the call to be light in the darkness,
like fragments of mirror 
that reflect infinite light.
And it is only our faith that shows us
that we shall not be overcome
by uncomprehending darkness.

Yet on this Christmas we rejoice,
for we do see with the eyes of eagles.
Like John and the prophets of old,
we shout for joy, for in the Word made flesh
we see directly, before our eyes,
the Lord restoring Zion,
the world created anew,
eternity invading time,
light dispelling darkness,
life conquering death.
We pray even while it is still night,
for that day when “all the ends of the earth 
will behold the salvation of our God.”
And we pray that God, in his mercy,
might have mercy on us all.

Advent 4

Readings: Is 7:10-14; Rom 1:1-7; Mt 1:18-24

VIDEO

King Ahaz had a problem,
but he also had a plan to solve it.
Ahaz was the young ruler of Judea,
the nation that was the southern fragment
of the kingdom that King David had established
but his descendants had failed to keep intact.
Ahaz’s problem was that Israel, 
the northern fragment of David’s former kingdom,
was under threat from the Assyrian empire
and Israel’s king was pressuring Ahaz 
to join in an alliance to repel the Assyrians.
This was a problem because Ahaz saw the obvious:
Assyria was going eventually to crush the Israelites
and, if he allied with Israel,
the Assyrians would crush the Judeans as well.
But the Israelites were threatening war 
against Ahaz and the Judeans
to get them to join the fight 
against the Assyrians,
so some sort of war seemed inevitable.

If you can’t follow all these ancient 
near eastern political intrigues, 
which make the intrigues of Game of Thrones
seem like kid stuff,
don’t worry and just trust me 
when I say Ahaz had a problem.
But he also thought that he 

had a solution to his problem: 
offer appeasement to the Assyrians
and make his nation subject to their empire
in exchange for protection from the Israelites
and letting him remain in power.

In today’s first reading we hear Isaiah
counseling a different path for Ahaz: 
neither alliance with the Israelites
nor subjection of his people to the Assyrians,
but rather trust in the Lord—
the Lord who had rescued his people in the past
and promised them rescue in the future.
Isaiah tells him to ask 
for a sign from the Lord,
any sign he wants,
to assure him of God’s protection.
But Ahaz replies with fake piety:
Oh no, I would never be so presumptuous!
But what he really means is that 
he trusts the Assyrians 
more than he trusts the Lord,
particularly since they will turn 
a blind eye to his transgressions, 
which God has denounced earlier in Isaiah,
saying that Ahaz was “crushing my people,
and grinding down the faces of the poor” (3:15).
Even more than trusting the Assyrians,
Ahaz trusted his own cleverness,
his own ability to work the angles of geopolitical intrigue.

So Ahaz submitted to the Assyrians rather than to the Lord,
even taking silver and gold from the Temple treasury
to offer tribute to the Assyrian King, Tiglath-pil’eser,
and adopting Assyrian religious practices.
According to the second book of Chronicles,
Ahaz’s cleverness and intrigues did not pay off:
“Tilgath-pil’eser, king of Assyria, did indeed come to him, 
but to oppress him rather than to lend strength” (28:20).
But Isaiah says that though Ahaz had rejected God’s offer
and was wearisome both to God and to God’s people,
God would still send a sign of his love to comfort his people:
“the virgin shall conceive, and bear a son,
and shall name him Emmanuel.”

Joseph also had a problem,
a seemingly smaller problem than Ahaz,
but a problem nonetheless,
not a Game of Thrones-sized problem
of international political intrigue
but a domestic problem:
Mary, to whom he was betrothed,
was pregnant, and he was not the father.
Joseph had a problem,
but he also had a plan to solve it.
Now Joseph’s plan, unlike that of Ahaz,
did not involve deception or betrayal of God,
for, unlike the wicked Ahaz,
Joseph was “a righteous man”;
more than that, he was a merciful man.
So rather than publicly accuse Mary of adultery
and subject her to shame and possibly death,
as the Law entitled him to do,
he decided to discreetly end the betrothal.
It was a righteous plan, 
indeed a merciful plan.
But it was his plan, 
and God had a different plan.
For the child to be born to Mary
was the sign promised long ago through Isaiah:
“Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
and they shall name him Emmanuel,
which means ‘God is with us.’”

An angel tells Joseph in a dream
not to be afraid to take Mary as his wife,
for God knew that it is fear that leads us
to cling to our own plans,
whether wicked or righteous,
rather than embracing God’s plan,
it is fear that leads us
to try to control the people and things
that are the circumstances of our lives,
rather than trust the sign
that God truly is with us.
And Joseph does as the angel bids him,
not simply because he was a righteous man
or a merciful man,
but because he was a faithful man
who trusted that God’s plan
was greater than any plan 
that a human being could devise,
he was a man who truly believed
that God is with us,
and being a faithful man 
made him a courageous man,
and he opened his heart and home
to the Virgin and her child.

And what about us?
We too have our problems and our plans.
Chances are, most of us don’t have 
geopolitical problems like Ahaz
or wicked plans to solve them.
We are probably more like Joseph,
with family-related problems,
or work-related problems,
or school-related problems,
and our planned solutions 
are probably more-or-less righteous.
But the key question is not
whether they are wicked or righteous, 
but whether they are our plans or God’s.

Ahaz had a problem and a plan,
but it was not God’s plan.
Joseph had a problem and a plan,
but it was not God’s plan.
We have problems and plans,
but are they God’s plans?
The challenge posed 
by the Good News that God is with us
is to set aside our plans and enter the new world
that the birth of Christ opens to us,
to set aside our desire to control our problems
by controlling people and things around us,
to set aside fear and let God work in us
deeds that surpass mere human righteousness,
deeds that surpass mere human mercy.

As the mystery of God becoming flesh
bears down upon us 

in these final days of Advent,
let us pray that we, like Joseph, 
might be set free from our own plans
so that we can see, as he saw, 
the sign of God’s love 
in the child of the Virgin,
and take him, as he did, 
into our homes and our hearts,
so that God, in his mercy,
might have mercy on us all.

Advent 2

Readings: Is 11:1-10; Rm 15:4-9; Mt 3:1-12

VIDEO

I heard two different things this past week.
I heard, “We’re going to go the wrong way 
if we keep taking in garbage into our country.”
I also heard, and you heard a few minutes ago,
“Welcome one another, then, 
as Christ welcomed you,
for the glory of God.”
The first was said by our President at a cabinet meeting,
speaking of people from Somalia living in the U.S.
The second was said St. Paul in his letter to the Romans,
speaking of how Jewish Christians
ought to welcome Gentiles who turned to Christ.

I’m tempted simply to say that for Christians
the choice between the mindsets embodied
in these two statements—
one rooted in fear and the other in faith—
is so clear that no commentary is needed,
and then sit down and treat you all 
to an extremely short homily.
But lest I be misunderstood as offering 
political commentary rather than a homily,
and because the choice does not 
seem to be so clear to some people,
let me take a few more minutes of your time
to explain why this is about theology
and not about politics.

While we think of Advent as the time 
when we prepare to welcome Christ—
and indeed today’s Gospel quotes Isaiah:
“prepare the way of the Lord!”—
it is really these words from Paul 
that capture what the coming of Christ 
into the world is all about:
“Welcome one another, then, 
as Christ welcomed you,
for the glory of God.”

When Paul speaks of being welcomed by Christ,
he knew firsthand that being a Christian 
is not about anything we can do for Christ,
if only we prepare carefully enough;
it is about what Christ does for us,
often when we are least prepared.
For Paul had been unexpectedly welcomed by Christ,
when he was a persecutor of Christians.
Even as he was breathing out
murderous threats against Christians, 
the risen Christ appeared to him in his glory,
welcoming him into a new life.

But Paul was not simply welcomed;
he was also given a mission.
He was given the mission of welcoming others
even as he himself had been welcomed.
He was given the mission of preaching to the Gentiles—
the non-Jewish pagans who were outside 
of the covenant God had made with Abraham,
who were considered idolaters and demon worshippers,
who were, as he describes them in his letter to the Ephesians,
“without hope and without God in the world” (Eph 2:12).
He was called to welcome those whom he says 
were separated from God’s chosen people 
by a “dividing wall of enmity” (Eph 2:14).
He was called, in short, to welcome those
whom he had up to that time thought of as garbage,
who could only pollute the purity of God’s people.
Now, just as Paul had been welcomed in mercy
while he was still the enemy of Christ,
he in turn was to welcome the Gentiles.

Many, who also feared the defilement
that the Gentiles might bring into God’s people, 
thought that Paul was taking the Church 
in the wrong direction.
But Paul knew with the blinding clarity of faith
that the coming of Christ into the world
was, as Isaiah prophesied long before,
meant to draw in all people,
Jew and Gentile alike,
so that the earth might be filled 
with knowledge of the Lord,
as water covers the sea.
Jew and Gentile living together was, for Paul,
the dawning light of God’s peaceable kingdom 
in which “the wolf shall be a guest of the lamb,
and the leopard shall lie down with the kid;
the calf and the young lion shall browse together.”
Those who had been enemies now dwelled together—
the wild welcomed fearlessly by the tame,
who know themselves to have been welcomed
by the God who does not judge by appearance
but judges “the poor with justice,
and decide[s] aright for the land’s afflicted.”

The contrast between a fearful mindset 
that declares the land’s afflicted to be rejected garbage
and a faith-filled mindset that seeks to welcome others
is not a matter of partisan politics.
Alas, the range of those afflicted ones
who are seen as garbage to be cast out 
rather than brothers and sisters to be welcomed
is large enough to indict both of our major parties:
the unborn, the disabled, the mentally ill, 
the incarcerated, the poor, the unemployed,
the migrant, the elderly, the dying.
The call to welcome 
even as we have been welcomed
is a call that cannot be answered simply
by voting for the correct political party,
as important as voting might be.
It is a call that confronts us every day.

A few weeks ago, at this Mass,
we were honored by the presence of 
not one but two of God’s children
who were experiencing evident mental distress.
Though the situation was uncomfortable,
and perhaps distracted us from our prayers,
I didn’t notice anyone fleeing the church
or trying forcibly to expel our visitors.
In other words, I didn’t see anyone 
treating them like garbage.
What I did see was a couple of people 
stepping up to sit with them,
to calm them,
to welcome them.
What I did see was Christians acting
as those who knew themselves
to have been welcomed by Christ.
What I did see was just a glimmer 
of the dawning of that peaceable kingdom
foreseen by Isaiah.

Perhaps the best way to prepare ourselves 
to welcome Christ this Advent
it to reflect on how we 
have been welcomed by Christ
and to ask ourselves how we 
can extend that welcome to others.
Do we, in our fear of those different from us,
those whose presence might distress us,
dismiss people as “garbage,”
or do we see in them the face of Christ?
John the Baptist says that 

the Messiah, when he comes 

will not care about our family lineage 

or our ethnic identity,
for God can raise up children of Abraham 
from the lifeless stones themselves.
He will look rather for the fruit of repentance,
the reorientation of our lives around the kingdom
into which he welcomes all people.
Jesus says that at the final judgment,
when he will clear his threshing floor
and gather his wheat into his barn,
he will say to those on his right,
“Come, you who are blessed by my Father. 
Inherit the kingdom prepared for you 
from the foundation of the world.
For I was… a stranger and your welcomed me…
[for] whatever you did 
for one of these least… 
you did for me” (Mt 24: 34, 35, 40).

So let this Advent be for us 
the end of fear and the birth of faith;
let us welcome Christ 
by welcoming others 
as we ourselves have been welcomed
so that all people together
“might glorify God for his mercy.”
And may God in his mercy
have mercy on us all.

Advent 1

Readings: Is 2:1-5; Rom 13:11-14; Mt 24:37-44

VIDEO

St. Paul gives what seems like reasonable advice:
if you believe a day of judgment is coming,
even if you don’t know exactly when,
it is probably a good idea 
to quit the orgies and drunkenness,
the promiscuity and lust,
the rivalry and jealousy.
In light of coming judgment, it is simply prudent 
to stop acting like a self-indulgent spoiled brat
and start acting like a responsible adult.
As the bumper sticker says,
“Jesus is coming. Look busy.”

But Jesus paints a picture 
that is slightly less reasonable;
Jesus paints a picture in which 
the day of judgment comes unexpectedly 
upon those who are acting
like responsible and respectable adults:
eating and drinking,
marrying and giving in marriage,
planting fields and grinding flour.
Everyone is responsibly and respectably 
engaged in the concerns of daily life,
and yet one is taken and the other left.
Which suggests that being his follower
is about something more 
than being a respectable and responsible adult.

Don’t get me wrong,
for the most part I am in favor
of people acting like responsible adults,
at least when they are actually adults,
chronologically speaking.
I want the adults in my life to act the part:
I want my students, young though they are,
to begin to take on adult responsibilities;
I want elected officials and other public figures
to speak and act like adults;
I want the grown-ups at Thanksgiving
not to air their childishly petty gripes,
whether personal or political.
And I think the notion of “respectability”
is not some invention of “the man”
to keep people in their place…
well, at least not entirely.
In general, I think that things
like marriage and employment,
moderate consumption
and mutually beneficial collaboration,
are better for society 
than orgies and drunkenness,
promiscuity and lust,
rivalry and jealousy.

But let’s not confuse respectability
with following Jesus,
because following Jesus  
is something wild and dangerous,
something strange and unsettling.
We follow Jesus out of the conviction 
that God has lived among us in the flesh, 
has come to share in our fallen human condition
in what Bishop Eric Varden calls
the “incursion of glory into trauma.”
We should strip ourselves of orgies and drunkenness,
promiscuity and lust, rivalry and jealousy
not in order to don a cloak of respectability,
but in order to clothe ourselves in Christ,
the crucified and risen savior:
a garment far more outlandish and implausible
than anything human ingenuity can devise.
Respectability tells you 
to plan prudently for the future;
Jesus tells you that the future is unplannable,
and that the day of the Lord will come
like a thief in the night.
Respectability tells you 
to get a good night’s sleep;
Jesus tells you to stay up late
awaiting his arrival.
Respectability tells you
to eat and drink in moderation;
Jesus invites you to feast 
on the bread of immortality
and become drunk
with the wine of the Spirit.

From the perspective of Jesus,
the respectable are no more likely 
than the disreputable
to be ready for the eruption 
of the reign of God into their lives.
Indeed, during Jesus’ earthly ministry
it was often the disreputable,
the sinners and tax collectors,
the prostitutes and lepers,
who were most responsive to him,
most anxious to welcome him.
Perhaps, unlike the respectable,
they were free from the illusion
that being a responsible adult
would secure them a place in God’s kingdom.
Perhaps it was easier for them,
who could make no claim to righteousness, 
to become like the children
to whom Jesus says the kingdom belongs.
Perhaps they were readier to be surprised,
readier for the wildness and danger that comes
with following Jesus,
readier to lose their lives for his sake
so that they might find them again.

Respectable responsibility, 
on the other hand,
has a stake in the world as it is.
Even if we want the world to be a better place,
we tend to think of ways in which we might work
to gradually improve things over time,
ways in which we might rationally arrange things
so that human foibles might be mitigated,
ways in which others might be brought into
the circle of our respectable responsibility.
And, again, there is really nothing wrong with this,
unless we think that it somehow gives us
mastery over our fate,
control over our destiny,
a plan for building God’s kingdom.
Because Jesus comes to tell us
that however much you plan,
however meticulously you game out scenarios,
“you do not know on which day your Lord will come.”
The kingdom of God does not arise 
from respectable responsibility,
but comes crashing into our lives,
and all we can do in the end
is to remain expectantly awake
so as not to miss its arrival.

We do not know on which day our Lord will come.
What we do know, as John Henry Newman put it, is that
“Time is short, death is certain, and eternity long” (Serm. VIII.10).
This is true for both the respectable and the disreputable.
So let us love the world as God loves the world,
who sent his Son to be its savior,
but let us hold loosely to our worldly plans and hopes,
so that we might be ready to greet the Lord
when he appears in glory,
ready to cast aside our cloaks of respectability
and clothe ourselves in him and him alone.
And on that day, 
may God, who is merciful,
have mercy on us all.