Christmas Day

Readings: Isaiah 52:7-10; Hebrews 1:1-6; John 1:1-5, 9-14

Perhaps it is simply a matter
of the particular feet I have known—
my own and others—
but I generally don’t think
of feet as beautiful.
St. Thomas Aquinas says that beautiful things
have three qualities—
wholeness, harmony, and brightness—
and that beauty can be defined
as what is pleasing to us when we see it.
While most of our feet are whole,
in the sense that they are not missing parts,
they are rarely harmonious or bright,
and at least mine 
are not very pleasing when seen.
People can spend a lot on pedicures,
trying to make their feet beautiful,
but I suspect it’s a losing battle;
feet are simply too battered by the work 
of taking us from place to place,
too calloused and prone to bunions,
for it to ever be a gratifying experience 
to gaze upon them.
Maybe like me you got socks for Christmas,
which is probably the best chance we have
for making our feet beautiful.

Yet the prophet Isaiah proclaims this morning:
“How beautiful upon the mountains
are the feet of him who brings glad tidings.”
How beautiful the feet of those
who announce peace, 
bear good news,
proclaim salvation to those 
whose world lies in ruins. 
How beautiful the feet 
that walk the path that leads 
from heaven to earth and back again,
bearing tidings that rejoice our hearts.

And what are those glad tidings?
“The Word became flesh
and made his dwelling among us, 
and we saw his glory,
the glory as of the Father’s only Son,
full of grace and truth.”
The Word of whom St. John speaks
is the agent of divine artistry,
the source within the life of God 
of the wholeness, harmony, and brightness
that belongs by right to God’s creation,
this world that so pleased God 
when God saw its goodness.
But this world’s wholeness 
had been shattered by human sin,
its harmony had gone out of tune,
its brightness had faded.

The glad tidings of the Word made flesh
is that the creation grown
fragmented, discordant, and shabby
has been invaded by the beauty of its creator
and made whole, harmonious, and bright
once again.
For though past messengers 
spoke in partial and various ways,
in these last days the Word of God himself—
the refulgence of the Father’s glory,
bearing the very imprint of God’s being,
the source of creation’s primordial 
wholeness, harmony, and brightness—
restores our ruined nature in himself,
retunes our hearts to the music of the spheres,
brings his brightness to our darkness.
The artist who first created the universe
has come to us to restore his great work of art. 

The glad tidings of Christmas
are the glad tidings of beauty recovered.
In recent weeks, many of us marveled 
at images of the beauty of the restored 
cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris;
that a structure so tragically damaged
could be made whole again.
But as glorious as such restoration is, 
it is only a dim reflection
of what God has done for the world
in Jesus Christ,
if we but have the eyes to see it.
For the eyes of faith,
what is broken will be made whole,
what is twisted will be made straight,
what is dimmed will be made bright.
For the eyes of faith, light shines 
in the uncomprehending darkness
and the world even now bears the image 
of divine beauty, ever-ancient, ever-new.

These glad tidings are given to us
to be given to others.
Though the world is restored in Christ,
we still must journey toward his final victory
through times that are troubled, 
and on our pilgrimage through time
our hearts, like our feet,
can grow calloused and battered;
the light that shines in the world’s darkness
can seem to grow dim as we grow weary;
the sound of glad tiding can become
a fading echo in our ears.

But how beautiful upon the mountains
are the feet of those who brings glad tidings.
The faith that allows us to see and hear
the beauty Christ has restored to the world
grows in us as we share it with others
through words and actions
of wholeness, harmony, and brightness.
Not just our weary, journey-worn feet,
but even our weary, journey-worn souls,
are made beautiful by the tidings of beauty
that we bear to the world.

Let the joy of this day’s tidings ring out 
in wholeness, harmony, and brightness
for God has come to dwell among us,
full of grace and truth and mercy.
And may God, in his mercy,
have mercy on us all.

Advent 4

Readings: Micah 5:1-4a; Hebrews 10:5-10; Luke 1:39-45

“He shall be peace.”
He shall be peace for the citizens 
of the defeated kingdom of Judah,
held captive in a foreign land,
longing to return to the land of God’s promise.
He shall be peace for the anxious souls
seeking to appease the wrath of God 
with sacrifice and offerings.
He shall be peace for Mary,
unexpectedly pregnant at a very young age,
and for her kinswoman Elizabeth,
unexpectedly pregnant in her old age,
and for all who anxiously ask, 
“how can this be?”

He, whose origin is from of old, 
shall be peace through the centuries
as nations fall and rise and fall once more,
as prayers are uttered in faithful desperation,
as minds are torn apart by incoherent events,
and hearts are darkened by fear.

He shall be peace in Ukraine and Gaza,
in Sudan and Syria,
and in the streets of Baltimore.
He shall be peace for those 
who flee their homes in fear,
for those seeking work
and those without shelter,
for the lonely and the lost,
for the child in the womb
and those reaching life’s end.
Who could this be?
Who could be peace 
for such a world of sorrow?

The prophet Micah does not say,
“he shall bring peace,”
but “he shall be peace.”
The one whom we await is peace itself
and to find peace is to find him.
He will not be like the rulers who say
“Peace! Peace!” where there is no peace,
who promise what they cannot deliver.
For he is not a promiser of peace,
but is himself the peace that is promised.
He will not be like those peace offerings
that we place between our sins and God’s wrath,
hoping that they might shield us,
that they might turn away God’s anger.
For he is not the price we pay for peace,
but gives himself as the peace 
that the world cannot give.
He will not be like the therapies we employ
to calm our anxieties and cope with calamities,
therapies that can never resolve 
those perplexities of the heart 
that make our lives so unsure.
For he offers no technique 
that leads to peace,
but is himself God’s gift of peace 
that passes understanding.

We have been waiting 
during this season of Advent,
during every season of Advent,
during every day of human history,
not for the right political leader,
nor the right religious practice,
nor the right therapeutic intervention,
but for Jesus.

We have been waiting for Jesus 
not because he will give us peace,
but because he is peace.
If Jesus merely gave us peace
then we might simply take it from him
and say “thank you very much”
and go on our way.
And if history teaches us anything
it is that we soon would squander that peace.
We would find new wars,
new fears,
new anxieties
upon which to waste it.
But because Jesus is himself peace
the only way to receive that peace
is to receive him,
to accept his invitation of friendship,
to love him as the peace our hearts desire,
to say to him, as we sang in our psalm,
“let us see your face and we shall be saved.”

When Elizabeth encountered Jesus,
hidden within the womb of Mary,
she felt her own child leap with joy;
she was filled with the Holy Spirit;
she cried aloud in praise and wonder
that God’s own Son would visit us 
in such humility.
As we approach the days of Christmas, 
let us look to Elizabeth
for how we ought to welcome 
the one who shall be peace,
a peace that seems often 
hidden in our world.
Despite continuing conflicts, 
and the grief that we might rightly have
at the pain and sorrow of the world,
let us feel new life within us leaping for joy.
Despite our sins, 
and the fear that we might rightly feel
before the overwhelming holiness of God,
let us be filled with God’s Holy Spirit.
Despite uncertainty, 
and the anxious hearts that we might rightly have
over the days and months and years before us,
let us cry out in praise and wonder.

For the peace whose origin is of old
has clothed himself in time and space,
and enfolded in himself
our sorrows and fears and anxieties;
he has become what we are 
so that we might be what he is:
for he is our peace
and calls us to be peace
in the midst of a world at war
with God and itself.
Let us pray in these waning days of Advent
that the peace that the world cannot give
will come this Christmas to dwell among us
and that God, in his mercy,
might have mercy on us all. 

Advent 1 (Vespers)

This homily was given at a Vespers service at Corpus Christi church, in the hiatus between its final Mass as a parish at the end of November and its first Mass in January as a site of ministry to students and couples seeking marriage.

Reading: Luke 21:25-28, 34-36

“People will die of fright 
in anticipation of what is coming 
upon the world.”
These seem disturbingly timely words. 
We’ve all got lots of things to worry about:
wars in which nuclear-armed nations are in play;
climate change and extreme weather;
a nation divided by politics and ideology,
and an incoming administration
that excites great hope in some
and great fear in others.
What is coming upon the world?
What does the future hold?

But more locally, for us,
there is the question of 
what the future holds for this place,
this house of God
that has been our house.
What is coming for Corpus Christi?
Can we build something here
that will draw upon 
what has come before
but be open to new challenges 
that the Church faces?
I will admit, I have a lot of trepidation. 
In some ways we have been given 
a go-ahead for our new ministries
with students and young couples
precisely because these are two groups
that no one quite knows what to do with.
And we don’t know either,
but we were foolish or desperate enough
to say “let us give it a try,”
and so the Archdiocese said,
“sure, let them try.”

The prospects are daunting.
Religious disaffiliation 
is common among the young
and there doesn’t seem to be 
any magic formula for drawing them in.
Should we try updating things
or returning to the deep source of our tradition?
Do we make marriage preparation more user-friendly
or do we make it more demanding and rigorous?
Do we have meetings for students 
on Tuesday nights or Wednesday nights;
do we feed them pizza or tacos?
I’ll tell you, I have not a few sleepless nights
churning these questions over in my mind.
As I've nodded off in the afternoon

after after a sleepless night,

I’ve come to know how literal Jesus was being
when he spoke of our hearts growing drowsy
with the anxieties of daily life.

And I’ll be honest with you:
I have no idea if we can pull this off,
if we can build something new here
that will give this beautiful and storied place
the chance to feed generations to come
with the spiritual food of Christ’s body—
Corpus Christi.
I just don’t know.
But what I do know is that, in the end,

what happens does not depend on me or Andrew,
or even, though we cherish your support, any of you.
It depends on the never-failing providence of God.
 
There was a moment 
on the twisting and turning path
that has led us to this moment
when I felt that I could see 
how God’s providence was working.
I felt I could see a pattern
in how everything was coming together
out of seemingly unconnected events:
my three decades working with college students;
Andrew’s year spent shepherding this parish
and learning the mysteries 
of sound systems and bank accounts;
my transfer from Corpus Christi to the Cathedral, 
where, during the Covid-19 shutdown,
I served Mass with the Archbishop each week
and had an opportunity for him
to get to know me personally;
my last-minute decision to attend a deacons’ retreat
where I met Bishop Lewendowski,
who happened to be leading the retreat
and who was spearheading parish reorganization.
All of these things seemed to be coming together
to make it possible to get a hearing for this place
to continue as a site or worship and ministry.
So this, I thought, is what providence looks like. 

The next day Andrew and I got an email
saying that it had been determined
that the building was too expensive to maintain
and that Corpus Christi would be 
put on the market and sold as soon as possible.
When I recovered my senses—
which took a minute—
I somehow had the grace to think,
“Ah, I guess this, too, 
is what providence looks like.”
 
We’ve gone through several more 
twists and turns since then,
and sale of the building is not imminent,
though it is still a possible future.
But what I learned in that moment
is that none of us knows 
how God’s providence works
or what the future holds,
but at every moment we must ask 
for the grace to say, 
“this, too, is what providence looks like.”
And now what lies before us—
before all of us— 
is the work God has given us to do.
We who have loved this place
must trust that whatever happens
God will be at work
in us and through us,
as long as we can get out of the way
and let providence have its way.
So let us labor in hope,
and pray in this season of hope
that God who is merciful
will have mercy on us all.