23rd Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Wisdom 9:13-18b; Philemon 9-10, 12-17; Luke 14:24-33

As the leaders of our nation continue their deliberations
concerning military intervention in Syria,
we are presented in today’s Gospel with a parable
about counting the costs of our commitments:
“What king marching into battle would not first sit down
and decide whether with ten thousand troops
he can successfully oppose another king
advancing upon him with twenty thousand troops?”
Jesus’s point in telling this parable is not, of course,
about the art of war,
but about what it means to be his disciple.
Yet it reminds us of what we would sometimes forget:
war is a costly business.
It is not something into which one dips one’s toe,
while hoping to avoid paying
the price of human suffering that war exacts.
If you choose to wage war, you must bear the burden
of homes destroyed and lives lost,
of unforeseen repercussions,
and the risk of unleashing even greater evil
than the evil that you wish to restrain.
War is not something one ought to enter into lightly.

In his parable, Jesus uses the cost of war
to prod us think about the cost of being his disciple.
Just as the ruler who contemplates going to war
must consider what it would cost to win the war,
so too one who wants to be a follower of Jesus
must consider the cost of such discipleship.
Jesus puts the cost of discipleship
in the starkest terms possible:
“If anyone comes to me
without hating his father and mother,
wife and children, brothers and sisters,
and even his own life,
he cannot be my disciple.”

Biblical scholars are quick to point out
that the word we here translate as “hating”
refers not so much to an emotion one feels
as to a fundamental choice one makes:
it is a matter of giving preference
to one thing over another.
So Jesus is saying that our relationship
to parents, spouse, children, siblings, and even oneself
must be seen as less important than our relationship to him.
Of course in Jesus’ culture,
when ties of family were so strong,
this is still pretty shocking –
you would prefer this stranger to your family?
“Hating” probably pretty effectively conveys the force
that his words would have had on his hearers:
Jesus is telling them that the cost of being his disciple
is to be willing to put nothing ahead of him,
to prefer nothing to the life of following him,
to be separated from your loved ones
if that is what it takes to be his disciple.
As if to drive the point home, Jesus adds:
“Whoever does not carry his own cross and come after me
cannot be my disciple.”
Just as a ruler
must face up to the cost of waging war,
so too the disciple of Jesus
must face up to the cost of following him,
and that cost is nothing less
than sharing in the cross of Jesus himself.

Each one of us has been called to be a disciple of Jesus.
Indeed, that simply is what it means to be a Christian.
Jesus’s call to take up one’s own cross and follow after him
is not addressed only to the apostles
or to the ordained or to the vowed religious.
It is the call of each and every one of us
who dare to claim the name Christian,
who in baptism have been marked with Christ’s cross
and called to walk as children of the light.
We are the one’s who must count the cost of following Jesus
and who must be willing to give up everything for his sake.

Of course, this makes no sense if Jesus is just some guy
who had some good ideas
about ways to make the world a better place
or ways to attain a more happy life.
It only makes sense if being Jesus’ disciple
is something worth more that everything else put together;
it only makes sense if Jesus is the one
in whom all that we have given up
will be restored to us in God’s kingdom;
it only makes sense if Jesus
is who we profess him to be in the creed:
“God from God, Light from Light,
true God from true God.”
But if Jesus is who we profess him to be,
then the cost of following him
is balanced by the joy flowing from his saving power.

Even more than war,
the struggle to follow Jesus is a costly business,
demanding absolute commitment.
And in a time of wars and rumors of war
we must ask ourselves anew
whether we truly wish to be his followers.
In a world torn by violence, death, and destruction
we are called to count the cost
of being disciples of the prince of peace.
But in counting that cost, let us never forget
that the one who calls us to follow
is the very source of life itself: Jesus Christ.

19th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Wisdom 18:6-9; Hebrews 11:1-2, 8-19; Luke 12: 32-48

“Do not be afraid any longer, little flock,
for your Father is pleased to give you the kingdom.”

With these words of comfort and assurance,

Jesus bids us to have a faith that is truly radical.

Many people think that a little bit of religion is a good thing.

It gives us a moral code to follow

and perhaps makes us a bit nicer than we would be otherwise;

it provides us with consolation in times of trouble,

particularly when we are faced with the great calamity of death.

But one doesn’t want to take religion too far,

to act in crazy or irresponsible ways

by ignoring the realities of life in this world.

But that is precisely what Jesus seems to want us to do.

In today’s Gospel, after commanding his followers to not be afraid,

he commands them to sell what they have and give alms

and by doing so to provide for themselves a treasure in heaven.

To our sensible attitude that a little bit of religion is a good thing

this seems like…well, like madness.

Being charitable – giving alms – that’s fine.

But selling what you have in order to do so?

Worrying more about heaven than earth?

It seems to ignore the legitimate responsibilities

that we have in this life –

caring for our bodily needs,

providing for our families,

planning for our retirement;

it seems to ask us to live our lives 

as if we were already in heaven,

as if earth did not matter.

But Jesus’s words press us to ask ourselves

whether our appeal to our responsibilities in this life

is not simply a manifestation of our fears

that hold us back from the risk of faith.

At his recent press conference on the plane 

after World Youth Day,

Pope Francis was asked about the security risks

created by his desire to be in the midst of the crowds.

He responded: “It’s true that there is always the danger

that there is a madman… who does something;

but there is also the Lord!

To make an armored space

between the Bishop and the people is [also] madness,

and I prefer the madness of being exposed

and running the risk of the other madness.”

I suppose for the Pope the danger of assassination

is more real than it is for most of us.

But we too have our very real fears:

will I find a job?

will I be able to pay my bills?

what will become of my children?

Who could blame us 

for being fearful concerning these things?

The words of Pope Francis remind us, however,

that while there are real dangers in the world,

real things to be feared,

there is also the Lord:

the God who is pleased to make us heirs of his kingdom,

the God whose love embraces us at every moment,

the God from whose hands we can never be taken.

Faith in this God is not the timid faith that thinks

that a little bit of religion is a good thing.

It is the radical faith of Abraham 

spoken of in our second reading,

from the letter to the Hebrews:

the faith that led Abraham to become a homeless wanderer,

the faith that allowed him to believe God’s promises,

the faith that led him even to be willing to give up his child

trusting in God’s power over death.

It is the faith that does not use a little bit of religion

to build for itself a place of security 

where fear can be held at bay,

but plunges into the world of danger 

for the sake of God’s kingdom.

“Do not be afraid any longer, little flock,
for your Father is pleased to give you the kingdom.”

In that kingdom, the perfect love,

perfect goodness,

perfect beauty 

that God is by nature,

we become by the gift of God’s grace.

But Jesus says, “Much will be required 

of the person entrusted with much,
and still more will be demanded 

of the person entrusted with more.”

The immense love shown to us by God

calls for immense faith in response.

Of course our response always falls short 

of the perfection of God,

but this is no excuse 

for not always seeking a more radical faith,

a faith that lives fearlessly

for the sake of the kingdom of God

that has been so generously given to us.

16th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Genesis 18:1-10a; Colossians 1:24-28; Luke 10:38-42

Last week we heard the parable of the Good Samaritan,

which Jesus tells in connection with the commandment

to love God and to love our neighbor 

in the same way that we love ourselves.

The parable of the Good Samaritan cuts to something

that lies at the heart of Christianity:

love of God and love of neighbor are closely bound up together

and in service to our neighbor we are showing love to God.

The story of Mary and Martha in today’s Gospel

is recounted by Luke immediately after

the parable of the good Samaritan.

And if the parable emphasizes the importance of love’s active service,

today’s story points us toward a still higher form of love.

While Martha has got herself in an uproar

in her concern to provide fitting food and drink for her guest Jesus,

Mary sits at his feet and listens to his word.

When Martha complains about Mary’s indolence,

Jesus says that she has chosen “the better part.”

He says this even though the conventions of the day

said that a woman’s place was not at the teacher’s feet,

but in the kitchen, like Martha,

doing all the things necessary

to provide a fitting welcome for their guest.

But only one thing, Jesus says, is truly necessary.

While Martha is anxious to welcome Jesus,

Mary lets herself be welcomed by Jesus –

welcomed into the circle of his disciples.

This is not to say that the kind of service Martha offers is unimportant.

The very fact that Jesus says that Mary’s choice is better

implies that Martha’s is still good, 

and even in some sense necessary.

She herself is something of a “good samaritan”:

the active love that Martha shows to Jesus,

like the love that the Samaritan shows to the man attacked by thieves,

is in this life the ordinary form of love that we show to God.

But there is also an extraordinary form of love 

that occurs every so often:

those moments when one knows oneself 

to be fully present to God,

welcomed into God’s presence 

in the way that Mary was welcomed by Christ,

welcomed to be attentive and receptive 

to the truth that is revealed.

In the tradition of the Church we sometimes speak of this

as a “contemplative” or “mystical” form of love.

Most of us, I suspect, have some experience 

of being with someone we love,

whether this is romantic love or the love of friendship,

and feeling no need to do or even say anything,

feeling that we have been welcomed to share 

in the life of our beloved,

welcomed to drink in 

what the beloved shares about himself or herself,

welcomed in to discover in the one we love 

something deeply true about life.

When that lover or friend is God

this is what we call contemplation or mystical union.

For most of us, of course, such experience of God is not common;

we count ourselves lucky to catch even a glimpse of it in our prayer.

But when we do catch a glimpse,

when we feel ourselves truly welcomed into God’s presence,

we gain an inkling of what eternal life with God might be like:

being welcomed into a perfect love,

when time itself is frozen 

in a moment we wish would never end.

Commenting on today’s Gospel story,

St. Augustine said, 

“In Martha was the image of things present,

in Mary of things to come.

What Martha was doing, that we are now;

what Mary was doing, that we hope for.

Let us do the first well, 

that we may have the second fully” (Sermon 104).

Like Martha, we as individuals and we as a Church

seek to welcome the Lord and our neighbor 

through our active service,

and this is only right and just,

because God knows we have many needy neighbors

who hunger and thirst 

for both physical and spiritual food and drink.

But also like Martha, 

we as individuals and we as a Church

are anxious and worried about many things,

trying to read the signs of the times

so as to know how to welcome God most fittingly 

into our life in this place and time.

We need, like Mary, to let ourselves we welcomed by Jesus

to sit at his feet and drink in his wisdom,

a foretaste of the welcome we will receive in heaven.

As important as our service to God and neighbor is,

to know ourselves welcomed by Jesus,

to sit, like Mary, in intimate closeness with him,

to drink in his wisdom –

this, Jesus says, is the one thing necessary.

Because this is our destiny;

this is what gives meaning to all our labors;

this is the one thing in this world that shall remain for eternity.

St. Augustine wrote, 

“At present alleluia is for us a traveler’s song,

but this wearying journey brings us closer to home and rest

where, all our busy activities over and done with,
the only thing that will remain will be alleluia” (Sermon 255).

Corpus Christi

Readings: Genesis 14:18-22; 1 Corinthians 11:23-26; Luke 9:11b-17

On Friday I read a report that, 

due to a combination

of a mismanaged national economy

and externally imposed import restrictions,

the Catholic Church in Venezuela

is facing a shortage of bread and wine 

for the celebration of Mass

(the nation is also facing a toilet paper shortage,

but that’s another matter).

It reminded me of how much what we do 

within the walls of the church

is connected to the world outside the Church,

the network of economic and political relations 

that shape our lives.

This shortage of bread and wine in Venezuela

is an example of what people sometimes refer to 

as the “law of scarcity.”

The basic idea is that the less of something there is

the more its value increases:

if supply goes down and demand remains steady,

value – or at least prices – go up.

The presumptions of the law of scarcity

is so woven into the fabric of our daily lives

that they come to seem unquestionable to us:

of course something that is rare

is more valuable than something that is abundant;

of course we are in competition, 

even conflict, 

with each other

for these valuable, limited goods.

It seems unquestionable.

In our reading today from Luke’s Gospel, however,

we are invited to question this law of scarcity.

The story of the feeding of the multitudes begins in scarcity

but, rather than ending in conflict 

and competition for those scarce goods,

it ends in an abundant feast for all who are there:

“they all ate and were satisfied.”

In fact, more was left over than they began with.

In addition to being a sign of the divine power incarnate in Jesus,

this story of the feeding of the multitudes tells us something

about the kingdom of God that Jesus comes to proclaim.

The economy of this kingdom

does not run according to the law of scarcity

but according to a law of abundance:

God provides us with more than enough

of God’s love, God’s mercy, God’s grace.

And these things do not become any less valuable

on account of being supplied in abundance

or any less abundant 

on account of being shared among many people.

St. Augustine noted that the citizens of earthly kingdoms

fight with each other for things that are in short supply:

glory, power, wealth, honor.

But in the case of divine goodness:

“Anyone who refuses to share this possession cannot have it;

and one who is most willing to let others share it in love

will have the greatest abundance” (Civ. Dei 15.5).

We should reflect on this story of scarcity and abundance

in the context of our celebration of the feast of Corpus Christi.

And as in today’s Gospel reading,

bread will be taken, 

and blessed, 

and broken, 

and shared.

We will receive Christ’s body and blood, 

his soul and divinity,

under the sacramental signs 

of bread and wine;

we will feed upon him spiritually

and, as in today’s Gospel, 

we will be satisfied.

Indeed, not only will we be satisfied,

but the grace that is bestowed on us

is so abundant that there will be

twelve baskets left over: grace upon grace,

which we will take with us into a world

that is starving for both material food 

and the food of God’s mercy.

While the bread and wine shortages in Venezuela show

that the Church is not removed 

from the economic forces at work in the world,

in the end the Eucharist is not ruled by the law of scarcity.

The value of the Eucharist is determined

not by what market forces do 

to the price of bread and wine

but by what the Holy Spirit does with them:

transforming them into 

the body and blood of God incarnate,

the food of immortality, 

the cup of eternal salvation.

And the grace we receive in this sacrament

only increases as we leave this building

to share the love that we have received with others.

On this our feast of Corpus Christ,

it is right and just that we reflect 

on the great gift of the body and blood of Christ

through with which we as a community 

have been abundantly blessed

for over a century and a quarter.

It is right and just to give thanks 

for the thousands of Masses

that have been celebrated on our altars:

the bread of life that has been shared,

the hungry souls that have been satisfied.

It is right and just that we pause to adore 

the God who bestows on us a gift so great 

and in such abundance.

And it is right and just that we leave here

to share with others 

the goodness that has filled our hearts.

Easter 6

Readings: Acts 15:1-2, 22-29; Revelation 21:10-14, 22-23; John 14:23-29

In today’s Gospel, Jesus says to his disciples,

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you.”

St. Augustine wrote, “Peace is so great a good that. . .

no word falls more gratefully upon the ear,

nothing is desired with greater longing,

in fact, nothing better can be found. . . .

just as there is no one 

who does not wish for joy,

so there is no one 

who does not wish for peace” 

(Civ. Dei 19.11-12).

Peace is something that we seek 

both as individuals and as societies.

When this promise of peace 

fell upon the ears of Jesus’ disciples

they must have heard it with great longing.

They, like us, longed for peace within themselves;

their hearts, like our hearts, were filled

with conflicting emotions and ideas and commitments

pulling them in a hundred different directions.

They, like, us, longed for peace in their society;

their world, like our world, 

was a dangerous, violent place,

scarred by war and injustice, hatred and oppression.

The promise of peace –

peace within themselves and peace among peoples –

must have fallen upon their ears

as something too good to be true,

yet also as a promise 

that they desperately wanted to believe.

Jesus’s promise of peace 

is something that we accept on faith,

on our belief that he will, as it says in our Gospel,

come to us and make his dwelling in us;

it is his presence within us 

that brings peace to our warring hearts.

Likewise, in our second reading, 

from the book of Revelation,

we hear the apostle John’s vision 

of the heavenly Jerusalem.

According to some interpretations, 

the name “Jerusalem” means “abode of peace.”

The vision of the heavenly Jerusalem 

is a vision of a world at peace.

And we are told that what makes that city 

to be truly an abode of peace

is not the beauty of its walls or gates or foundations,

but that fact that the Lamb of God 

dwells there with God’s people,

in their midst, as their light and their temple.

The promise of peace within us and peace around us

must grow from the promise of God’s presence with us.

Jesus’ promise of peace 

involves accepting the gift of God’s presence,

which allows us to heed Jesus’ command:

“Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid.”

But the peace of Christ involves 

not only accepting God’s gift;

it also involves giving something up;

it requires us to give up our desire 

to secure our own peace

by controlling people and situations.

To return to St. Augustine:

he says that peace is so desired by human beings

that even those who wage wars hope that, in the end,

their wars will bring peace.

He notes, however, that those who start wars 

do not simply want peace;

they want peace on their own terms, 

a peace “that suits their wishes,”

a peace in which they can impose upon others

“their own conditions of peace” (Civ. Dei 19.12).

We want peace, 

but the peace that comes from absolute control.

This desire for control shows itself

both in our social relations and in our inner lives;

we not only want to bend others to our will,

but we also want to master ourselves

by making ourselves fit into some ideal image

that we have dreamed up

rather than simply being 

the person God has called us to be.

We not only wage war against others,

we wage war also against ourselves

in the hope that we can defeat and subjugate 

our own internal conflicts.

True peace, however, is never simply 

the suppression of conflict,

whether this is a matter of imposing our will on others

or trying to deny the conflict within ourselves.

True peace involves emptying ourselves 

of our own agenda,

because unless we do so

there is precious little room for Christ to dwell with us

and our hearts remain troubled and afraid.

“We will come to him and make our dwelling with him.”

This happens in many different ways.

Christ dwells among us 

in the form of the poor and the needy,

or those who show us love, 

or those who try our patience.

Christ dwells within us 

when we find our hearts moved by love

or by the miracle of healing and forgiveness.

Perhaps most of all, 

Christ dwells among us and within us

is the sacrament of the Eucharist.

To return one last time to St. Augustine,

he wrote of the Eucharist: “at [Christ’s] own table,

the sacrament of our unity and peace

is solemnly consecrated” (Sermon 272).

In the Eucharist we gather around the altar of the Lamb,

leaving our agendas and desire for control behind,

and receive the living Christ into our hearts.

We eat and drink the peace that the world cannot give,

the peace given by the Lamb who bears our sins away.

Easter 2

Readings: Acts 5:12-16; Revelation 1:9-11a, 12-13, 17-19; John 20:19-31

We call him “doubting Thomas.”

Our English word “doubt” is from the Latin word dubio,

which itself is a combination of two Latin words:

duo, meaning two,

and habeo, meaning “I have.”
When I am in doubt, I have two possibilities before me,

between which I cannot yet decide

as I consider first one and then the other.

You find a similar thing in other languages;

for example, in German the word for doubt is zweifel:

literally, the state of being “two-ful.”

Try to imagine the state of mind of this “two-ful Thomas.”

He has heard the story of Mary Magdalene and Peter and John,

who claimed that they found the tomb of Jesus empty.

Then the other disciples tell Thomas

that they have seen and spoke with the risen Lord.

How could such a thing be?

How could two-ful Thomas not 

consider alternative explanations?

Is the tomb really empty – 

or is it a hoax?

Have the others really seen Jesus alive – 

or were they hallucinating?

On the one had, perhaps the tomb was empty, as they said.

On the other hand, perhaps the tomb was not empty;

perhaps the stone was not rolled away.

But if so, why would Mary and Peter and John 

have said that it was?

What would they have to gain from making up this story?

There is no obvious benefit to be had from such a lie.

Indeed, for them to claim that Jesus still lived

would be to put themselves at considerable risk

from those who had crucified him in the first place.

So two-ful Thomas continues to ponder:  

maybe the tomb was empty.

Does this mean that he was in fact raised,

or is it possible that someone stole the body?

But why would someone do that?

A supporter of Jesus would not have much to gain from doing so;

it would be safer simply to head back to Galilee

and try to forget about the hope that seemed to have failed.

An opponent of Jesus would have even less reason to do so,

since they too were anxious to put this whole Jesus thing to rest.

And what about the claim of the other disciples

that Jesus had appeared to them in the upper room?

Did he really appear to them alive,

or was this some sort of dream or hallucination?

How could someone escape the grip of death,

which seems so firm and unbreakable?

At the same time, is it really possible

that ten people would have collectively hallucinated

Jesus’ appearing before them and speaking to them?

So two-ful Thomas considers the alternatives.

Which is more convincing: 

that Jesus has been raised from death

or that there is some sort of hoax or hallucination involved?

Thomas has reason to doubt that Jesus still lives,

but he also doubt his doubts,

because the possibilities they present 

seem implausible as well.

Our Gospel tells us that Thomas only resolves his doubts

when he encounters the risen Jesus himself,

who invites him to touch his wounds 

and to see that it is really he.

Two-ful Thomas, having doubted so long,

lets the risen Jesus open in his heart 

the floodgates of faith,

and makes one of the boldest professions of faith

in the entire New Testament,

saying to the risen Jesus, “My Lord and my God.”

He not only believes that the man Jesus has risen,

but that this man is God in human flesh,

the one who holds the keys to death and the netherworld.

Gregory the Great once said in a sermon,

“Mary Magdalene, who was quick to believe,

has helped me less than Thomas,

who remained so long in doubt” (Homily 29).

Perhaps only one who had doubted so long 

could believe so deeply.

Two-ful Thomas stands as witness to the idea

that doubts are not thoughts to be repressed,

but rather questions to be worked through;

faith is not a matter of ignoring our doubts,

but of committing ourselves in trust

to a possibility that we have deeply considered;

through God’s grace, our doubts become

ways of preparing our hearts for an even deeper faith.

Two-ful Thomas becomes single-minded in his faith

when he encounters the risen Jesus.

Overcoming doubt is not so much 

like finding an answer to a problem

as it is like meeting someone with whom you fall in love,

someone for whom you will forsake all others,

someone who becomes your first and your last.

Let us pray that this Easter season will become a time

for us to meet Jesus anew,

to make him our first and our last,

to fall in love with him

and the new life that he so freely shares with us.