Saturday, March 28, 2009

THE FIFTH SUNDAY OF LENT
Year B

“When all else fails,” they say, “read the directions.”

Okay, but I think some would say, that takes all the fun out of it. And in a sense, that’s the truth.

You can plod right along, one eye on the directions, on the assembly manual, or on the recipe, just doing what it says, one step at a time. It works. But there’s not much flair to that.

That’s often a good way to start out, though. If you want to learn to dance, you can get instructions – sometimes even with cards that have footprints on them; just spread them on the floor and take one step at a time.

That works for practice, but it would look hilarious and disastrous, both, if you moved in that robotic way at the prom or Charities Dance or what-have-you. I can’t even imagine what that would do to your partner or date that night!

It’s a good way to learn a language, too – syllable by syllable, correct ending here, correct verb form there – puzzling it all out, one step at a time. Enunciating carefully, “Hel-lo, I yam…, uh, am looks, um look-ing for the rayell… rail-loads, rail-road sta-tion.”

That is how, years ago, I learned to swim, to shoot baskets, to pass a football. That’s how I learned German. That’s how I learned to change the oil in my car, and tighten the chain on my bike. That’s how I learned even how to drive a car and to ride a bike. That’s how I learned to make a pie – but my pies… well, we’d better stick with the oil change.

It’s a gangling, disarticulated, flailing process – no grace at all, no beauty, no flair. And no fun.


One of those Germans they taught me about, an 18th-19th-century poet and playwright, Heinrich von Kleist, told a fascinating little story.

Kleist told of a little girl who danced beautifully, with great natural talent and elegance. When she got to her teenage years, she went off to study dancing with the best masters.

Immediately, though, her dancing lost its grace; it became stiff and klutzy. She plodded through exercises, one… step… at… a… time. She learned techniques; she found out how to broaden her skills – learning great things that could make her dancing even more beautiful – could make it more beautiful.

But the gracefulness and the naturalness were not there anymore. All the girl’s focus was on the techniques, on the steps, on the movements… one by one. Do this. Now do that. Do this again.

It sounds like a sad story. But it’s not.

The young dancer had to focus on that, had to plod through new techniques, new moves. She was learning.

But after plodding through all those exercises, after painstakingly learning all those new techniques – learning them thoroughly, making them really her own – her natural grace and elegance, and that talent which had always been there somewhere – they began to show themselves again. They began to come through again.

Now, though, that talent and elegance and gracefulness had gained all those new ways of expressing themselves. Those moves and techniques had become – we even say it this way – had become second nature to the young dancer. Her wonderfully natural, child-like dancing had become a magnificent explosion of well developed beauty, more elegant, more refined. She became an even more graceful dancer than she ever had been before.


Does that story sound unusual?

No, I don’t suppose it does. We all learn that way. I can’t imagine that story is strange to any of us.

Yeah, it is pretty obvious that – not only my pie-making – but even my football, my swimming, my oil-changing have nothing like the grace of that young dancer. We might not be talking about world-class talent, but otherwise, our situation is like the young girl’s. We’ve all learned things by keeping one eye on the instructions, on the rules, on the plodding one-by-one Do this and Do that of things that are now -- now, after all that -- second nature to us.

The directions, the rules have become part of us. As the prophet Jeremiah would say, they have been “written on our hearts.” We don’t need to look constantly at the directions anymore.


“This is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says the Lord. I will place my law within them and write it upon their hearts; I will be their God, and they shall be my people.”

Not rules, hearts. Not techniques and directions: Wash this; Wear that; Don’t eat this. And not stone tablets from a mountain top. The new covenant is a Person, a human being born in Bethlehem, crucified on a hilltop outside Jerusalem. In him, “I will be their God, and they shall be my people,” says the Lord.

The Law of Moses was – and is – so dear to the Jewish people because it is the sign and proof of their covenant, their relationship with God. It is a way for them and for those who notice them to be reminded of God; in their observance of the Law of Moses, one can, in a way, see something of God.

But that Law has 600-some prescriptions or commands. You have to keep one eye on the “rules” as you go through life, when there so many of those rules. And if those commands are the expression and guarantee of your relationship with the Lord… well, you can understand why they are so important, why one would want to keep an eye on them all.


The prophet Jeremiah today is talking about another covenant, though – one not written on stone. It is not like the stone tablets with the Ten Commandments inscribed on them, ten as symbolic of all 600-some.

This new covenant will be written on the hearts of God’s people. Not stone, but flesh – and the part of our flesh that we think of as most intimate and most personal.

It won’t be necessary to live with one eye on the complex instructions and prescriptions. The Ten Commandments – yes, those are still there. They’re no longer symbolic of the 600. They’re a way of understanding how to obey the two – now just two – commandments of the Law that Jesus proclaimed: love of God and love of neighbor.

Saint Paul says in Galatians (chap. 3) that we used to need that older, more complicated Law; we needed it as a teacher, as something to get us ready for the coming of Christ and his new covenant. We – the human race – were learning. It was a time of attention to the tiniest prescriptions. As the Old Testament describes it, sometimes it was a time of growing pains, sometimes a time of adolescent clumsiness, but always a time of struggling to learn God’s ways and the techniques of his covenant.

But now our new covenant is in Christ – a “new covenant in [his] blood” we will say when, in a few minutes, we use Jesus’ own words in the Eucharistic Prayer.

This is not a covenant of hundreds of rules. It’s not directions that one has to plod through. It’s not commands on stone, not written rules even so carefully interpreted and so devoutly kept.

It is to be a covenant of the heart, a covenant made in the blood of the Son of God, shed for us out of immense love.


In a very real sense, it is a covenant in a Person, not in a book, not on stone tablets, not in detailed rules. Christ is our covenant, Christ himself. He is the relationship between God and humanity; he is the sign, expression, and guarantor of our connection with God.

To see Christ now is to see God and our covenant with God. No wonder the Greeks wanted to “see Jesus,” as they told Philip in today’s Gospel.

Christ’s life – or, as the ancient Hebrews would say – as Jesus himself did say: his life-blood is the sign and sacrament of our covenant with God. Jesus’ life, which he gave for us, is the cause of that relationship. Jesus’ life, which he lived for us, is our pattern of response to that covenant.

We don’t live now by 600-some commands of a law. Our Law is Christ – something much more than the 600, more even than the Ten Commandments. Our Law is something far beyond their demands. In our Law, our Christ, we can see God.

Christ himself is the pattern of how we should live – a new covenant not in stone, not in writing, not in detailed rules: it is a covenant in the heart, in love, in flesh, in Christ.

Friday, March 20, 2009

LAETARE SUNDAY
The Fourth of Lent, Year B
(A plainer text version follows this post.)

Good Catholic family.
Mother born in the West of Ireland about 1860,
good Catholic stock.
Father a convert, complete and devoted;
family a couple centuries in the North Carolina mountains
and the Virginia Tidewater bayshores.

Raised their kids well, too. A dozen of them – 1890 to 1910.
Good, solid, faithful Catholics from South Philadelphia.

One of those kids came to me one day with an odd statement.
And it seemed especially odd to me,
because I knew about his very Catholic parents and brothers and sisters –
had met most of them, even.
Nice people. Very nice.

I’d been ordained fifteen years then –
long enough to know many of the kinds of things people bring up
when they talk to a priest.
And long enough to know how sorely some people’s concerns weighed on me
when I couldn’t seem to find an answer for them.

And, of course, the “kid” from that good family had been growing up for a half-dozen decades.
Still very good Catholic.
By then, of course, he had his own family, most of them grown up.

I knew all that very well. That’s why the statement shocked me.

That man – that former “kid” – was my father.

And my father, 75,
comes to me, 15 years a priest,
and says, “I’m starting to worry about the hereafter.”

“Oh, Lord, help me,” I thought. “Now what?”

“Yeah,” Dad says,
“I come into a room and I think, ‘Now what am I here after?’”

If it weren’t for my thumping heart I might have enjoyed the pun. Dad sure did.


Puns don’t have a good reputation in our culture. I had a prof in college who hated them. I can still remember falling all over my words trying to rephrase something so it wouldn’t come out as a pun – or even close to one.

The thing is, though… there are a lot of puns in the Bible.
Serious ones, not jokes…
well, maybe one or two jokes.
But even those jokes have a very serious purpose.

There are puns which we know the Biblical authors
– and the Bible’s heavenly Author –
intended:
puns that they certainly would have known
and which they used to make an important point.

There are other puns that you and I might recognize
– and even think how nice it is like that –
but which were definitely not intended by the Biblical authors.

A great one works with our English words
“sun” – the light in the sky –
and “son” – the male child.

So often when we describe Christ we speak of the “Son of Man,”
his own way of referring to himself.

Or we say, “the rising Sun from on high,”
“the Sun of Justice” shining on “those in darkness and the shadow of death”
– a beautiful image from the Christmas readings.
But no, those puns were not intended.
Saint Luke, even Saint Luke, great and artistic writer that he was –
even Saint Luke didn’t know English.

“Rose” is another one like that.
“Rose” vestments serve as a sign today that Easter is really coming.
And the word “rose”…
well, you know.
But it’s only an accident of English
that it names the flower (and its color, of course)
but it’s also a part of the verb “to rise.”
Nice thought. And we can certainly enjoy it.
But it’s just an accident.

But… but,
there is another “pun” in the Scriptures we read today –
and this pun is definitely intended.
In fact, it is absolutely central to our whole Christian understanding
of the universe and our place in it – and the God who made that place for us.

It is a pun which, of course, does not depend on the English language.
It is reflected in ancient languages from the time of Jesus,
but the double meaning goes much further back –
back to the very actions and thoughts it describes.

It is a very good and very powerful word,
a place where the New Testament is calling upon all the great reverence for words
which filled the ancient people of Israel.

Jesus says, describing himself,
"The Son of Man must be lifted up,
so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life."
“The Son of Man must be lifted up” –
what’s that mean? When was Jesus “lifted up”?
What’s he talking about here?

That’s a good question. The answer is downright magnificent!

The day is coming
– Jesus knows it; his disciples haven’t quite caught on yet –
when his hands and wrists will be nailed to a cross-beam,
and with his weight hanging all from those nails,
the soldiers of Rome will haul him up
and,
probably without the least pity, without the least gentleness,
will drop that cross-beam down into its place on the upright.

Nailed to the arms of Jesus,
bearing all his weight on the nails in the cross,
the beam will thud into place,
and he will hang between heaven and earth in the agony of crucifixion –
no longer on earth,
not yet in the relief of heaven.

His mother will gaze up at him
and his Father down.
And I would be powerless to describe or even comprehend
what would go on in their hearts, in their spirits.

“The Son of Man… is lifted up from the earth.”
And we gaze, too, I hope – in the wonderment of faith.
And moved by that faith – moved into hope and into love –
we recognize there on the cross
our salvation.

Mary, his mother, is a good model for us – in many ways.
Back at the beginning, I doubt she knew much more than the disciples,
the Twelve whom Jesus had chosen.
“Lifted up from the earth”? What? What is my Son saying?

Now she sees;
now she knows.
This is “lifted up from the earth.”

All her life
she has lived
not on the little she knew,
but on the very much
that she believed.
Does this moment bring her clarity? Is this the explanation? …

Mary is not his only parent there gazing at her Son high on that Palestinian hill –
and lifted up even higher than the hill, lifted up on the Cross.
“Pondering all these things in her heart,” as she so often did,
did she sense the presence of Jesus’ other Parent?
Did she know his Father was gazing there, too?

I suspect so.
I know this:
all her life Mary was open to what the Father of her Son would do.
Understand it? Likely not. Accept it? Certainly so.

So she must have left her heart open. She must have been willing to accept yet more
from this God
whom her people – his People – had known since Abraham and Sarah,
since the days of Moses and the serpent in the desert:
a God of inscrutable ways,
of terrifying power,
a God who would always be faithful to his promises –
and, as her Son showed, a God of unfathomable love.

Had she any inkling that this was not the final “lifting up from the earth”?

In her mind, I’m sure not.
But in her heart, in the depths of her soul where God had dwelt forever…?
There?

Because, of course,
Calvary was not the final lifting-up.

His mother Mary could receive his lifeless Body come down from the cross,
as once she had received him in her womb
and clothed him there with earthly life.
But his other Parent,
his heavenly Father,
received him, too.
It was that Father who had sent his Son into human life;
it was the Spirit of God who had hovered over Mary
and wakened the life-giving powers within her.

And when Jesus’ Body
that had been lifted up from the earth
was taken down to the ground
and laid further down in a tomb –
when that Body was laid in the lap of his Father, he was lifted up again.

Once again the Son of Man, the Son of God, was lifted up.

“Lifted up” is all of that.
We can carry it further on our own
– from Mary taking the Baby from the manger to flee for his safety into Egypt,
to that kind of second moment of the Resurrection
when Jesus ascends finally to his Father’s side.

He is lifted up from the earth
so that we, too, might find life beyond earth,
so that we might see our life from a higher perspective,
so earth will not limit our life.

The rest of Lent is going to depend on this.
We began Lent with eyes focused pretty much on earth, on our own short-comings –
the ways we are too earthly.
Now we’ve reached the middle.
Now we’re starting down the down-side.

Keep going. Continue gathering momentum.
Make sure that your lifting-up will not end at the Cross.

Remember, it’s a pun;
it’s got a couple meanings.
Yes, we might be lifted up on a cross. It happens to people every day.
Maybe you have your cross tucked away with you even now.

But there is another lifting-up.
Jesus knew we would have to pass through the first. He came to accompany us,
so that we might accompany him passing through the second lifting-up –
so that we might rise with the Son of Man,
the Son of God,
on the last day.

Jesus rose. We will, too.
LAETARE SUNDAY
The Fourth of Lent, Year B
(Straight-text version)


Good Catholic family. Mother born in the West of Ireland about 1860, good Catholic stock.
Father a convert, complete and devoted; family a couple centuries in the North Carolina mountains and the Virginia Tidewater bayshores.
Raised their kids well, too. A dozen of them – 1890 to 1910. Good, solid, faithful Catholics from South Philadelphia.
One of those kids came to me one day with an odd statement. And it seemed especially odd to me, because I knew about his very Catholic parents and brothers and sisters – had met most of them, even. Nice people. Very nice.
I’d been ordained fifteen years then – long enough to know many of the kinds of things people bring up when they talk to a priest. And long enough to know how sorely some people’s concerns weighed on me when I couldn’t seem to find an answer for them.
And, of course, the “kid” from that good family had been growing up for a half-dozen decades. Still very good Catholic. By then, of course, he had his own family, most of them grown up.
I knew all that very well. That’s why the statement shocked me.
That man – that former “kid” – was my father.
And my father, 75, comes to me, 15 years a priest, and says, “I’m starting to worry about the hereafter.”
“Oh, Lord, help me,” I thought. “Now what?”
“Yeah,” Dad says, “I come into a room and I think, ‘Now what am I here after?’”
If it weren’t for my thumping heart I might have enjoyed the pun. Dad sure did.

Puns don’t have a good reputation in our culture. I had a prof in college who hated them. I can still remember falling all over my words trying to rephrase something so it wouldn’t come out as a pun – or even close to one.

The thing is, though… there are a lot of puns in the Bible. Serious ones, not jokes… well, maybe one or two jokes. But even those jokes have a very serious purpose.
There are puns which we know the Biblical authors – and the Bible’s heavenly Author – intended: puns that they certainly would have known and which they used to make an important point.
There are other puns that you and I might recognize – and even think how nice it is like that – but which were definitely not intended by the Biblical authors. A great one works with our English words “sun” – the light in the sky – and “son” – the male child. So often when we describe Christ we speak of the “Son of Man,” his own way of referring to himself. Or we say, “the rising Sun from on high,” “the Sun of Justice” shining on “those in darkness and the shadow of death” – a beautiful image from the Christmas readings. But no, those puns were not intended. Saint Luke, even Saint Luke, great and artistic writer that he was – even Saint Luke didn’t know English.
“Rose” is another one like that. “Rose” vestments serve as a sign today that Easter is really coming. And the word “rose”… well, you know. But it’s only an accident of English that it names the flower (and its color, of course) but it’s also a part of the verb “to rise.” Nice thought. And we can certainly enjoy it. But it’s just an accident.

But… but, there is another “pun” in the Scriptures we read today – and this pun is definitely intended. In fact, it is absolutely central to our whole Christian understanding of the universe and our place in it – and the God who made that place for us.

It is a pun which, of course, does not depend on the English language. It is reflected in ancient languages from the time of Jesus, but the double meaning goes much further back – back to the very actions and thoughts it describes. It is a very good and very powerful word, a place where the New Testament is calling upon all the great reverence for words which filled the ancient people of Israel.
Jesus says, describing himself, "The Son of Man must be lifted up, so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life."
“The Son of Man must be lifted up” – what’s that mean? When was Jesus “lifted up”? What’s he talking about here?
That’s a good question. The answer is downright magnificent!

The day is coming – Jesus knows it; his disciples haven’t quite caught on yet – when his hands and wrists will be nailed to a cross-beam, and with his weight hanging all from those nails, the soldiers of Rome will haul him up and, probably without the least pity, without the least gentleness, will drop that cross-beam down into its place on the upright. Nailed to the arms of Jesus, bearing all his weight on the nails in the cross, the beam will thud into place, and he will hang between heaven and earth in the agony of crucifixion – no longer on earth, not yet in the relief of heaven.
His mother will gaze up at him and his Father down. And I would be powerless to describe or even comprehend what would go on in their hearts, in their spirits.
“The Son of Man… is lifted up from the earth.” And we gaze, too, I hope – in the wonderment of faith. And moved by that faith – moved into hope and into love – we recognize there on the cross our salvation.

Mary, his mother, is a good model for us – in many ways. Back at the beginning, I doubt she knew much more than the disciples, the Twelve whom Jesus had chosen. “Lifted up from the earth”? What? What is my Son saying?
Now she sees; now she knows. This is “lifted up from the earth.”

All her life she has lived not on the little she knew, but on the very much that she believed. Does this moment bring her clarity? Is this the explanation? …

Mary is not his only parent there gazing at her Son high on that Palestinian hill – and lifted up even higher than the hill, lifted up on the Cross. “Pondering all these things in her heart,” as she so often did, did she sense the presence of Jesus’ other Parent? Did she know his Father was gazing there, too?
I suspect so. I know this: all her life Mary was open to what the Father of her Son would do. Understand it? Likely not. Accept it? Certainly so.
So she must have left her heart open. She must have been willing to accept yet more from this God whom her people – his People – had known since Abraham and Sarah, since the days of Moses and the serpent in the desert: a God of inscrutable ways, of terrifying power, a God who would always be faithful to his promises – and, as her Son showed, a God of unfathomable love.
Had she any inkling that this was not the final “lifting up from the earth”? In her mind, I’m sure not. But in her heart, in the depths of her soul where God had dwelt forever…? There?
Because, of course, Calvary was not the final lifting-up.

His mother Mary could receive his lifeless Body come down from the cross, as once she had received him in her womb and clothed him there with earthly life.
But his other Parent, his heavenly Father, received him, too. It was that Father who had sent his Son into human life; it was the Spirit of God who had hovered over Mary and wakened the life-giving powers within her.
And when Jesus’ Body that had been lifted up from the earth was taken down to the ground and laid further down in a tomb – when that Body was laid in the lap of his Father, he was lifted up again. Once again the Son of Man, the Son of God, was lifted up.

“Lifted up” is all of that. We can carry it further on our own – from Mary taking the Baby from the manger to flee for his safety into Egypt, to that kind of second moment of the Resurrection when Jesus ascends finally to his Father’s side. He is lifted up from the earth so that we, too, might find life beyond earth, so that we might see our life from a higher perspective, so earth will not limit our life.
The rest of Lent is going to depend on this. We began Lent with eyes focused pretty much on earth, on our own short-comings – the ways we are too earthly.
Now we’ve reached the middle. Now we’re starting down the down-side.
Keep going. Continue gathering momentum. Make sure that your lifting-up will not end at the Cross. Remember, it’s a pun; it’s got a couple meanings.
Yes, we might be lifted up on a cross. It happens to people every day. Maybe you have your cross tucked away with you even now.
But there is another lifting-up. Jesus knew we would have to pass through the first. He came to accompany us, so that we might accompany him passing through the second lifting-up – so that we might rise with the Son of Man, the Son of God, on the last day.
Jesus rose. We will, too.

Two different formats for a homily?

Some who come to this site like to read what they find here, and reflect on the Scripture passages that are proclaimed on Sunday in many of the Christian churches around the world. Others are looking for thoughts and ideas which they themselves can use to preach that message to those who will come to hear them.
With two such different purposes in mind, some people will want to take the homily as a whole text, maybe download it, and think over how they would preach a similar message. Others want just to read it through on their monitor, and let it lead them into their own meditation.
For that reason, some of the homilies presented here will appear in two forms. A straight text is one. The second is a text divided into thought segments, somewhat the way poetry often is -and the way liturgical speech frequently is in our worship books. Please use whichever you find better suited to your needs.

Friday, March 6, 2009

Reflections and Comments on Homilies

Please join us if you would like with appropriate comments and thoughts on weekly homilies on the blog link below. Your comments will be published for everyone after we have read them.


http://augustinianfriends.blogspot.com/

Welcome to the Augustinan Homilies Blog

Welcome to the new Augustinian Homilies Blog. We invite you to read and reflect on every Sunday and major feasts of the year.