Category: From the Pastor’s Desk

A Catholic catechist told this story about the importance of looking for God. She said she teaches confirmation preparation classes to students. And in the confirmation preparation retreat she uses a song to teach about gratitude and mindfulness in our lives. The song is “May I suggest,” and it’s by a group called Red Molly. The opening lyrics to the song are this….

May I suggest to you
May I suggest this is the best part of your life
May I suggest
This time is blessed for you
This time is blessed and shining almost blinding bright
Just turn your head
And you’ll begin to see
The thousand reasons that were just beyond your sight
The reasons why
Why I suggest to you
Why I suggest this is the best
part of your life.

The catechist continues. She said she recently read an online tribute from a another woman whose husband recently passed away from a terminal illness. The woman wrote to her to say she heard that song, and it never occurred to
her that until she heard that song and thought about it, that even in those final weeks with her husband, it still could be the best part of her life. She told her, “Every day can be the best part of your life….but only if you look for it.”

Now the key question: What is it? What are we looking for? What we are looking for (or should be looking for) is that very same thing John the Baptist was looking for—Christ, the source and goal of life. At first glance or second glance, it’s hard to believe that out in the desert John would be living the best part of his life. Here he is, living off desert insects, wearing aweful clothes.

And that’s just the beginning. We learn that John is plotted against by the authorities, led to jail, and then executed as a criminal. Yet, those final days (maybe weeks) were the best part of his life. Why? He had found the Savior he was looking for, and had experienced the love of God for himself. And that was everything.

What about us? We’re probably skeptical. We probably think the best part of our lives all depends on our circumstances. If our health is good, our marriage is good, then that’s the best part of our lives. If our job is secure and our finances good, then it’s the best part of our lives. If our children or
grandchildren are doing well, then it’s the best part of our lives. But then again, if we think this, we have to wonder: how much are we looking for Christ? Do do we experience the love of God? Is Jesus personal to us? And
to top it off, even if our circumstances are so great, we may still not be all that joyful, and might even feel a little let down.

Life is mysterious. St. Augustine once said, “If you think you understand God, it is not God.” He’s right. God does work in mysterious ways. But we are gathered to say that those ways—while not always predictable—are
always loving, always in our best interest. They are worth every bit of our effort to seek and find it. All else is illusion. The love of God is everything. John died a martyr and yet a happy man. It was the best part of his life.

I hope everyone had a blessed and safe Thanksgiving holiday. I travelled to northern Illinois to be with family, and so I am grateful to Fr. Christian for his extra assistance while I was away. I was also grateful to visit my parents, now in skilled care at a retirement home in Illinois. Both of them have lost the ability to converse (at least not as they used to). But then my sisters and I began to pray the Our Father with them, and both of them chimed right in. It was as if they suffered no debilitation at all!

On my way to and from Cincinnati I saw a billboard for DePaul University in Chicago. To this day DePaul is sponsored by the Vincentian Fathers, and is the largest Catholic university in this country. At any rate, the billboard featured a student with a look of joy and accomplishment. She’s wearing the cap and gown of a new graduate. At the top the billboard it read, “Come here and do well.” At the bottom of the billboard it read, “Leave here and do good.” It might help us think about the Advent season, and its call to conversion. Matthew’s gospel features a strange figure that we hear from this season. He’s John the Baptist, with all his bizarre eccentricities. Clothing made of camel hair and a diet of locusts is not exactly the norm, not even in John’s generation. But his call to repentance and a changed way of life attracted lots of attention.

Even Jesus and his disciples were aware of John the Baptist and the enormous following he had attracted. But never were there rivalries or jealousies between the two groups. Both sang the praises of the other. Both announced the coming of the Kingdom of God. Both were martyred for their faithfulness to God. We might put it this way. Many people did well to listen to both Jesus and John the Baptist. Many people left their encounters with them to do good. But then again, that’s what conversion will do. It helps us to see others and ourselves in a better way. It helps us to enlighten our purpose and goals in life. And it inspires words and deeds that will give witness to God’s kingdom on earth.

Finally, along the lines of “paying attention,” I would ask all of our volunteer ministers to be especially vigilant in the performance of their ministries this season. If you are unable to make it on a day you are scheduled, please be sure to either find a substitute or call the parish office and inform them of your absence. It will surely make for better prepared liturgies that are celebrated well.

Annie Dillard is a writer who often incorporates religious and spiritual themes in her works. In 1982 she wrote an award winning essay entitled, “Total Eclipse.” The essay describes the time she and her husband travelled to the Yakima valley in the state of Washington to see—you guessed it—the total eclipse of the sun. After an overnight stay in a local hotel, they set out early the next morning, before sunrise, to stake out a hilltop from which to view this rare cosmic event.

They weren’t the only ones. Hundreds, even thousands of people dotted the surrounding hills, bringing their blankets, chairs and binoculars. And most important, they brought their special glasses that enabled them to look directly towards the sun. All of them, young and old, were filled with excitement and anticipation. After a time waiting in darkness, the sun rose as it always does, and immediately began burning away any thin clouds in the sky. For a time, the scene looked its usual beautiful self. The apple orchards in the valley blazed with color. The Yakima river glistened in the sunlight. The air began to warm. All was well with the world.

But then came the change. Dillard describes the bizarre effects of a full eclipse of the sun. She said you couldn’t see the moon doing the eclipsing; rather it looked as though the sky started overtaking the sun. As the sun became more and more eclipsed, through their glasses, it appeared like phases of the moon, a once full sun now becoming completely overshadowed. After a short time, the darkness reappeared. It arrived like a wave, a huge shadow traveling over the landscape at 1800 miles per hour.

But the darkness it created would be different. The wind became still. The birds stopped chirping. Dillard could hear screams from many of the people gathered—she’s not sure; she might have been one of them. And then she looked over to her husband. His face looked silvery gray, a shade of death she had never seen before. In her words…..

The eyes dried, the arteries drained, the lungs hushed. There was no world. We were the world’s dead people rotating and orbiting around and around, embedded in the planet’s crust, while the earth rolled down. Our minds were lightyears distant, forgetful of almost everything. Only an extraordinary act of will could recall to us our former, living selves. We had, it seems, loved the planet and loved our lives, but could no longer remember the way of them. We got the light wrong. In the sky was something that should not be there. In the black sky was a ring of light. It was a thin ring, an old, thin silver wedding band, an old worn ring. It was an old wedding band in the sky, or a morsel of bone. There were stars. It was over.

They weren’t the only ones who thought it was over. They weren’t the only ones who got the light wrong. So had generations of humanity before the coming of Jesus. For them, what lighted the world was the hope of a warrior king, a leader who would propel tiny, back-water Israel into a world power, a nation of wealth and splendor. A chosen nation clearly favored by God. But this version of light was no light at all. In fact, it only served to deepen the darkness in which they lived, and make the faces of those around them appear deathly grey. The true light, the one announced by John the Baptist, the one announced by the prophets before him, the light that penetrated both the heart and the womb of Mary, was the light that was coming into the world. Yes, the true light had been eclipsed by the world of sin and waywardness. But it would not end at that. That’s because according to different plans, cosmic plans—the ones not made by human hands—the true light was coming into the world. This is the same light to which we look in the season of Advent. It’s the light that is measured not just in longer days but in greater union with God, the source of all light, the Light of all lights.

Annie Dillard concludes her experience of eclipse with her words describing the the return of the sun.

When the sun appeared like a blinding bead on the side of ring, the total eclipse was over. The black lens cover that had enveloped the sun was sliding away. At once the yellow light made the sky blue again. The real world began there. Now I can remember. We all hurried away to our cars and never looked back.

This feast day of Christ the King is still “wet behind the ears” when it comes to feast days. In our church of 2000 years or so, this feast is less than 100 years old. But it came about in 1925 when Pius XI declared it a feast day for the whole church. The world had witnessed the carnage of WWI, the onset of economic depression, and the rise of communism and fascism. They must have felt that God’s dominion over the world had taken a long vacation. But then came today’s feast day.

And judging from the readings, at first we would think that Jesus is a king without a kingdom. Today’s gospel focuses on the cross at Calvary. He wears a crown of thorns. A sign is affixed to the cross. It reads, “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.” All of these things—cross, crown and sign—were intended by his adversaries to mock him. What they didn’t know is that they were actually expressing the truth about God in Christ. At Calvary, God is perfect self-offering love. God is perfect humility. At Calvary, God revels a kingdom whose power is expressed in undying love. Before the cross and resurrection, Jesus has no kingdom.

But after Good Friday and Easter Sunday, God shows how the world has changed. Death is no longer an ending point but a turning point. The world is no longer condemned to violence and oppression, but now is characterized by justice, peace, and new bonds of friendship.

Trouble is, like Christians in 1925, all too often we don’t see it. What we do see (or what grabs our attention) are the holes, the places where this kingdom of Christ has yet to take hold. Crime, violence, terror are daily news items. Closer to home, we know all too well that people get sick. People pass away. And our families are not always the models of unity and peace that they are meant to be. The kingdom of God may be here, but in many ways, it’s still at a distance.

Next weekend will begin the start of the Advent season. In the church year, it will be the start of a new year. Maybe too it will be the start of renewed vigor in the life of our families, our archdiocese, and in our nation and world. We can never become inured to the wars, divisions, and injustices we see today. As Catholic Christians, we must recognize that our world is progressing to something better, and that something is the kingdom of God that Jesus preached, taught, and even died for.

The church year goes in a cycle, and at the beginning of the cycle is the season of Advent. So that means that in only a couple of short weeks, we will be completing the current church year and moving into a new one. And that means our readings these days are speaking about the end times.

And to that we say, “Yuck!” Who wants to hear about that? Wars and insurrections. All the chaos. All that mayhem. A world enveloped in darkness. It reminds me of a grand version of a power outage. A power outage like a miniature end times scenario. You get an eerie feeling. ‘Now what?’ you ask. “Who can I call?” “How long is this going to last?” And then of course, “Why didn’t I replace the batteries in the flashlight?” It’s like a miniature moment of reckoning.

I remember one time talking to my sister about her son’s graduation from college. Finally after four long years, freedom! (My sister and her husband felt especially free from tuition). But she said the looks on the graduates’ faces were hardly looks of a newfound freedom and bright future. Instead, she said she saw lots of somber faces, hugs and tears.

All of which is very understandable. But the focus seemed to be on a past that was now coming to an end. Although that word “commencement” means beginning, as in, “beginning of a new future,” that was not the mood of the occasion. The graduates were caught up in the pain of having to let go of a past that was very meaningful to them.

In the life of faith, their challenge might be our challenge. We become so immersed in the past—or in the status quo– that we forget the new beginning. But new beginnings are exactly what the gospel is trying to tell us. It’s not about the tragedies or calamities in our lives—important as they are. It’s not about wars, insurrections, and the darkness it brings. It’s about the God who lies just beyond it. That’s how trials and tribulations become not reasons for unending despair but instead reasons for hope. I remember working with a mother whose teenage son went missing. Nobody could find him. They didn’t know if he safe or unsafe, or even if he was still alive. It was a parent’s true nightmare. But the only thing that kept her going was her faith. Somehow, she was able to believe that the fate of her son was in the hands of a God who would never lose him. They did eventually find the boy, but her perseverance was a true example of Christian hope. It’s just the kind of hope that we need in these end times of salvation history.

Relax! Don’t be afraid! How many times have we said those words to others— or perhaps have them said to us? Social scientists and philosophers sometimes speak of the “age of anxiety.” They say that in today’s world people are increasingly uneasy about their standing in life. Threats of violence and terror, increasing unease about financial and health security, family conflicts and divisions—these are some of the major factors contributing toward the collective anxiety we experience in our own day.

Enter St. Paul and his letter to the Thessalonians. To be sure, first century Asia Minor is a far cry from 21st century United States. However, if we look beyond the cultural, geopolitical and technological differences between then and today, we can notice some striking similarities. The Thessalonians are having some deep anxieties of their own. In a nutshell, it is this: they believe in the resurrection of Jesus. They have received the gifts of his Holy Spirit. But even still, they wonder about the Second Coming of Christ. What will Jesus’ return be like? When will it happen? Are we as followers doing enough to prepare for it? And what about our deceased relatives and friends who have died before the return of Christ? Are they going to be brought home to heaven when Jesus returns? If not, have they lost out on the promise of resurrection?

Paul deals with these heavy questions that have produced great anxiety among the Thessalonians. In doing so, St. Paul offers the assurance and hope they need to carry on with their lives in good faith.

No doubt that the early Christians aren’t the only ones. We need to live these mysteries of the end times not with fear and anxiety, but with trust and eager anticipation. The Day of the Lord is something to be welcomed into our world and not something to be dreaded. Is there trouble and turmoil ahead? Our faith would answer in the affirmative. But these stormy times are not the final word. The fullness of peace and life in the Kingdom of God are the last word.

Last week we celebrated the feasts of All Saints and All Souls. These feasts recognize those who have gone before us marked with the sign of faith. In the canonized saints of the church, we see how men and women can make the resurrected life of Jesus fully their own in this life. Because of it, we see how being full citizens of heaven can be reconciled with our earthly citizenship.

Speaking of earthly citizenship, we are well aware that we are in the midst of election season. With it comes our duty to vote. If there were such a thing as a secular sacrament, voting would be that sacrament. Please vote your conscience, and allow your conscience to be informed by the teachings of our Catholic faith.

These days more than ever, let’s listen to God’s message of salvation in our lives and allow our age of anxiety to become a little less anxious

Last weekend I had the good pleasure of presiding at the wedding of my niece and her fiancé in North Carolina. It was a relatively small gathering but one filled with big anticipation and great joy. Following the wedding and ensuing picture-taking, I chatted with one of the parishioners who had helped us set up for the wedding liturgy. She said she was originally from Philadelphia and belonged to a parish downtown in the city. She told me the story of the time a priest was sent to hear confessions at her parish. But his penances were unusually severe. To one penitent he said to pray 60 rosaries. To another he said to give away half their belongings. As you might suspect, people were walking out the confessional looking more than a little dazed and confused! Finally, one them notified the pastor who decided to investigate. He walked up to the confessional, opened the priest’s door, and there was a local transient with a sheepish grin on his face! Obviously not a priest, this local man knew enough about confessions to play the part of a priest.

Tuesday of this week is the Feast of All Saints, a holy day of obligation. As we know, canonized saints come from different eras in history. Their lives of service could vary a great deal from one to another. They are male and female, consecrated religious or secular, ordained or non-ordained. Some were martyrs while others were not. Many additional differences lie among them.

But all saints had this much in common: they weren’t playing the role of a holy person. They were holy people. They weren’t plaster statues with dramatic poses; rather, they were flesh and blood people with the same everyday joys and sorrows that we experience. We might think that every saint had rock-solid faith at every moment of their lives. But the reality is different. Many of them did struggle deeply with faith. They did have their “dark nights of the soul” when God seemed more absent than present. In this way, they are like us all.

The famous Catholic spiritual author and Trappist monk Thomas Merton gives us a profound insight about saintliness when he said this….

To be a saint is to be yourself. It is true to say that for me sanctity consists in being myself and for you sanctity consists of being yourself and that, in the last analysis, your sanctity will never be mine and mine will never be yours, except in the communion of charity and grace.

Turns out, to be ourselves is to discover who each of us is in God. That’s where we discover holiness. Our sins—no matter how prevalent or entrenched in our lives—do not define us. Our goodness does define us. The saints we honor found the grace they needed to discover their true selves. It enabled them to shine wherever they found darkness. They not only received the sacraments, they lived them.

Saints never acted the part. Rather, they were the part— part of God’s plan of salvation and new life.

The account of Zacchaeus in Luke’s gospel is much more than a narrative about climbing trees to see Jesus. Yes, Zacchaeus was short. Yes, the road on which Jesus passed by was lined with much taller folks. But we would be remiss if we left it at that. Never mind the story of a short guy finding a high perch for a better view. Rather, Zacchaeus teaches us something about having real encounters with the living God. He also shows these encounters change us, how they make the key difference in ways we treat those around us.

When it comes to personal encounters with God, Zacchaeus isn’t the only one. Let’s turn our attention to the apostolic letter written by Pope Francis on June 29 of this year, the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul. Entitled Desiderio Desideravi (I have earnestly desired), the Holy Father speaks about encountering Christ in our lives. No references to short people climbing sycamore trees here; rather, Francis speaks of our encountering Jesus in the celebration of Mass.

The letter is lengthy—some 65 paragraphs—but the bulk of Desiderio Desideravi focuses on helping Catholics learn to recognize and, frankly, to be astounded by the great gift of the Mass. The letter emphasizes that the Eucharist is not simply a weekly “staging” or “representation” of the Last Supper. Instead, it allows people of all times and all places to encounter the crucified and risen Lord and to consume his presence in holy communion.

As a church, we believe that Jesus is truly present beneath the appearances of bread and wine made holy. Sure, I’m aware of the surveys that say many Catholics don’t believe it. But allow me to speak for the thousands of Catholics to whom I have distributed holy communion. They believe it.

But before Real Presence occurs in receiving communion, we can never forget that there is real sacrifice taking place at the altar. The one eternal sacrifice made at Calvary is made visible to us. At every Mass, the Lord offers himself to us, and we offer ourselves with him. The prayers at the altar are not some kind of recipe to “make Jesus.” Rather, they are the prayers of the Lord himself as he entrusts himself to his (and our) heavenly Father in a sacrifice of praise.

If we recognize this one simple reality, then we will surely be taking Pope Francis up on his offer. Like Zacchaeus, we will be having a personal encounter with the Lord, who calls us from a distance and invites us to eat with him, to drink with him, and to allow that friendship to lead to just and merciful relationships with others. All that….without ever having to climb a sycamore tree.

Not long ago I concelebrated the funeral Mass of a former parishioner. On the back of the funeral program was a brief quotation from St. Francis de Sales, a patron saint of the Archdiocese of Cincinnati. The quotation reads as follows….

Do not look forward to the changes and chances of this life with fear. Rather, look to them with full confidence that, as they arise, God to whom you belong will in His love enable you to profit by them. He has guided you thus far in life, if you but hold fast to His dear hand, and He will lead you safely through all trials. Whenever you cannot stand, He will carry you lovingly in His arms.

Do not look forward to what may happen tomorrow. The same eternal father who takes care of you today will take care of you tomorrow, and every day of your life, either he will shield you from suffering or He will give you unfailing strength to bear it.

Be at peace then, and put aside all useless thoughts, all vain dreads and all anxious imaginations.

I don’t think that Francis de Sales is telling us to never plan for or think about the future. It’s not as though we’re being told to simply throw up our hands and say, “whatever happens, happens.” But it is to urge us in the direction of trust. In times in which life is not happening on our own terms, we can believe that life is occurring according to the greater plan of God. It’s not that bad things are the result of God’s intention. Not at all. But all things are according to God’s plan which is far deeper and mysterious than any one of us could understand.

We live in such a time of change and uncertainty, don’t we? It’s going on in our church, our country, and our world. Moreover, chances are good that change is occurring within our own families. It could be a joyous change such as a new birth, a marriage, a new job, or a deeper faith. Or the change might work the other way, as in a death, a marital/family problem, unemployment, or a faith that seems to have lost its zeal. How well do we unite these blessings and sorrows with the cross and resurrection of Jesus?

Trusting in God might not eliminate all of our worries and anxieties about life, but it will give us hope. That’s because in all the changes occurring in our lives, God is in the midst of them. God might be suffering with us or rejoicing with us, but God is always active and involved—and looking to bring about new and greater life.

Whose Mass Is It? That’s the title of a book published in 2015. The author is a well-known and respected priest and liturgical scholar Fr. Paul Turner. In roughly 100 pages, Fr. Turner provides a clear, concise, and understandable reflection on the various attitudes, skills and practices that make the Mass for Catholics the most spiritually important event of their faith lives. The book is not only well-written but also well- structured, such that one needn’t be a professional theologian to gain lots of understanding about the Mass.

As the book well demonstrates, the response to the question “whose Mass is it?” is strongly influenced by a person’s standing within the church. For a bishop seated in the Vatican’s Dicastery for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments (the group that oversees the publication of books and guidelines for the Eucharist), the Mass will belong to him in a certain way. The same goes for bishops who are part of various national conferences of bishops throughout the world, including the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops. Then there are the priests who preside at Mass and deacons who often assist them. For them, the Mass belongs to them in the way they interpret the rubrics and guidelines of the Mass, as well as in their own unique style they bring to the celebration. Then comes the people in the pews, the assembly. The Mass belongs to them.

I know this not simply because the Second Vatican Council instructs them to full, active, and conscious participation in the Mass, but because they have strong feelings about various aspects of the Mass. They might be likes or dislikes, but they are all expressions of care and concern. In fact, I hear about them all the time!

We might extend the list further to include, singers, musicians, and artists. We could also include lectors, servers, eucharistic ministers and ushers. The Mass belongs to them in the way they nourish other people’s participation in the Mass in word, in song, and in the call to faithfulness.

So by now, you get the picture. The Mass belongs to the whole church, and not any single individual or a group of individuals. But to leave it at that would be to get ahead of ourselves. That’s because the Mass first and foremost belongs to God. It is God’s continual gift to God’s People. This great gift occurs by virtue of the proclamation of God’s holy Word, in Christ’s once-and-for-all sacrifice being made sacramentally present to us, and in the Holy Spirit’s sending us forth to be bread for a hungry world.

The word “Eucharist” means thanksgiving. One out of ten healed lepers in today’s gospel recognized what God had done for him and returned to give thanks. We do this Sunday by Sunday. And by doing so, we are made aware of how much we belong to God.