Category Archives: Sunday Morning

What Anger Reveals

Posted on by
1

“You have heard that it was said to your ancestors, You shall not kill; and whoever kills will be liable to judgment. “But I say to you, whoever is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment.”

It is one thing to murder someone, to wantonly and mercilessly take a life. We instinctively know that is wrong. But anger? I’m not saying it’s good, but what are we to make of Jesus’ statement? Many people struggle with anger in their lives. Is it the occasional flareup? Rage? Has it become a habit? Or maybe one day you look in the mirror and silently wonder, “When did I become an angry person?”

We wonder “Is it ever okay to feel this way?” Is this anger righteous or a sign of failure or sin? When we ask such questions, the next step might be to ask “what would Jesus do?” What comes to mind is Jesus who heals, forgives, and welcomes – not someone who has a meltdown and loses control or someone who stews over something said or done. But Scripture is clear. There are occasions when Jesus gets angry.

Let me give you some examples of Jesus’ anger and see if there something to be learned

  • Jesus heals a man with a withered hand on the Sabbath while religious leaders watch, hoping to accuse him. “He looked around at them with anger, grieved at their hardness of heart…” (Mark 3:1-6).
  • The oft cited overturning of the merchants’ tables in the Temple area 
  • The disciples try to prevent children from approaching Jesus. “When Jesus saw this he became indignant…” (Mark 10:13-16).
  • In the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, Jesus pronounced “woes” upon the scribes and Pharisees when they corrupted true worship or misrepresented what God desires.
  • In those same Gospels anger expressed as sorrow as Jesus weeps over Jerusalem and her fate.
  • …and other examples. 

Of course, there are lots of instances when things are done to Jesus that if they happened to me, I’d be angry. Just because you don’t like what I said does not mean you can throw me off the edge of a steep hill. That’s what the people of Nazareth tried. Jesus did not get angry. He just walked away. 

All this should lead us to ask the question: how is Jesus’ anger different from our anger? And, how are we to reconcile all this with Jesus’ teaching into today’s gospel: “But I say to you, whoever is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment.”

Anger is a common emotion that everyone experiences at some point or another in life. Certain situations can trigger different types of anger and leave you experiencing anything from a minor annoyance to full-blown rage. At one level anger is physiological. There is a flood of stress hormones causing the heart to beat faster, increasing blood flow to the muscles and organs. There is a rise in blood pressure and other effects. Anger emerges in stressful situations, when you’re frustrated, feel you’ve been attacked or disrespected or when you are being treated unfairly. At the root of many angry feelings is a sense of powerlessness like when we are unable to correct or improve a situation: a traffic jam, a job loss, a relationship breakup, a chronic illness. It is in those moments that our frustration, sadness, letdown, and other negative emotions often converge into anger.  Sound familiar?

Anger that lashes outward is generally sinful and usually begins with the self: I have been insulted, I don’t have control, I feel threatened. Are any of those the beginning points of Jesus’ anger? No. Jesus’ anger is never about himself. Jesus is not angered by insult, rejection, or misunderstanding. He absorbs those without retaliation. Instead, his anger begins in righteousness: this situation is wrong, someone is being diminished, or love is being denied. He is angry when mercy is blocked, when the vulnerable are excluded, when people are being misled in the name of God, when people are burdened rather than freed. His anger rises not because he has been offended, but because someone else is being harmed.

The spiritual question, then, is not “Do I feel anger?”  It is “What does my anger serve?” Is your anger redemptive in nature? Does it move you toward truth, mercy, and courage?  Can you express it in love? Does it lead you outward to protect, to speak, to act, to intercede? Can you remain steadfast when the cause of your anger remains unmoved and unchanged? Will you persevere? This is not an anger subject to judgment.

Or does anger move you toward resentment, control, and withdrawal? Anger that turns inward feeding pride, fear, bitterness, self-justification, disappointment is liable to judgment.

The question the Gospel places before us is not, “Do we ever feel anger?” It is, “What does our anger reveal about our love?” 

Anger that leads us toward hardness of heart, exclusion, or self-protection – as the Chinese proverb predicts: a moment of anger leads to a 1,000 days of sorrow.

Jesus teaches us that anger, purified by love, can become a force for good. It can name what must change. It can defend the vulnerable. It can clear space for healing to occur. But righteous anger must always remain connected to humility and prayer. Once anger detaches from love, once it begins to justify harm, it ceases to be holy.

In the first reading, Sirach tells us: “Before man are life and death, good and evil, whichever he chooses shall be given him.” So it is with anger. It is always a choice. Will you allow anger to lead you to judgments? Or will anger lead us toward mercy, justice, and deeper faithfulness – a sign that love is alive within us.  

When anger arises within you, breathe deeply and choose well.

Light in the Darkness

Posted on by
Reply

On a clear, moonless night without haze or the shine from cities, with an unobstructed view – how far away can a 100 watt light bulb be seen by the human eye? You might be surprised to know it is 5-10 miles! Of course, given the curvature of the earth, the distance to the horizon for a 6 foot tall person, standing at sea level, is only 3 miles. But then it depends on the light’s height above sea level. Lots of factors to consider, but underlying it all is the power of light.

Universally across time and cultures, light has been a symbol of hope. The light of a star leading the Maji. The beacon of a lighthouse guiding the mariner to safe harbor. The front porch lights on, waiting for your return.

By June 1944, the United States had been embroiled in a world war for some 2.5 years. From the earliest and darkest days of the war, the tide was beginning to turn. In the Pacific the might of the US Navy and Marine Corp had been assembled to capture and liberate the Marianas Islands of Guam, Tinian and Saipan – a vital and strategic step in the Pacific War.  The US 5th Fleet’s role was to guard the massive troop and supply ships mounting the amphibious landings. Meanwhile the Japanese Mobile Fleet was assembling its Plan Z/A-go for an all out naval engagement to cripple the invasion force and stem the tide of the war.

What is known as the Battle of Philippine Sea was a disaster for the Japanese naval air fleet. Their loss of aircraft and skilled aviators was tremendous. The US admirals realized they had a chance to strike a decisive and final blow against the Japanese Fleet, especially its aircraft carriers. The dive bombers and torpedo planes of Task Force 58 were dispatched to strike late in the afternoon. The Japanese fleet was located steaming west at a distance of 275 miles. It was at the very extreme range of the US aircraft to launch, strike and return, but the decision and so began what is known as the Raid into Darkness. The 226 naval aircraft arrived over the Japanese fleet just at sunset. The raid was devastating and lethal, accomplishing its mission. It ended Japanese carrier operations for the remainder of the war.

But now it was night and 226 US aircraft had to find their way home.

In 1944 there was no airborne radar, GPS, or any of the advanced air navigation tools we have today. Pilots used a method called dead reckoning recording direction, air speed, and other factors to estimate their position. Now the strike force had to fly 275 miles back, in the pitch darkness of a moonless night to find one of the 7 aircraft carriers. Positions were uncertain, fuel supply was low, and the fleet was operating under blackout conditions because of the threat of nearby Japanese submarines.

Imagine that you are one of the returning naval or marine aviators. You are running on as lean a fuel mixture as possible trying to stretch the flying range to give yourself a chance to find the fleet and land. You have a flashlight to check your dead reckoning calculations, air speed and heading. Ahead of you is nothing except a very large and very dark ocean. Alone with your thoughts you think of your loved ones at home. You wonder if you will ever see them again. It is a long flight home with only the sound of your engine to keep you company. As time passes your uncertainty grows. It is becoming the dark night of the soul as hope begins to fade.

Then comes the light. The light of your world. The beacon guiding you home to safety.

Despite the threat to the fleet, Admiral Mitscher ordered Task Force 58 to light up the night.  The aircraft carrier illuminated the land decks. All ships elevated their search lights. The destroyers and other ships on the picket line did the same, also firing star shell bursts into the night sky. They did not hide their light; they put it on display for all the world to see.

Imagine you are the returning aviator. Imagine the power of that moment. Such is the power of the light.

We live in a world of darkness in which there are plenty of folks navigating in that darkness searching for the way home, hoping to see a light to guide them. When Christians live a closed life, keeping their faith under one of the many bushel baskets of modern life, we are like the fleet running under blackout conditions. We are safe and secure, but we are not a safe harbor for those traveling in the dark.

When Christians turn on the light of faith and star shell the night, perhaps we place ourselves at risk, but we become the light for the world. When we witness to the faith, when the love of God pours from us into the night sky, we reflect the light of salvation beckoning people, come home.

“Just so, your light must shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your heavenly Father.”

That’s the risk, but that’s the job. Let the light of your faith be a beacon welcoming the dark night traveler to the home they have long searched for.

Amen.

Image credit: generated by CANVA AI | Feb 7, 2026 

The Remnant

Posted on by
Reply

Note: this weekend the pastor is launching the Annual Lenten Appeal and so again I have a “homily holiday.” This is my homily from the 4th Sunday of Ordinary Time, 2023

Today’s first reading is from the Prophet Zephaniah. It is only three chapters long and it is filled with darkness, distress, destruction, death, doom, and despair. Yet, in the midst of all that – there is a message of hope, for a remnant of the people; people described as humble and lowly. People who take refuge in the Lord. People who remain faithful to God even as all around them crumbles and falls apart. A remnant who has already seen the Assyrian empire conquer most of the promise in the promised land. A remnant that can already see the Babylonian threat on the horizon. A remnant that even as they wonder how this all plays out in God’s plan, they are the faithful …. and hanging on. They recognize that they are blessed by God. It might be hard for us to see it, but they see it. And that challenges us just as the more famous beatitudes of today’s gospel also challenges us.

Continue reading →

Word of God Sunday

Posted on by
Reply

Note: winter’s wicked winds are headed this way. The milk and bread shelves are empty in the local stores. Our church is located on a hill with a steep entrance and exist. The projected sleet and ice make the prospect of transiting the hill potentially perilous. And in an abundance of caution, our Sunday Masses have been cancelled. .. I have a homily holiday … so I posted this from the trove of homilies past

I remember when I was a kid, I was fascinated with a place of mystery called Timbuktu. I loved the sound of the name and the possibility of being as far away from home as Timbuktu. No doubt it was a place of mystery, intrigue, and stories. There were tales of gold, riches, and the place where East Africa and Saharan Africa met. The stories abound so much that in 1855, the French Geographic Society offered a major prize to the first European to go there and report back. What amazing, fantastic stories could be in Timbuktu! 

I have always been drawn to stories of people and places, adventures and mystery, where fates and fortunes were found, lost, and again pursued. In time, my appreciation of stories broadened to include narratives of all kinds. Stories told of love and love lost; stories of wisdom and tomfoolery; never-ending stories and stories with no end; stories that entertained and ones that pressed the mind to an inner exploration of meaning.

In my homily of last Sunday, I shared my experience of growing up in the Baptist South and attending tent revivals. In its own way, the tent revivals were as far from my Catholic experience as Timbuktu was from my front door. I described the experience as one in the well of stories, “Where men stood up and testified, words honed by years of practice. There were epic tales of sin and redemption wherein Jesus pulled them from the devil’s grasp and washed them in His blood.  Women spoke of love betrayed, and of loss and pain and joy so fierce that it almost seems to slice apart the humid summer air. Everyone praised the times Jesus saved them from despair, raised them up, wiped away their tears, and set them on the road to righteousness.” This was a very specialized form of storytelling: giving witness, giving testimony – but storytelling, nonetheless.

Today we celebrate “Word of God” Sunday. There are so many things that could be said about the Word of God, but I would say this: it is a collection of God’s stories as God reveals Himself to his people and the world. It is the greatest stories ever told and our most basic job is to be people who tell these stories to our family, our loved ones, our friends, our neighbors, and folks on the highways and byways of life.  When historians consider simple letters and other written items from the first and second centuries, they have described the spread of Christianity – not as simply the evangelical efforts of the big-name people like St. Paul and others – but as people telling stories over the backyard fence.

To know, tell, and share the stories in our own voices is to weave the stories into the fabric of our lives. So much so that in the shared knowledge of the stories, they can be shared with simple phrases: “O say can you see…”  Simple, short and brings to mind the story of Ft. McHenry, the War of 1812 and Francis Scott Key’s composition of our nation’s anthem. Our connection to the Bible, the Word of God, is the same way.  Think of the stories of Scripture you know and are brought to mind with simple words or expressions:  the Good Samaritan, the Good Shepherd, the Prodigal Son, Garden of Gethsemane, Calvary, River Jordan, and so much more. The stories are already there in the fabric of your life. Share them!

…and then the hesitation begins… “Do I really know the story?”  My experience is that people are really asking themselves, “Can I quote the story?”  Over the backyard fence, “quotologists” are not needed. Story tellers are needed.

Isaiah was the one who told a story in the first reading when he spoke of “the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali.”  For folks in Isaiah’s time, the reference was as clear as “oh say can you see.” They heard the phrase and instantly knew of that these were two of the tribes of Israel that were conquered by the Assyrians – but in the gloom of their fate, they were given the promise of a Savior and a new light to cover their lands, rescuing them from the darkness of their enslavement. This is a story of our shared history and the promise given.

In the second reading, St. Paul reminds us all that between here and the final there, the final land of light where joy and great rejoicing reside, there will be suffering. Christ suffered and so we should not be surprised if we too suffer at points in our life. St Paul’s story reminds us that the promise endures, but only in the name of Christ. This is the life: sent to live the Gospel. 

The Gospel? Today’s story is about the Call and Mission. Today we hear of the account of Simon Peter, Andrew, James and John –  it is but a reminder that the promise is carried to ends of the earth by people just like you and me. The Word is carried from the lake region of Galilee to the end of the earth – even to Timbuktu! 

We are called to people who carry the Word of God in our lives. Maybe you are called to carry it only so far as the end of the driveway – then do that. It is in reading children’s bible stories; it is reminding yourself to be a good Samaritan; it is receiving and accepting the prodigal son or daughter – it is reading, listening to our family stories. From the land of Naphtali, to Galilee, to your house, to Timbuktu.

And then telling them in your words, as your stories, over the backyard fences of your life.

Then just as we have enthroned the Word of God in a special way this weekend, you will enthrone the Word of God in your life.

Amen.

Plans

Posted on by
Reply

Have you got some plans for the rest of the day? It’s playoff time for the NFL. Maybe you’re going to gather with friends and watch the game? Have plans for the week? A summer vacation? We all have plans of one sort or another. God has plans. He had them for you. Had them for John the Baptist and Isaiah, too. And the thing is that God’s plans turn out to be larger than anyone first imagined. That is true for Isaiah, for John the Baptist, for the Apostles, and if we are paying attention, even for us.

In the first reading, Isaiah, the servant, seems pretty clear about his sense of vocation. He knows he has been called by God, formed from the womb, named and claimed. And yet his initial understanding of what God is calling him to do, seems huge. “Isaiah, I need you to gather back all the people and restore Israel to be my Covenant People.” These are people that are scattered from Jerusalem to Baghdad and points East. This is no small task; noble and necessary, but huge. But that is not even the full scope of God’s plan. “It is too little… I will make you a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth.” Did you catch that: to the ends of the earth. What Isaiah thought was the whole mission turns out to be only the beginning. God’s plan is vastly larger.

We see the same pattern in the Gospel.  John the Baptist is at the Jordan River, likely at the same spot where the people first entered the Holy Land after the wilderness years of the Exodus. It was a sign that they were a Covenant People as they accepted what God had promised Abraham, Issac, Jacob and Moses – a land of their own; the Promised Land. And now John the Baptist has his mission: call the people to repent and recommit themselves to be that Covenant People. John has no idea that he is at the start of something much longer. He knows his role, but not the full scope of what God is about to reveal.

And then he sees Jesus coming toward him and says something no one could have predicted: “Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.” Not the sin of a few. Not the sin of Israel alone. But the sin of the world. It is the parallel to Isaiah’s “ends of the earth.” It is becoming clear that Jesus’ mission will cross over national, religious, and cultural boundaries. The scope of God’s plan is way fuller than what we could imagine.  But maybe now we can look into the “rear view mirror” and see the pattern.

With Adam and Eve, God began with a family. With Moses, God formed for Himself a clan. In Abraham and Sara, this grows to become a tribe. It becomes a confederation of tribes with Moses and then a nation under David and the kings of Israel and Judah. But now with Jesus Christ, it is all the people of the world.  This is the full scope of God’s plan.

This is how God works. God’s call begins in something familiar: a people, a place, a responsibility and then widens. And this pattern does not end with Jesus. If we are paying attention, we who follow Christ are always being drawn beyond what feels comfortable or sufficient. The Church herself is born from a mission that is always bigger than expected. Bigger than one culture, one language, one generation.

Even in our personal lives, God’s work often begins with a simple yes, only to reveal later that he was asking for much more than we first realized and offering much more than we might imagine. 41 years ago I said, “Sure, I can help with the Youth Ministry.”

Realizing we are being asked for more can be unsettling. Such moments require deeper trust. They demand that we loosen our grip on control and allow God to expand our vision.

We are Isaiah in our own time and place. We are the countless known and unknown ancestors in the faith. We are baptized, we are chosen – not because we are perfect, but because God desires us and wants to reveal ourselves to ourself and to others. Slowly, sometimes awkwardly through prayer, experience, ministry, and the movement of the Spirit. We are sent. Go, the Mass has ended. We are sent on missions,  not necessarily far away, but into the places where our lives already touch others.

The challenge is that each stage requires trust. Trust with a capital “T.” To trust the movement of the Spirit – even if it is only an inkling, a rumination, a passing thought. To trust that we are chosen even as we feel totally ordinary. To begin even when clarity is incomplete.  To accept being sent when the mission feels larger than our ability. 

And to trust that God always supplies grace for the mission. That was Isaiah’s experience. That was the experience of the Apostles. It has been the experience of the faith in the millenia since. When John the Baptist pointed to Jesus, he did not explain everything. He simply bore witness to what he had seen. And sometimes that is all faith asks of us: to stand where we are, to recognize what God is doing, and to allow ourselves to be drawn into a mission that is always bigger than we can imagine

This is the Way. It has always been the Way.

Here at the beginning of the year, at the start of Ordinary Time after the Christmas Season, in what way are you being called? Maybe it’s involved in ministry? Maybe being the one who animates family prayer? Perhaps you’ll start listening to the Bible-in-a-Year podcast during your commute to work. Volunteer to prepare meals for the homeless. It’s all there: pay attention to that inkling, rumination, or passing thought. Trust it is the movement of the Spirit. Don’t worry about the full scope. Take the next step.

It is the grace Nike moment of your walk in Christ. Just do it.

You are loved

Posted on by
Reply

We live in a world of performance. If you are a sports fan you have access to an amazing array of real-time statistics on a football receiver’s speed, distance the pass traveled, and so much more. In swimming, it used to be that you watched the race and at the end the final times were posted. Now, mid-race there are on-screen statistics of speed in ft/sec and measures of the distance between swimmers. We live in a world of performance. Work has productivity measures, school has grades, … maybe homilies need a real time scoring system like diving or gymnastics.

We live in a world where our worth is often measured by productivity, recognition, credentials, and visibility. From an early age we learn, often without being explicitly taught, that approval follows achievement which signals that you are valued because of what you do, what you produce, how you compare. As a priest, listening to folks, it is evident that similar logic carries over into our relationship with God.

Subtly, almost unconsciously, we can begin to believe that God’s pleasure is lost or gained through activity, sacrifice, or visible success. When things go well, we feel affirmed – “I am blessed” we might think. When things are not going so well, we feel something is off kilter. Faith can become another arena of performance. “I need to pray more.” “Read more scripture.” “Go on retreat.” “Then things will be OK.”  There can be a performative intention behind all those things as a means to seek God’s pleasure.

You might be thinking, “Jesus’ life is pretty performative!” And indeed, as we move from the Christmas Season into Ordinary Time, we will see the public and very active ministry of Jesus unfold as He performs miracles, healings, casting out demons, forgiving sins, controlling nature and so much more. All very performative and with a purpose: to affirm that the Kingdom of God is indeed upon the people.

But not today. 

There are two things that stand out for me in the gospel reading as Jesus is first stepping into public view, when his ministry formally begins, how does He begin? Not with preaching, not with healing, not with miracles but by waiting. Not only that, before any performance, achievement, before any measurable success in ministry and mission, the Father names him Beloved. Let’s explore these two things.

We live in a performative world. We want to do something for God before we have truly stood before God. But Jesus begins differently. He stands in line with sinners. He listens to John preach. He receives John’s baptism. He submits himself to the Father’s will as mediated through another human being: “for thus it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness.”

Jesus’ public ministry is born not from initiative or performance, but from surrender. Jesus chooses the place of humility. He does not separate himself from the brokenness of humanity. He enters it quietly, patiently, without exemption. He lines up and waits his turn. This is not a gesture of convenience; it is a revelation of who God is.

Isaiah had already given us the pattern: “Here is my servant… not crying out, not shouting.” God’s chosen one does not impose himself. He does not force righteousness upon the world. He enters the world gently, from within, sharing its condition. And only after this act of submission does heaven open. The Spirit descends not upon Jesus not as a wonder-worker, but upon Jesus, the obedient Son. The Father’s voice does not praise achievement, but relationship: “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.” The Father’s voice does not say, “Now I will love you because you have begun your mission.” It says, “You are my beloved.” Full stop. This is not sentimentality. It is identity; our deepest identity.

We often speak about the Sacrament of Baptism as a commissioning to act, but it is first a declaration of identity and belonging. Before we are sent, we are claimed. Before we are asked to serve, we are named beloved. We are baptized not because we are finished products, but because God chooses to stand with us where we are. His true holiness is not distance from our human weakness, but is a faithful presence within it.

Because when we begin where Jesus began — in humility, submission, and trust — then the same promise is spoken over us: You are my beloved.

Jesus’ identity as beloved does not protect him from hardship. In fact, it leads him into the wilderness, into conflict, and eventually into the Cross. But what sustains him through all of it is not success, but the unshakeable knowledge of who he is before the Father.

That same identity is given to us in baptism.

To live as the beloved does not mean disengaging from responsibility, effort or hardship. It means being mindful that performance does not define our worth. It means allowing ourselves to rest secure in God’s pleasure even when our work is incomplete, our efforts misunderstood, our plans undone, or we are at wit’s end.

In a world that constantly asks, “What have you accomplished?” The Gospel challenges us to answer a different question: “To whom do you belong?”

When we live from that place, fear loosens its grip. Comparison loses its power. And love – real, patient, self-giving love becomes possible. Because only those who know they are already loved are truly free to give themselves away.

You are loved. Remember that and let tomorrow bring what may. You are loved.

Image credit: The Baptism of Christ, Juan Fernández de Navarrete, “El Mudo” | Museo del Prado, Madrid | Wikimedia Commons | PD-US

Embracing God’s Blessing in the New Year

Posted on by
Reply

On this first day of the year, the Church places on our lips one of the most ancient and beautiful prayers of blessing found in all of Scripture. When Brother Leo asked St. Francis for a blessing, it is the prayer that Francis spoke and wrote down for Leo.  It is from the Book of Numbers we hear the Lord instruct Moses:

“Thus shall you bless the Israelites…
The LORD bless you and keep you!
The LORD let his face shine upon you, and be gracious to you!
The LORD look upon you kindly and give you peace!” (Num 6:23–26)

This is far more than a hope or a wish for the days to come. It is a divine act. God says, “So shall they invoke my name upon the Israelites, and I will bless them” (Num 6:27). It is a promise to all who call upon the Lord: they will receive God’s blessing. That is to live under His gaze, to be held in His protection, and to know His peace, His shalom, to know the fullness of life that comes from communion with Him.

In today’s Gospel, we see this blessing fulfilled not in words alone, but in flesh and blood, in the fullness of life. The shepherds hurry to Bethlehem and find Mary and Joseph, and the infant lying in the manger. There they encounter the face of God shining upon His people.  And now the divine face has a human name: Jesus. God no longer turns His face toward His people from heaven; He looks at us from a manger. The eternal blessing promised to Israel now lies in Mary’s arms.

Luke tells us something striking about Mary: “Mary kept all these things, reflecting on them in her heart” (Lk 2:19). Mary receives God’s blessing in a profoundly human way. She does not rush to explain or control it. She ponders, treasures, holds the mystery within her. Mary teaches us that blessing is not always immediately understood. Sometimes it must be prayed over, revisited, and allowed to mature in silence.

At the close of our Gospel, we hear that the child is formally named Jesus at the time of his circumcision (Lk 2:21). The blessing of Numbers ends with God saying, “They shall invoke my name… and I will bless them.” Now that Name has been given. The Name that blesses, saves, and brings peace has entered human history. Mary, Mother of God, is the first to carry that Name not only on her lips, but in her very body and heart.

As we begin a new year, the Church places us where Mary stands: before the mystery of God’s blessing already given, but not yet fully understood. Like her, we are invited to receive the year not with anxiety or mastery, but with trustful reflection. What will this year bring? We do not know. But we do know this: If we call upon the name of the Lord – 

The Lord blesses us and keeps us.
His face shines upon us in Christ.
His Name rests upon us.

And Mary teaches us how to carry that blessing: by pondering it in faith, and by trusting that God’s peace will unfold in His time.

May Mary, the Mother of God and our Mother, help us to recognize ad receive the Lord’s blessing deeply, reflect on it faithfully, and live it courageously throughout the year ahead.
Amen.

Image credit: ” Madonna of the Streets” painting, Roberto Ferruzzi, first introduced it at the Venice Biennale art exhibit in 1897, Public Domain

Why we rejoice

Posted on by
Reply

I have always been interested in the art, the craft of titling books. When scanning for my next book to read I am often drawn in by the title. I can remember coming across Norman McLean’s novel, A River Runs Through It. There was something about the title that intrigued me. So, I picked it up off the shelf and read the first few sentences: 

“In our family there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing; grace was in the air, and grace came by art and art did not come easy. My father was a Presbyterian minister and a fly fisherman. He taught us the grace of the woods and the grace of the river. He taught us that a man could be a sinner and a fisherman, and that the two were not incompatible.” 

I was hooked.

This summer I saw promotions and advertisements for a streaming series, “The Summer I Turned Pretty.” I suspected it was a young adult romance novel – not exactly a book for me – but I thought that was the kind of title that was intriguing and sure to have captured the intended audience. 

I thought to myself, “Self…maybe you should write a book, “The Winter I Turned Old.” I am sure there is an audience out there. Don’t worry I am not having a life crisis. It is probably just the experience of all the little aches and pains, shorter days, longer nights and colder weather. This Florida native is suffering the cruelest of circumstances: I have even started wearing long pants.

As we approach the shortest day of our year, as the light of day is consumed by the edges of night, the grip of winter tightens, and collars are turned up against the chill air, it is then that these bones feel their age, and the minor inconveniences of aches and pains remind me of my mortality. Yet there is a great reading that comes our way and is to be recommended: the readings of Gaudete Sunday.

I was “hooked” by the opening lines of the first reading from Isaiah: “The desert and the parched land will exult; the steppe will rejoice and bloom. They will bloom with abundant flowers, and rejoice with joyful song.”  Isaiah certainly has a way with words.

This December I have been preaching on the Book of Isaiah, one of the great prophets of Israel and Judah. Every weekday of Advent so far, unless there was a solemnity or feast day, the first reading has been from Isaiah. Today our first reading was Isaiah 35 and it is a great reading with wonderful images of renewal, restoration, hope and reasons to rejoice because of the promises of the Lord.

Do you need those promises today? Maybe today is a good day,  but we all have those times in our lives when we need to know that God’s promises are for us. We need those promises to lift us up that we might rejoice in the Lord always.

Jerusalem and Judah had those times when they needed to be reassured that the Lord was with them and for them. The chapters leading up to our first reading describes a time when Jerusalem and all of Judah was under the threat of one most powerful nation of that time. The Assyrian Empire was expanding southward, already having conquered the 10 northern tribes. In the south, people felt helpless, afraid, and uncertain whether God would save them. The political and religious leadership was a disaster. As a result Jerusalem seemed vulnerable and the people were disheartened and spiritually weak. Chapters 28–34 a running admonishment, warnings against foreign alliances instead of trusting in God, and rebukes for spiritual blindness of leaders and people alike. 

The crisis is quite real and existential. Assyrian invasion and victory means exile, destruction, and the end of the nation. Isaiah 34 is a chapter full of judgment, destruction, and despair. The land is pictured as scorched and empty. It is an image of how the people feel: abandoned, disheartened, and unsure of God’s presence. Into this atmosphere of anxiety and judgment comes the promise of chapter 35

“The desert and the parched land will exult; the steppe will rejoice and bloom. They will bloom with abundant flowers, and rejoice with joyful song” (Isa 35: 1-2)

Into that darkness, Isaiah says: “Strengthen the hands that are feeble…Say to those whose hearts are frightened: Be strong, fear not!” Why? Because God is coming, not only to judge, but to save, to heal, to restore, to bring His people home. This is the heart of Gaudete Sunday. This is at the center of God’s promises of a Savior – and the proper response is to rejoice.

We rejoice because God brings life out of the deserts of our lives. Every one of us knows what a “desert” feels like:

  • A season of prayer that feels dry
  • A relationship that has grown tepid
  • A grief that just seems relentless
  • A worry that burdens our thoughts and keeps us up nights
  • A sin we have struggled to uproot
  • A disappointment that is slowly hardening our hearts

These are the real deserts of human life. Isaiah is not being poetic for the sake of poetry. He is speaking to real human loneliness, fear, and exhaustion. 

Isaiah reminds us that the desert is not our destiny. God can irrigate what seems dry, renew what seems dead, and bring joy where there has only been sorrow. Advent reminds us that God is always beginning something new.

We rejoice because God is already at work even when we cannot see it. Gardens don’t bloom overnight and neither do deserts. New growth slowly arises, quietly and often unnoticed. In the same way, God’s grace often works quietly and invisibly:

  • A small shift in our conscience
  • A softening of the heart
  • A desire to pray
  • A willingness to forgive
  • A new patience with someone difficult
  • A sudden moment of clarity
  • An unexpected sense of peace

These are signs that God is already making the desert bloom. We rejoice not because we have everything figured out, but because God is acting even in the places we cannot yet see. And we especially rejoice because God comes to heal, not to condemn. 

Gaudete Sunday is an invitation to recognize the God who heals. Isaiah proclaims: “the eyes of the blind be opened, the ears of the deaf be cleared; then will the lame leap like a stag, then the tongue of the mute will sing.” God does not come into our lives with a running list of our failures. He comes like a physician who knows exactly where we are wounded and brings the healing and cure we have long needed, clarity of thought, strength to get up and move ahead, and a pathway home. 

We rejoice because God is leading us home. The reading ends with a beautiful line: The “ransomed will return and enter Zion singing, crowned with everlasting joy; they will meet with joy and gladness, sorrow and mourning will flee” This is the promise at the center of Advent: that the God who comes to us at Christmas and the God who will come again in glory is the same God who is even now leading us, step by step, toward the fullness of life. No matter where we have wandered, no matter what has grown dry or is broken, God’s desire is to lead us home.

And, big picture, we rejoice because God is faithful to His promises. So… 

  • Rejoice, not because life is perfect, but because God is making all things new.
  • Rejoice, not because the desert is gone, but because God is making the garden bloom.
  • Rejoice, not because the journey is over, but because God is walking it with you.
  • Rejoice, because God remembers, heals, strengthens, and restores

“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice”

Amen.

Image credit: Prophet Isaiah, Mosaic, Right of Lunette, South Wall of Presbytery, Basilica of San Vitale | PD-US | scripture image from Canva CC-0

Hope Restored

Posted on by
Reply

Readings from the Prophet Isaiah are part-and-parcel of Advent. This past week all the first readings were from Isaiah taken from various chapters and all well chosen for the Season of Advent. Every reading proclaimed verses which, to our Christian ears and understanding, are promises of a Messiah to come – a covenant promised fulfilled. It is a message of Hope for us. The words were a much needed beacon of hope in the darkness that surrounded the people of Jerusalem in the prophet Isaiah’s own time. 

The audience was the people of Judah and Jerusalem in the late 8th century B.C., during the reign of King Hezekiah. More specifically, Isaiah addressed three groups of people. Firstly, Isaiah addressed the leadership of Jerusalem (political and religious). Isaiah often portrayed them as blind, deaf, and stubborn (cf. Is 29:9–16) because they paid more attention to pomp, circumstance, gold and glory. They were not leading the people into covenant with God, much the opposite. And so Isaiah also spoke to the wider population, those led astray and whose spiritual perception had become dulled. 

The glory days of King David are long gone and by comparison, the great tree of Jerusalem is like a stump: lifeless and increasingly barren. And now the Assyrians are at the gates of Jerusalem. They have conquered 10 of the 12 tribes already. Jerusalem is next. Hope is quickly fading like a dying ember as the hour approaches midnight.

But there is another group within the city. The prophet Isaiah also addressed a faithful remnant – people who are righteous before God and yet their world is crumbling. They need reassurance that God will act to save and restore the situation that is clearly going astray. They need hope that a Messiah would come to set things aright. Today, our first reading gives us one of the most hope-filled visions in all of Scripture: “A shoot shall sprout from the stump of Jesse, and from his roots a bud shall blossom” (Is 11:1).

That single line can be an anchor for your Advent reflections. Why? But Isaiah teaches us one of the great Advent truths:  God does His best work with stumps.

When everything looks finished, when the situation looks hopeless, when the future seems cut down to the ground, it is then that God begins something new. The “shoot” is small, fragile, humble. But it is alive, and it carries the promise of a new Kingdom. Someone small, fragile and humble was born in a manger in Bethlehem. It was the beginning of something new. Someone who was revealed, just as Isaiah said, with the gifts of the Spirit: “a spirit of wisdom and of understanding, a spirit of counsel and of strength, a spirit of knowledge and of fear of the Lord” (11:2). He was the One for whom Israel waited. He is the One we await at Christmas yet the One who already reigns. He is the One who can work with the stumps in our lives – that part of us that seems cut down or dying. What might that be?

Hope, because there are days when the news feels overwhelming; when the world feels unstable; or when personal disappointments pile up. Hope can feel like a cut-down stump. Yet Christ is the “shoot” who revives it.

Maybe trust seems dead or dying in our lives because we experience betrayals, family wounds, and broken promises. A person can feel unable to trust others, family members, themselves or even God. Trust can feel like a cut-down stump. Yet Christ is the “shoot” who revives it.

Compassion and tenderness seem absent because stress and busyness can harden hearts. We become too preoccupied and so we respond more with irritation than empathy. We find we can neither give or receive compassion. It can all feel like a cut-down stump. Yet Christ is the “shoot” who revives it.

Has our ability to forgive been cut back? Are we still a forgiving people? Forgiveness might be absent because we carry the burden of memory and hurts that we can’t shake, can’t set down. Resentments have settled in over the years and petrified a part of our heart. It feels even worse than a cut down stump. Yet Christ is the “shoot” who revives it.

What about our prayer life? Because of everything already mentioned and even more, we may be bereft of courage, of joy, of wonder, and patience. Prayer feels dry, mechanical, or absent. It seems “dead,” as though not even the stump is left. Christ can awaken it with one small word spoken into a dark night: “Lord, help me to pray.”

“Lord, help me to hope, trust, be compassionate, and forgive… even when I don’t feel like it. Lord, take my stumps and from them may your grace give forth a bud that will blossom.”

Advent is a time to be attentive and bring “our stumps” to prayer and to the Sacraments, especially the Eucharist. Bring them and give them over to the One who brings life out of nothing.

“A shoot shall sprout from the stump of Jesse, and from his roots a bud shall blossom” (Is 11:1) The Messiah has come and will come again – but He is with us even now in the Word of God, the Eucharist, and in the Spirit. A shoot is ever and already sprouting. In Him through Him and with Him you have the possibilities of being restored and renewed so that from you the bud of Christ will blossom.

And in time from that bud shall come a new, strong, tall tree upright before God.

Amen

Image credit: Prophet Isaiah, Mosaic, Right of Lunette, South Wall of Presbytery, Basilica of San Vitale | PD-US | Pexels

The coming flood to sweep us away

Posted on by
Reply

In our first reading, the Prophet Isaiah says that All nations shall stream toward it. Of course he is speaking about a day in the future when the light of salvation will shine from the highest mountain. If you grew up in Orlando, you could be forgiven for thinking Isaiah was referring to Space Mountain at Disney World. Based on all measures of tourism, people indeed stream toward that Magical Kingdom – that entertainment mecca that offers a respite from the imperfect, unredeemed world in which we live.

 Our world is not too dissimilar from the apocalyptic images of wars and rumors of war. In our world, people are homeless, hurting, and helpless. People are lonely, lonesome, and lost. It can be a struggle – and there is a part of us that wants the holiday season. That wants a break, a pause, a Disney moment. We need to recharge, be happy, be hopeful, and hospitable. So, we also open our homes for gatherings of friends and families. There are concerts, lots of children’s Christmas pageants, musicals, and we light up our homes and streets against the darkness of winter, the darkness in the world. And like Disney, our homes are filled with people and music: familiar tunes like “Silent Night” where  All is calm, all is bright.  But the world we live in is not perfect, not redeemed, not Disney. 

The words of our Advent scripture are neither “Christmassy” or “Disney.”

…the flood came and carried them all away.
Two men will be out in the field;
one will be taken, and one will be left. 
Two women will be grinding at the mill;
one will be taken, and one will be left. 

On this first Sunday, the message is ominous and dark. It takes us by surprise.  The message of our Advent Scripture roars, asking us to look around because it is just like it was in the days of Noah. We are going about business as usual, but there is a coming flood that will sweep us all away. While the world would present a huggable, domesticated, Disney Christmas, Advent begins with a roar that shatters the calm on this day.   It cries “wake up!” because Salvation is coming; Redemption is on its way!  You have to be ready.

If we really hear the Advent message, we would better understand the power of the coming God. If we are deeply connected with the reason for the season, we would not come to church at Christmas in our finery, we would be prepared and come wearing crash helmets and life preservers, prepared to be swept away in the flood of God’s power and grace.

God is not like Disney.  God does not want to pacify us – He wants to electrify us. He does not want us lining up for Space Mountain, but rather would have us stream towards the mountain of the LORD’s house. He does not want to dazzle us with fireworks and Main Street – He wants to mystify us the idea that God, our Redeemer, the one to heal, house, and give hope –  would come to us as one of us – as a helpless child.  Would draw us into the hard and demanding work of raising a child.

A child in a manger, arms raised upward, inviting you into the embrace.  A child we are called to pick up and take into our lives, doing the hard work of nurturing our faith into maturity. A Child that will make the demands of love known. A Child that will point to homeless, hurting, and helpless – past all the magic of Disney – and remind us of Love’s demand to be played out away from the Magical Kingdom – on the highways, byways, back alleys, and streets of the Kingdom of God.

The readings of this first Sunday in Advent asks us to wake up, be vigilant, and reminds us that this Child’s story cannot truly be rolled into malls, markets, Main Street Disney, or any endeavor that would soften, temper, domesticate, obfuscate, or obliterate news that should roar at us like the full grown lion, sweep us away in the flood waters of change. It truly is “As it was in the days of Noah…”

Salvation is coming; Redemption is on its way!  You have to be ready. You have to ready your family. That’s the gospel message…. and now comes the hard part: what will you do to prepare? And in midst of all the fun holiday endeavors, what part of Advent will you carve out for the Lord? What’s the plan? What are the actions? 

I have faith in you… after all, you have organized the family vacation to Disney World – a logistics miracle in itself! You prepared, you readied the family, y’all had a great time. You got this. You can make your Advent family plan to be electrified by the love of God, break out the Advent crash helmets and life vests, prepare for the coming of the Christ Child, with your prayer, time to volunteer, and more. You got this.

“As it was in the days of Noah…” but unlike those days, you can be ready for the Redemption that this way comes. It’s Advent – prepare yourself.

Amen

Image credit: Canva, St. Francis, CC-BY-NC