The Communal Life - Homily for Holy Trinity Sunday (A)

When we were in grade school, we probably heard the phrase: “God is love.” For those of us who have heard this throughout our lives, it may be easy to gloss over—but for someone who wonders about the goodness of God, this is quite the statement. “God is love”—He is good, goodness straight through.

But let us peel this back a little. When we say that God is love, we mean more than just God loves you. We are also talking about who God is. Love, by definition, is relational; it requires at least two persons (else it is not truly the self-sacrificial love that Jesus reveals love to be on the Cross). So, already, we know something about God: there must be at least two Persons. And this is true: there is the Father and the Son. And they love each other. The Son, for example, when He is dying on the Cross, dies not only for love of us, but also for love of His Father. And the Father, who is the inspiration for the father in the Prodigal Son story, receives His Son, Jesus, with great love.

And, together, their love is so perfect, so good, so eternal, and so divine that their love is God and a third person: the Holy Spirit. Together, the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are God: three persons, and yet one—the Holy Trinity. In common language, we would say that God is, in His very essence, family; community. And not “He is like a family”—no, God is the inspiration and the source for every family. We are the image—He is the source.

Everything about our faith redounds to this, that God so loved the world that He sent His only Son. And for what purpose? So that we may be in communion with Him. Yes, not only can we say that “God is love” and that “God loves me,” but also that God wants to be in communion with us—He wants us to be brought into one with Him. This is what Jesus prays on the night before He dies: “Father… may they all be one; even as you, Father, are in me, and I in you, that they also may be in us…” (Jn 17:21) Or, easlier, when Jesus promised the Holy Spirit, He said: “In that day [that is, Pentecost] you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you” (Jn 14:20). That’s pretty awesome. Indeed, we are made for this.

*          *          *

When God created us, going all the way back to Genesis, He said: “Let us make man in our image” (Gen 1:26). Notice the pronouns there. They are plural. (A nod to the Trinity). But notice, too, how we are made: we are made in the image of God. And who is God again? Love—a communion of persons whose life is love. In other words, at the heart of every one of us is the image of the Trinity—indeed, we are made for love and community. Hence, God immediately thereafter says: “It is not good for man to be alone” (Gen 2:18).

This isn’t just a statement about how a man needs a women else the man will starve (haha!). It’s not simply a statement about marriage. No, it’s a statement about who we are: that is, it is not good for us to be isolated; we are made for communion and when we isolate ourselves, it is not good. And why is it not good? Because our hearts are most alive and are truly discovering the goodness of God when we love and experience love. Selfishness breeds a sadness in our heart—an isolation that doesn’t allow itself to be loved or believe that it can be loved.

In our world, the enemy is working overtime to isolate and divide us. There is the stereotypical scene at the restaurant as the people in the booth aren’t talking to each other, but texting on their phones. Choosing to be on our phones is a choice to be alone. In some ways, it’s easier. We don’t have to be creative and come up with conversation or use our imagination to discover the person next to us. Yes, it’s so easy to just be alone.

Our social structures are not helping much, either. So many of us live in subdivisions and the houses are close by and it gives the illusion that we live in a community. But, honestly, so many people do not actually know their neighbors. Have you had them over for dinner? Or they you? I give communion to the sick and I can tell you they are all throughout our subdivisions and yet very few people know that the sick and elderly are there and that they are suffering. Alone.

And we don’t mean to be—it’s just that, either from our youthful days or in college, we got caught up in the me-project: “I’ve got a paper to write… I have to study for my test…” And then it is about me getting into a good school; and then me getting a good job; and then me getting a good place to live—I don’t have time to get married. People are actually saying this. I don’t have time for a family. And that’s true when life is isolated in the confines of self. Phone calls to parents—much less letter-writing-- is all but dead.

These trends translate into religion as well. It’s all about “me and Jesus” or “I am spiritual but not religious.” Neither of these statements embraces community (community which is a hallmark of religion); it simply embraces the self. And that’s a shame, because I know of so many young couples that are overwhelmed by having a kid or two and they feel as though they are going it alone and re-inventing the wheel, when in reality all they need to do is seek the wisdom of some of the couples here in this community. But few do that. And for whatever reason. Sometimes, people don’t want to inconvenience others. Maybe it’s easier to go it alone…

And let’s be frank: the enemy tries to drive a wedge in communities. Must I mention politics? Yes, politics are important. But I had a funeral some time ago where the parent had died and a couple of the kids were alienated from their parent because of their differing ideas in the political realm. Thankfully, just days before the parent passed, they reconciled. But the kids expressed deep regret—regret that something so passing and oftentimes so juvenile as politics got in the way of one of the most meaningful of relationships: that of a parent and a child. Yes, dear friends, we often get divided by who’s on the left and who’s on the right and we forget that there is an up and a down—up is where there is communion and heaven and the saints and love; down is isolation and regret and hell.

You see: community is really hard. It takes work. And the fact of the matter is: people can be annoying. Priests can be annoying. I can be annoying. It takes practice and messing up and struggle and love to bite one’s own tongue and to listen and to not react, but to love. This is why we need community, else we live in echo chambers where, if our positions are threatened in any way, we don’t have the patience to be charitable and courteous. And to grow.

*          *          *

God is love. And it is not enough to simply note and fight against the isolating trends in our culture. We must also teach how to care for our community. This requires teaching our children not only about rights but also responsibilities.

I hear of so many people who talk about how their grown child lives in their basement, focuses on the electronics, and is a bear to get them to make a contribution to the family and the home. Something must be done to help curb this epidemic. I offer this humble solution—which is not mine, but which I have gleaned from my conversations with all of you. Here’s how it goes:

Say you have a little son, Johnny, and he’s eight. At eight, he adores his dad and loves whatever he loves.

Ok, so, “Johnny, do you see mom there making dinner?”     

            “Yeah, dad.”

“Mom’s great isn’t she?”       

            “Yeah dad!”

“You love her, right?”

             “Of course, dad.”

“Ok, if you love her, then go help her. Because if you love, you help.”

And suddenly little Johnny is connecting the dots: that if we love, we must respond. We cannot sit idly by and let mom do everything. Love requires a response. Great lesson. And eight year olds understand this.

Later, when Johnny is twelve, a new conversation is had:

            “Johnny, you’re becoming a young man, so I’m sure you’ve noticed something.”

                        “What’s that, dad?”

“Well, every week, mom and me do the same things over and over: take out the trash, fold the laundry, set the table, and so on. You’ve notice that, right?”

                        “Well, now that you point it out, yeah.”

“And know you love us, but you’re smart and you’re becoming a young man, so I don’t have to tell you what to do—I mean, I have to tell your sister to always help mom, but you: you’re becoming a young man, right?”

At twelve, young boys don’t want to be treated like babies (sometimes they do if they are hurting), but most of the time, they want to be seen as one of the big boys.

           

“Ok, so I don’t have to always point out what has to be done. You can see it and do it without me even having to tell you, right?”

                        “Absolutely, dad.”

            “Ok, I’m relying on you. So, from that list that you know of, what will you do?”

Johnny is starting to learn initiative. He wants to be a young man, a contributor, a leader. So, ok, let’s give him the reigns and tell him that he has them: “I’m relying on you.”

Finally, when Johnny is fifteen or so and he’s going by “John,” another conversation can be had—something from The Lion King:

“John, you’re becoming a man and I want to have an adult conversation with you. I’m getting old and some day this will all be yours—you’ll have a house of your own and family to take care of. And I won’t be around to tell you to love mom or to remember your list, but you are going to have to look around you and see what needs to be done and to do it. So, I want you to look around our home. You’ll notice that I’ve done work on it and made some improvements. Tell me: what do you think? What needs to be done around here?—something I may not have thought of.

And he starts to think about it. And you walk him through. And help him as he struggles to begin to contribute to the home and to the family—as he struggles to love. In other words, we are teaching him ownership, how to own and feel responsible for his community.

And this is precisely where he should be learning this. Too often, our kids are sent off to college and they have no idea not only how to take care of themselves (mom always took care of everything!), but they have no idea how to contribute to the community. Thus begins the me-project.    

*          *          *

Of course, I’m not talking about some fictional dad and his son. I’m talking about me and you. I’m that dad and you are my spiritual children. And I want us to grow in response, in initiative, and in ownership.

Response: I know you love the parish. And we have things to do around here. There is a parish picnic coming up. If you love, then help out. And, I know, some of you are saying, “I’m old, I’ve put in my time.” Ok, first: thank you for helping out so much. But we don’t retire from the community, we don’t retire from love. Teenagers in the basement say “I’m too old to be helping mom with dinner tonight.”

Initiative: I know you know the many things that go on at this parish beyond Sunday. Which ones are you going to do? Monsignor doesn’t have to personally invite you every time in order to do something, right? I mean, we are adults here, right? And we aren’t focused solely on the me-project—so we do have time, right? Take initiative.

Ownership: look out over the parish, and not only the parish, but the Cottleville area. What needs to be done? Again, I know there are many sick and elderly people in our subdivisions. We have to own that. When we own something, we feel responsible for it. We need to feel responsible that there are people out there who are alone and isolated and going to die alone and isolated. We have to own that. What else needs to be done? What can we do better?

Because it is not good for man to be alone. Because we are made in the image of God. God who is love. God who is Holy Trinity, community, family, unity. This is our faith. This is the faith of the Church. 

Whatever - Homily for St. Justin, Martyr

This morning, we celebrate and ask for the intercession of St. Justin Martyr. He lived in the 2^nd century and was killed when he refused to worship the pagan gods of the times.  Justin was a philosopher, thus well-equipped to logically defend the faith, which he did—publically—in one of the still-recorded written works of the early-Church: his Apology (or defense) of Catholicism. In that defense, we have one of the earliest accounts of Catholic life and also, wonderfully enough, about the Holy Mass.

When I hear about the martyrs, I am tempted to think that such things belong to ancient days and don’t happen anymore. But, the reality is, is that in the past 100 years, there have been more people martyred for believing in Jesus than in all of the past 1900 years of the Church combined. Yes, more martyrs in the past 100 years than all of the past years combined.

What has been the cause of this?

Justin, a philosopher, would be able to point it out very clearly: the way that we think about the world—that is, our worldview—determines how we act in that world. Our “philosophy of life” will translate how we act in life. And in our world today, there is an insidious and violent worldview out there—and it isn’t simply radical Islam. It’s post-modernism.

Fancy word—but here’s the gist of it: post-modernism is a worldview that thinks and believes that nothing really matters. It is ultimately dismissive—of anything it wants to dismiss, really. It can be described by one little word: “Whatever.”

Whatever. It is such a dismissive word. “Do whatever you want”; “Do whatever makes you happy”; “Yeah… whatever.”

I say it is insidious because it can emerge out of good intentions: I don’t want to come off as a bigot or uncharitable or unfeeling, so can’t we just let people do whatever they want? Sounds good—but, then, what becomes of words? Do words really mean Some Definable Thing? … marriage… murder… heaven… Jesus…?

You see, words do matter. And Jesus is zealous about this. He says in the Gospel today: the Commandments matter. And if we act as though they don’t—and, worse, if we teach others by our words and our life that they don’t—then, yeah, we're not gonna make it into the kingdom of heaven. Contrary to popular belief, all dogs don’t go to heaven—because this matters and the world acts as though it doesn’t.

Now, I say that post-modernism is violent because, if we Christians stand up for the fact that Marriage means something and the Cross means something and that these things don’t just mean “whatever”—well, the Whatever-people out there aren’t going to like it. It is true: the post-modern worldview is diabolically opposed to Christianity (and, by the same token, Christianity is opposed to the post-modern worldview). As you are living out what Jesus says—that is to be “salt of the earth” and to be the “light of the world”—then, yeah, that’s going to buck up against those who say that you are bigoted, you who hold God’s Commandments or reality-objectively-defined-by-God.

But that’s the thing. Things matter. Words matter. The Gospels matter. Jesus' love matters. Justin died for this. He knew the worldview and he knew that you can’t simply acquiesce into the great Whatever and still hold on to heaven. We have to choose.

And that's the Truth: if we aren't different than the blasé Whatever of the world, then we are salt without flavor. We are already just as good as dead.

This is why I get more than a little upset when people, without emergency or without good reason such as to get to a job that puts food on the table, leave the weekend Masses early. I don’t judge them, but I do get upset that somehow, someway, the Reality of what is going on here at this altar has either been lost or dismissed. I hope it is the first and not the latter. Because there is nothing worse than realizing what is going on here—this great sacrifice of Love at the Mass—and then to dismiss it with the great early-exodus of Whatever. For us who come here every day, we have to have a little jolt in our lives so that we don't make this routine.

Like I said at the beginning , there have been more martyrs over the past 100 years than all of the years combined. Indeed, just last week, dozens of Catholics were killed while they worshiped at this very same Mass! Tens more were killed as they were driving to there. What would they say to us?

Jesus matters! This Mass matters! Our blood matters! You matter!

May we never take it for granted.

St. Justin, martyr. Pray for us.

Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on us.

Is This Goodbye? - Homily for the Ascension (A)

+ As many of you know, yesterday we celebrated the ordination of two of our own young men: Deacon Clark Philipp and Deacon John Schneier. And it is a great joy for me to announce that Father John Schneier is going to be our new associate.       < Everyone applauds >

… Hey! Thanks a lot! < Everyone laughs >

I think this is wonderful for the parish and I am very happy for you. As you all already know: Father Schneier is gonna be great.

As I transition to become the pastor at St. Theodore in Flint Hill, I must admit that I’m really not good at goodbyes. It’s just awkward for me and, you know, there’s the whole emotions thing…. That’s actually one of the reasons why I never like the last day of school: too many goodbyes, too many tears.

This was all on my mind as I was thinking and praying about today’s celebration: the Ascension. And something hit me: where’s the crying? I mean, Jesus is leaving! Where are the tears?!

In fact, we hear the exact opposite:

            God mounts His throne with shouts of joy.

Joy?! What’s going on? Isn’t this a goodbye?

*          *          *

I think the key can be found in the second reading, where Paul says that Jesus is the “head” of the Church—the Church which is His “body.” What Paul is getting at there is that Jesus and the Church are one. Just like the head and the body of a person are one (else the person is dead!), so too Jesus and the Church are one.

            Jesus is head of the body, the Church

Paul says in his letter to the Colossians (1:18). Or, in his great tome on the topic (1 Corinthians 12), Paul writes

For just as the body is one and has many members… so it is with Christ. (v 12)

What this means is that, if Jesus is ascending into heaven, our hope is that we are too!—for where the head goes, goes the body. This is what we prayed in the opening Collect of the Mass:

Gladden us with holy joys, almighty God… for the Ascension of Christ your Son is our exaltation, and, where the Head has gone before in glory, the Body is called to follow in hope.

There’s a fine analogy I like to give to my kiddos that helps us understand the Ascension. Imagine I jump into a pool. (That’s a pretty funny thought—especially if I’m wearing my cassock!) But it’s summertime, so imagine I jump into the pool. Of course, when we jump in, the water goes over our heads and so on. Eventually, we come up out of the water. But, how do we come up? Is it feet-first? No. It’s always the head. And then out of the water comes the body.

By analogy, then, the pool is our earthly existence, the air above is heaven. Jesus jumped into the pool of our earthly existence and, becoming one with Him in baptism, as He emerges from the water—that is, as He enters into heaven, so too will we.

Provided that we remain united to Him.

*          *          *

In our modern culture, some people divorce Jesus from His Church. So, when the Church teaches something difficult, they say “Well, that’s what the Church teaches, but that’s not what Jesus would have taught.” They are separating Jesus from the Church—decapitating the head from the body. The same thing happens when people say that I can love Jesus without the Church. They don’t realize that Jesus and the Church are one and the same.

This is actually the scandal that Paul points out in Ephesians, chapter 5, when he talks about the marriage between Jesus and the Church and that Jesus is now “joined” to us and, indeed, has become “one flesh” with us. Jesus Himself foretells this when He says to the Apostles:

            Whoever hears you, hears me; whoever rejects you, rejects me (Luke 10:16)

And just to prove further that the Ascension is not a goodbye and that Jesus is not separated from the Church, when Paul himself was persecuting Christians, Jesus says

            Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me? (Acts 9:4)

*          *          *

What does this mean for us? Well, in the second reading, Paul gives three very brief points for prayer. He prays:

May the eyes of your hearts be enlightened,
that you may [1] know what is the hope that belongs to his call,
[2] what are the riches of glory in his inheritance among the holy ones,
and [3] what is the surpassing greatness of his power

Let’s unpack that very, very briefly.

First: hope. Jesus our Head is in heaven; if we are united to Him, we shall also be with Him. He shows us that our pilgrimage, this Exodus, is finally over. So, never lose hope. Indeed,

We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into  [heaven]… where Jesus has gone as a forerunner (Hebrews 6:19-20)

The anchor on this ship goes up! The anchor keeps us calm in the storm. He will bring us to port.

Second: riches of glory. You have a father in heaven; we are the Prodigal Sons. If we repent, then when we return to the Father, we shall be clothed in His glory, a ring on our finger, and the sandals of freedom on our feet. And then the feast!

Third: His power. Jesus’ power is so great that everything is subject to Him. Jesus reigns as King of Heaven and Earth—

death has no power over him (Romans 6:9).

Indeed, every kingdom on earth is now subject to Him. And He will conquer every evil. For everything is placed under His feet (Ephesians 1:22)

Notice: it says “under His feet.” The feet are part of the body—that is, the Church! Do you understand what this means?

It means that if you are in His body, if you are even the lowest part—the feet—that evil no longer has power over you. With the power of God’s grace, right now, the devil no longer has power over you. Indeed, Jesus promised this for His Body, the Church, when He said:

            And the gates of hell will not prevail against it (Matthew 16:18)

So, yes. This is cause for celebration!

*          *          *

Let us turn to God in prayer; for, at the very beginning of Mass we prayed:

            You are seated at the right hand of the Father to intercede for us. Lord, have mercy.

What we are professing there is that, if Jesus is truly ascended into heaven and if we are truly united to Him as we are in His Body, the Church, then when we pray in union with Him, our prayers are literally at the right hand of the Father. That is, when you pray, your prayers are literally going up through the Body, to the Head—Jesus Christ—and your prayers are literally there at the Father’s ear. And He hears you. The Father hears you!

So ask. Ask! And rejoice. Our Lord and Head is in heaven. May we, the Body, be with Him!

To Believe Thomas - Homily for Divine Mercy Sunday (The Easter Octave) (A)

A very blessed Divine Mercy Sunday to you! This is the Octave Day of Easter—a day, just as in musical octave, where the dissonance of sin is resolved by the harmony of mercy . In ancient times, too, the octave day would be a special day after a boy’s birth. On the eighth day after his birth, the boy would be circumcised. It’s a gruesome image, but the ancient Christian Fathers saw the Resurrection as the definitive new birth—and the eighth day that followed would be the definitive cutting away of the old life and the beginning of the new.

These themes play out in any Christian’s life and, as we see today, Thomas is no stranger to this. We see that he is not there when Jesus appears on Resurrection Sunday. For some reason, he must have slept in on Easter. Or, maybe after the crucifixion, he was one of those that ran away, scandalized, afraid—maybe bitter. Whatever the reason, Thomas is isolated and not with the community on Easter.

Thankfully, Thomas rejoins the community on the eighth day, the Octave Day (Divine Mercy Sunday) and Jesus appears again. This time, Thomas sees. And not only does he see, but he also gets to touch. Thomas places his finger into the side of Christ—the side that was pierced by the lance. And Thomas exclaims: “My Lord and my God!” He believes. And not only because he touched Jesus’ side. Remember what the soldier’s lance pierced—not only the side of the Christ but also the very heart of Jesus. It was from this heart that blood and water flowed down onto the head of that soldier and, in that very moment, that soldier’s doubt was converted. He too exclaims: “Truly, this was the Son of God!”

Thomas’ finger, therefore, doesn’t simply touch the outer skin of Jesus. He brings his finger to the very heart of Jesus—the very font of mercy—and maybe Thomas realizes that it is beating and alive. And that may sound gross, but Jesus rose not simply spiritually, but in the flesh—and He is really alive. And He is alive to give us this mercy and to convert us from the old doubts to the new faith, the new life—actual, heart-pounding life.

*          *          *

Here is where the great irony—or, comedy—comes in. You see, Thomas believes precisely because he has seen and touched. But, really, he was supposed to believe his brothers. Peter and Andrew and John and all the rest actually saw Jesus risen on Easter night. Thomas, therefore, was guilty not only of not-believing that Jesus was risen from the dead, but Thomas also guilty because he did not believe them. That’s pretty amazing, given all that they had been through together. There was no reason to doubt his brothers, his friends. But he did.

As a result, Thomas’ doubt not only separated him from the risen Jesus, but also from the very people that he had known and loved. The spiritual translated into the geographical: Thomas was not there on Easter.

But Jesus has mercy on him and visits him when Thomas comes back to the community on the Octave day. Here’s where the irony/comedy comes in: After Thomas touches, Jesus says. “blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.” In other words: “Thomas, you were supposed to believe your brothers, but you didn’t. Nevertheless, I am granting you this mercy (to touch), because I want you to believe. When you go out into the doubting world, the only way that they will come to believe is if they believe you—that is: I am calling them to do the very thing that you wouldn’t do for your brothers, namely, to trust. And this is going to frustrate you, and you will know the frustration and hurt your brothers had when you refused to believe them, because why should the world believe you Will you have mercy on those that doubt when they say to you the same thing you said to your brothers? Will you have mercy on them? What will be your reason for them to trust you? Will you give them my heart to touch by giving them my mercy, my new life?"

Thomas—indeed all of the Apostles—are entrusted with a great task: not only to evangelize and to announce the risen Christ to all nations, but to be trusted. And in order for them to be trusted, the Apostles must prove themselves through a radical charity heretofore never seen on the face of the earth. The world will only believe these teachers if they are first witnesses. They will need to bring the very heart of Jesus for the world to touch. On this octave day, the dissonance of the world must be far from the harmony of Christ; the old way of life must be cut from our hearts so the new heart of Christ may urge us onwards.

*          *          *

A final note: where does this Octave take place? In the same Upper Room as the Last Supper. There, the Lord had instituted the Holy Eucharist—the very Sacrament of Charity—and in turn ordained His Apostles to be the very priests that would confect it.

One may ask: when does Jesus give them the power to forgive sins? It happens on Easter night in the same Upper Room as the Last Supper and the Octave Day. On that Easter night, Jesus appears to them and says “Peace be with you.” Remember: they had all abandoned Him, crucified Him. And here Jesus comes, not rubbing their nose in it, but saying “Peace. It’s all over. I forgive you.”

In this moment, He breathes on them and gives them the Holy Spirit—the very power to forgive sins. You see, the Upper Room is all one Ordination Rite: Jesus waits to give them the power to forgive until the moment when they finally know mercy. Now that they know mercy, they are now ordained and commissioned to give it.

Why do I mention this? Because Thomas was not there on Easter night. So, on the Octave, Jesus comes and does the same thing—but this time for Thomas. And not only for Thomas, but to give the other Apostles the chance, too, to forgive. You see, after Thomas puts his finger into Jesus and believes, Thomas will say to Jesus: “I’m sorry I left you.” But then Thomas will have to turn to his brothers, too, and say, “Brothers, I’m sorry I doubted you.” And in that moment, they will be able to lavish upon their brother the very mercy which they themselves had received.

This is why the best confessors are the ones who have known well the mercy of God. Indeed, the best Christians are the ones who know this mercy, too. Indeed, this is the very heart of Jesus that the world longs to touch—“will not believe until.” That is, until we have received and then give.

In only this way will the world trust and come to believe.

Will they trust you, Thomas? Have you so trusted?

New. Life. - Homily for Easter Sunday (2017)

A very blessed Easter to you and your families.

He is risen! He is risen indeed!

A couple of years ago, I had the blessing to visit the catacombs in Rome. The catacombs, as you likely know, are the underground tombs where, during ancient days of persecution, Christians would not only bury their dead, but also celebrate the Holy Mass. I vividly remember the stairway as it plunged me underground. The brown darkness. The stale air and the smell of soil. The muffled sound. The tightness of the confines. Death…. It was there that I offered the Holy Mass.

After an hour or two, I came out of the catacombs and I remember the first taste of fresh air—there was a delightful hint of flowers—which I had taken for granted before I had gone underground. The sunlight was annoyingly bright (and how quickly I had become used to the darkness)! There was a sense of freedom, of openness, …

This was the memory that came to my mind as I prepared the words for today. It is, as I look back, a memory that provides a kind of microcosm of my life. There was a time when I was in a dark place, where the faith was stale and confining—and then there was a time when I began to “seek what is above”; I emerged from the world of death and began to breathe the fresh air of beauty and goodness and truth.

This is the question that all of us are faced with today: that is, at this very moment, in which place are you? Are you in the stale, dreary, lifeless kind of faith? or are you in the world above—where things are new and full of hope? How would you describe your faith right now?

And what is your expectation of Christianity in general? What is your expectation for today? Oftentimes, we expect things to continue as they are. So, if we’ve found little, we oftentimes expect little.

*          *          *

I’m sorry if I’m rambling a little bit today, but I’m really, really tired. We had the Easter Vigil last night and it was totally awesome—30 people came home to the Catholic Church! It was so beautiful. But it is also a really late night and here I am at the Mass at Dawn with you all. If you think this morning’s Mass is long, last night’s Mass lasted over two and a half hours! (And Monsignor was going at a really snappy clip, too!)

It was actually pretty funny: there was a young boy in the front pew—he was one of three to be baptized. And this young boy of about 10 has little idea that this Easter Vigil is going to clock in under three hours. And so we start Mass and it’s dark in here and we get through one reading. And then another. And two readings becomes five. And by the time we reach the homily, we’re nearing one hour!

And maybe I was imagining things, but I think I started to see him slowly—so slowly with each reading—slowly…  start… to…. lean forward….

And before he was able to get any sleep, his godparents brought him and the others to the baptismal font. And Monsignor asked them about whether they renounced Satan and believed in God and they said I do in that “hey, it’s past my bedtime” kind of voice. And then this young boy climbed into the baptismal pool—

And his eyes became wide: “Ooh!” This water's cold!

And Monsignor takes a big bucket of water and says “… I baptize you in the Name of the Father”—and pours the cold water on the boy. And he goes: “Oh—Brrrrhhrrrhrhrh!”

And before he can catch his breath, Monsignor pours more water: “… and of the Son…”—And now the young boy is laughing! Laughing not in the “this is silly” kind of way, but in the “this is totally awesome, invigorating, I don’t know else to respond” kind of way.

And by the time the third pour with the words “And of the Holy Spirit” were said, I knew what was happening. This young boy was being woken up. He was being filled with the Holy Spirit. This was a new day—a day that would never be forgotten. Shoot, I’ll never forget it. (I nearly laughed myself silly and cried at the same time. It was beautiful).

*          *          *

I say all this because at the very heart of Christianity is the belief in tremendous—miraculous!—transformation. Jesus died. He was as dead as a doornail. And then three days later, He is raised from the dead. This isn’t reincarnation. This isn’t re-animation. This is the Father filling His Son with a whole new and glorious life.

And it is totally reasonable to believe this. I mean, not only do the guys-in-power see it, but the women do too. Their voices matter-- or, at least, I think so. Of course, we may have learned something silly in college that filled us with doubt and plunged our faith into darkness. And we would have dismissed the ridiculousness of our misguided professors if but for one thing: some of us had already started to doubt the truth of Christianity. For those of us, we had begun to doubt because we didn’t see the tremendous, miraculous change in the very lives of those around us who claimed to be Christian. I mean, so what if this Jesus died and rose—what difference does that make in my life?

Let's admit it: for many of us, the life of faith, like that Easter Vigil, had grown long and tiresome. We have lost some of the eager expectation that was the hallmark of our beginnings in that faith. 

*          *          *

At the heart of Christianity is the scandalous assertion that this crucifixion-resurrection drama can play out not only in the life of Christ, but in every person who welcomes it. How many lives of the saints—men and women just like you and me—how many of their lives start in less than heroic (ok, let’s just say it: sinful!) ways? I mean, you think you and I are horrible sinners? Tell that to St. Paul or Augustine or Ignatius!

The Father of the Prodigal Son, on seeing his return, cries out: “My son was lost and is now found! He was dead and is now alive!”

Those words—we’re always using those words about ourselves and about forgiveness and so on. You see? The Resurrection not only shows us the victory of Christ; but it also reveals to us the very miraculous change of anyone who truly receives this same Jesus. You—you, dear brothers and sisters!—you were dead and are now alive!

This was the whole point of Lent. What was the reason for the season? The reason for Lent is to prepare us for New Life—to transform us from stale, dead ways to the new, fresh breath of new life.

So, for example, when we went to confession, there our Father forgave us of our sins—He freed us from all of that weight of all of that baggage we had been carrying for so long. We were given a new beginning of goodness. When we fasted, we learned about how much we take for granted and how attached we have become to things. That peanut butter and jelly sandwich after a long day’s fast—man, that never tasted so good! That fasting suddenly infused so much beauty and appreciation in something so simple as a PBJ for me. 

… And yeah, maybe your Lent was horrible—maybe you were a total failure. But do you know what? God was doing something in you there. He was making you humble. You see: we often think that holiness and salvation are totally up to us. They’re not. They are firstly up to God. After all, He says, “Without me, you can do nothing.” We don’t really believe that some times. We come up with a stellar plan for Lent and we beat ourselves up when we don’t follow through. Perhaps God is saying: “Ok, did you ask me for help? Do you really believe that you are really actually and totally dependent on me for everything?”

*          *          *

 At the end of the Lenten Season, I look up at the Cross and not only do I see Jesus, my Savior whom I love and owe everything. But at the end of the day, I also see myself. I see everything that was dark and evil and stale and dead in me—I see everything Jesus has taken and crucified. Crucified because He wants me to have a new life, a free life, a beautiful life!

*Looking at the Cross* That’s me before I emerged from the catacombs. That’s me when I was in a dark place: depressed, anxious, searching for meaning, angry, impatient, and resentful …

Amazing Grace: “I was blind, but now I see.”

I was lost but am found. I was dead, but am alive.

I am walking around right now in gold-- you in your Easter dresses and nice, crisp suits. We are all saying: "Hey, we're not in the tomb anymore!" We just have to live that-- which means that the dark parts of our lives need to go up on that Cross and truly die. Only then will we truly experience the beauty of this awesome, transforming Christianity.

The Resurrection is real, my dear friends. And not only because a couple saw it on that Easter morning. But because I have experienced it in my own life, too.

*          *          *

This is my prayer for you today: that our Father can say about us—indeed, that we can say it about ourselves: “I was lost and am now found. I was dead but am now alive!”

I want us to expect this kind of transformation from Christianity again.

I want the world to expect to see this kind of transformation from Christians again.

I pray our Lord may bring this resurrection into our life through the crucifixion of our old, stale lives of sin—I pray that our Lord may do this so that we can attest to the world the reality of our faith. I pray that we can speak this in word and in deed to all—I was dead, but am now alive!—and to proclaim this humbly yet confidently.

I want people to say not only of Jesus Christ, but of each one of us: “Wow, he is risen. He is risen indeed!”

May this be our expectation this Easter. May God grant us this New Life! Amen.