The Flesh and the Rind - Homily for the 17th Sunday in OT (2020, A)

On a hot summer day like this, I occasionally remember playing soccer over at Soccer Park. And I remember my dad bringing to the field orange slices for me and the fellas. At a break during the hot practice, there was nothing better than a juicy orange. Dad cut them into wedges and I’d bite into the flesh of the orange. It would be sweet, refreshing, and its juices would be dripping everywhere. Of course, I would also take the rind of the orange—that hard, outer skin—and put it between my teeth and my lips and make an orange smiley face. What can I say? I was twelve. 

You may be wondering what oranges have to do with today’s reading. Stick with me through one more story. 

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Recently, I finished a book by C.S. Lewis entitled Perelandra. It has become one of my favorite books. (You know C.S. Lewis from the Narnia series or the Screwtape Letters). In this fairy tale for adults, there’s a scene where two men—a bad man and a good man—start talking about really big questions, existential-crisis questions, like: what happens after death? And what is the purpose of this life? 

These were important questions in Lewis' day. He was writing during a dark time not unlike our times.

During the conversation, the two men come to the agreement that life is like an orange—there you go—and, like the orange, life has two parts: the outermost edge (the rind) which is thin and tough and bitter, like the short, bitter years of earthly life; and then there's the innermost fruit (the flesh) which is thick and is like the many, many years of eternity. 

Do you follow me so far? 

Now, here’s the juicy part (… a-hem). 

The two men debate what the inside of the fruit is like—that is, what is eternity like—once you have gotten through the rind of life. The good man says it is sweet: there is an afterlife and there is a heaven. The bad man says that it is rotten and perhaps even empty: there is nothing after life on earth, just death. And ghosts. And no resurrected flesh. Once you have gotten through the rind: nothing.

Here we arrive at a most important question: which one is the Truth? 

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C.S. Lewis will spend the rest of his book, Perelandra, articulating the answer (and if you read it, note the hint he gives with all of the fruit trees in the book). 

But, for those of you who would like to know the answer now, Jesus tells us in the Gospel: Jesus says, “The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure buried in a field, which a person finds and hides again, and out of joy goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.” 

[Stop there for a moment—commercial break. 

There is something very, very important that you need to know when you read Jesus’ parables: they are NOT firstly about what we must do (like, “what’s the moral of the story?”). I mean, they kind of are. But only because the parables tell us firstly about who Jesus is. That’s important. 

So, for example, the Parable of the Good Samaritan, while it exhorts us to be a good Samaritan, is not firstly about us being called to be good Samaritans. It is firstly about who Jesus is: He is The Good Samaritan. Only when we have understood that can we ourselves do the same. 

End of commercial.]

Ok, so when Jesus talks about the buried treasure in the field and the man who sells everything for it, the first take away is not about what we must do; our first take away needs to be about who Jesus is. And who is Jesus? Jesus is the buried treasure. 

Buried treasure? Yes. After all, what happens after Jesus dies? – He is buried. 

Buried treasure. 

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The question is: is the treasure worth selling everything for? Or, to use the orange analogy: after Jesus passes through the bitter rind of death, is the flesh rotten or is it sweet? 

Thomas the Apostle poses that very problem when he says: “I will not believe until I see the wounds in His hands and place my fingers in His sides.” That is: “I’m not gonna sell anything of my life until I know it’s worth buying.” 

Fair enough, Thomas. 

And you know how the story goes. Jesus, on the next week following His Resurrection from the dead, approaches Thomas. And Thomas places his hands in Jesus’ hands and in His side and declares: “My Lord and my God!” Why the exclamation? Because Jesus was gloriously alive. After the bitter rind of death, the flesh was still sweet. Thomas had found, under the rind of life, the buried treasure. 

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Now we can address Jesus’ moral exhortation to “sell everything” so as to buy the field containing this treasure. 

So, practically, what is Jesus asking us to do here? 

In a word, He is asking you to give your life. And He is saying it is worth giving your life. 

It’s why saints—like Francis Assisi—would literally sell everything to go and pursue Jesus. It’s why many Catholics have freely chosen celibacy and poverty and obedience—in religious life or priesthood, for example. Or in married life: the couple freely chooses children even at the sacrifice of personal aspirations. Riches in this bitter rind are nothing in comparison to the riches in eternity. 

King Solomon didn’t want power or riches or vengeance on his enemies. He knew that, if he obtained all of that stuff, great, but it wouldn’t last beyond the seventy years of this life. In fact, some of the power and riches and vengeance would just make more problems—and thus make the rind all the tougher and bitter. 

Instead, King Solomon asks for wisdom, to know what is true and good and everlasting. He wants the sweetness, the thicker flesh of the fruit. He is willing to give his life for that. 

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And here’s the deal (Truth Bomb ™  alert): You are already selling your life for something. 

You are. With each second, each minute that ticks away, you are spending your life, selling it for something. 

The question is: are you selling it for the bitter rind or for the sweet fruit of eternity? 

What Jesus is telling you is that the time in prayer that you spend will be much more worth the time you waste on your phone. The time you spend in study or adoration will be much more profitable than the time you spend worrying about the news. The treasure you freely give away to others will be much more well spent than the treasure you hoard for yourself. 

The clear imbalance of heaven’s worth as vastly superior to the rind of life is what motivated St. John of the Cross and the Carmelites to have a healthy detachment from the things of this world. It’s what motivated the saints to stand up for the faith and for God and for His Church when mobs throughout human history have spat riotous and profaning volleys through the air. It is this most basic principle that has brought joy to those who were given the blessing—blessing—of being martyred. 

And, brothers and sisters, martyrdom—and I mean not a spiritual one, but an actual physical martyrdom—is now very possible in our lifetimes. 

The only way that you would be ready for that is if you start selling your life for Christ. 

You’re already selling it for something.

It’s just: are you buying the tough, bitter rind of thin years of earthly pleasure or are you buying the forever-abiding and sweet, eternal life which is the buried treasure, Jesus Christ?

The Long Game - Homily for the 16th Sunday in OT (A)

(Audio can be found by clicking here)

When I was a seminarian, I had the privilege to know a very holy pastor, a pastor who had inherited a very messy parish. There were so many fires to put out, so much evil to address, and, Lord help us, a ton of politics and infighting that polluted the spiritual lungs and heart of what should have been a very vibrant parish. This holy pastor, zealous as he was, seemed to me, a zealous seminarian, to be making a grave mistake: for all intents and purposes, he appeared to be doing nothing about it.

I was a little scandalized. And a little frustrated. Why was he doing nothing? Wasn’t he a holy pastor? Wasn’t he zealous? Didn’t he love God and his people?

Perhaps you have had a similar experience with a boss at work. Or maybe you’ve thought such things of your spouse and whether they care for the house or the discipline of the kids. Why won’t so-and-so do something about it?

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Years later, another holy pastor told me a parable. He appealed to my love of the mountains and said, “If you had a bunch of snow and you wanted to change the mountainous landscape, how would you do it?”

Well, I thought to myself, there are two ways: either by avalanche or by glacier.

The avalanche is fast and dramatic while the glacier is slow—yet, they both change the landscape. But, consider what a mountain looks like fifty years after an avalanche. Yes, an avalanche takes down all the trees and some rocks, perhaps some unfortunate skiiers, too, and after it all you can see the chute down which it ran. For several years, in fact, you will be able to see the avalanche chute simply because the absence of the trees. But come back in fifty years and all the trees will be back. Hikers may never know that an avalanche once passed through here.

But consider the glacier. Yes, it is slow. But it takes everything with it. Slowly grinding, slowing sculpting—painfully slow. But when it is gone, the landscape will have been changed forever. The valley that it has made, the moraines, the lakes—the whole new landscape, hikers will see that for thousands of years and they will say, Wow, it’s amazing to think that a glacier did this….

I understood the pastor who had much to address but who took small steps to address it. He was taking the glacier approach. It wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t sexy, but in the end it would change the parish forever. What I didn’t see in my zeal was the importance of the long game.

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And, admittedly, the long game is frustrating. Whether it is going to the gym and starting slow and just being consistent; or parenting and being calm and merciful day in and day out; or growing in a particular virtue; or saving money—the long game can be a struggle. Is it worth it? we may tend to ask. After all, we don’t want to lose. We don’t like losing and the humiliation that comes with it. We want to be good parents and not failures. And, well, in the long game, there seem to be so many instances of humiliation and failure that we then start to doubt the long game’s worth. It would be easier, we think, to just take the reins, be in control, and win the battle now—save for the fact that it may just cost us the war.

This is particularly evident when it comes to God. Our heavenly Father clearly operates by the long game. Although He is the “master of might" and “power attends [him]” such that He can call on it “whenever [He] wills,” says the Book of Wisdom, God judges “with clemency” and He governs us “with much lenience.” When the servants ask the Master if they should pull up the weeds, Jesus tells them to wait. The time will come, but not now. Later. Long game.

And that’s frustrating. We want evil to be remedied now. We want darkness and sin to be gone now. We want the Coronavirus to be over now. Shoot, even the holy apostles (saints) James and John, when they saw a Samaritan village being unwelcoming to Jesus, begged Him, “Lord, do you want us to call down fire from heaven and consume them?” (Lk 9:54)

Not yet, Sons of Thunder. Not yet.

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But why not?

And doesn’t the Lord understand that He comes off as being… indifferent?

How many people now think, with great presumption in their hearts, that they can do evil and break the commandments, rationalizing it all by saying: “God will not see, He does not take notice” (Psalm 94:7)? Some have even grown so disillusioned that they think God simply does not exist; for if He did, He would intervene—and now. Some even blame God for the evil, unheeding of Jesus when He says, “An enemy has done this.”

Which brings us back to the question: Why doesn’t God uproot the evil now?

Hear the answer from the Book of Wisdom. It says,

            You taught your people, by these deeds

            That those who are just must be kind;

            And you gave your children good ground for hope

            That you would permit repentance for their sins.

So there are two reasons why God seemingly waits. First, to give us an example of forbearance and kindliness. And, second (stemming from that), to provide an opportunity for evildoers to repent.

“Do not pull up the weeds,” says Our Lord, “for you may pull up the wheat with them.”

That is to say, do not pull up the weeds right yet, for if you do, you may actually be pulling up their opportunity to convert. Give them time.

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And yes, to wait like this is frustrating. And it makes us vulnerable. And, oftentimes when evil seems to be winning all the battles, we feel out of control and humiliated. The question Will we really win the war? may even enter our hearts.

But do you remember the story of the avalanche and the glacier? Think for a moment: what are both made of?

They are made of small, light, fluffy, harmless little flakes of snow….

The very thing that causes a great change and what has tremendous force and power—can be laughingly caught and held in the delighted palms of children.

Hence the parable of the mustard seed immediately follows the parable of the weeds and wheat. It is as though Jesus is saying: I know you doubt my power and the effectiveness of the long game, but you would also misjudge the significance of the mustard seed, too. But don’t you see? That little, insignificant seed grows into a formidable tree. Do you not think that I, who appear insignificant—even becoming a little babe at Christmas or the small host in the Eucharist—do you think that I am not formidable?

Do you not think that I will outlast evil? I am the Alpha and the Omega—evil will not out-persevere me, it will not out-last me. So take heart!

Indeed, Lord, “you show your might when the perfection of your power is disbelieved.”

There will be vindication. There will be judgment. The weeds—the evildoers and those who cause others to sin—they will find their fiery reward. But for those who persevere to the end, you will find your glory!

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So, yes: be in it for the long game. Run the race—the marathon—of faith, as Paul calls it.

Repent of your temerity: your mistrust, your presumption, your lukewarmness, and your doubt.

And start again to do the small things—the seemingly insignificant things—day in and day out. That small Act of Faith, or that small sacrifice, or that little prayer, or that unnoticeable growth in virtue that only your heavenly Father can see-- that seed of starting-small and slowly growing from there…

These and all those around you and the grace of God-- it will all add up like the little, seemingly insignificant fluffs of snow, into a great and powerful glacier. Mountains will be moved, valleys filled, and all will be changed forever!

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

And There Was Rest - Homily for the 14th Sunday in OT (2020)

Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest.

Recently, the Lord blessed me with some time away in the remote mountains of Western Colorado. There, nestled among the sublime, snow-capped peaks and a valley of pine trees, He gave me rest along a small, snow-fed stream with my small orange tent beside it. Each afternoon, typically after a morning hike, I would sit beside the clear waters of the stream and pray, meditating as the cool waters poured and bubbled past. I had my book of prayers with me and, during one of those afternoons, I reflected upon the words of St. Gregory of Nyssa.

Here are the words I reflected upon: “Jesus is like a pure, untainted stream. If you draw from him the thoughts in your mind and the inclinations of your heart, you will show a likeness to Christ, your source and origin, as the gleaming water in a jar resembles the flowing water from which it was obtained” (Office of Readings, Tuesday, OT 12).

In other words, the clarity which Jesus brings will dispel the murky waters in which we often live. Are you troubled or confused by these days? Come to the Lord, come to Him and rest. And in that rest, reach down into the stream of His holiness and draw the clear and cool water of His holiness, His Wisdom, His Charity. The jar which is your soul, murky by the mud and fog of the world, will be made clear again. “Gleaming,” radiant, bright—says St. Gregory. You will be able to see and find joy again.

And so Jesus says, “Come to me.” “Come to me and I will give you rest.”

To rest with Jesus is not a luxury, but a necessity. So necessary that He even commands it: rest today, Sunday; it is the Day of Rest. Else you will become like machines: hardened, stressed, broken, discarded. You are made to be refreshed. I want you to have joy. So come to me, come to me and rest. Put aside the worries of the world and its news cycle. It will be there tomorrow; those things will not change in one day. Do not worry about tomorrow. Rest in me today.

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I have found that when I rest on Sunday and when I take time in nature or on a retreat—and all are necessary and not luxuries—when I rest with Jesus, I receive such a greater perspective and a greater clarity about who I am, about who Jesus is, and what He wants me to do and say in this world.

May I give you just one point of clarity that I received while I sat and prayed along the stream?

Here it is. Topics of race, religion, and politics are oftentimes perceived as very murky. For the Catholic, we take seriously the example of Jesus when He says, “You who are without sin, cast the first stone” and “Why do you worry about the splinter in your brother’s eye, but do not address the wooden beam in your own?” I reference these particular words of Our Lord because, at their heart, Jesus teaches that a person is not defined by their worst action. Rather, they are defined by their final action. Saint Dismas—you know him as the one who was crucified next to Jesus-- was a criminal, a thief, a revolutionary, and (it was believed) a murderer. But he was not judged by Jesus before his death. Indeed, at the very hour of his death, Dismas was given a chance for repentance. And when Dismas repented, he was transformed from being one of the worst sinners into one of the greatest saints. “Today,” said our Lord to Dismas, “you will be with me in paradise.”

Jesus’ prohibition for us to condemn our neighbor and instead to address our own need for conversion was done not simply because He wants us to be kind to our neighbor. Jesus additionally wants us to believe in the conversion of our neighbor—to have hope for his or her salvation.

This was the point of clarity I had: In our culture, would Dismas truly be afforded the opportunity and hope of conversion—or would he simply be written off?

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There is a very fatal error being made in some of our attempts to make sense of the various opinions, rebellions, and riots of our day. The fatal error is to have an attitude that judges, defines, and then discards a person or a group of people based on a particular fault, oversight, crime, or sin—and to do so indiscriminately and without any real and consistent standard of judgment—and thus to cancel out any hope for conversion and, likewise, any gifts they may have to give for the benefit of our community.

This is called Cancel Culture.

For example: cancel culture sees a black person stealing something and cancels out all black people by concluding: “All black people are thieves.” Or cancel culture sees a police officer being brutal to another person and concludes: “All police officers are racists.”

This list goes on. “All priests are pedophiles.” “All politicians are corrupt.” “All baseball players are steroid users.”

Judgments of an entire people based on the worst actions of a few, without any hope of conversion and without any desire for their salvation, are totally contrary to Jesus Christ. Indeed, in our humility, we must all of us add: “But for the grace of God, there go I.”

Sure, we know better than some of the past. But, if we are honest, many of the reasons why we know better is because of the mistakes—and conversion—that our forebears experienced. We should have a humble gratitude towards our past, not vitriol.

Indeed, cancel culture is not immune to mistakes. In focusing on the past, it forgets the future. It forgets that the future will judge us! And will our future generations be gentle or brutal in their judgments?—of the way we treated babies in abortion, for example, or women in pornography and the sex-slave trade, or the elderly in our neglect of them? How long will a statue of any Twenty-First Century American stand if it should stand in a Twenty-Second Century cancel culture?

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Personally, while I find the tearing down of statues lamentable for various reasons—more historical, educational, and symbolic than sentimental—I also realize that all statues come down. All nations come down. And all will be judged at the Return of The King according to their deeds and not according to the courts of popular opinion.

The battle is not simply with racism—for few, I have come to understand, are truly such. The battle is within: to fight against the devil’s temptations to judge all as racist; to fight against attitudes that cancel out people as enemy; to battle the temptation to live in a hopelessness that does not afford another conversion; to battle and refuse the temptation that says it is my right to sit as judge over all in the murkiness of it all.

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Such were my thoughts as I prayed along the stream with Jesus Christ. And I surrendered all to Him: to Him belongs the judgment, He who made the mountains and fashioned the valleys, He who gives the growth and who numbers our days.

And I resolved there and then that should I see a black man or a white man, a police officer or a politician, a baseball player or a priest, a rich man or a poor man—that I would approach them as Jesus would approach me: as a man in need of rest, of conversion, and a little hope along the way.

And as I gave all to Him, I found that there was a great victory in the battle of my heart. And there was rest. Finally.

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