To Keep Watch - Homily for the First Sunday of Advent (B, 2020)

Many years ago, when I felt I was invincible, I would drive home for the holidays from grad school. The drive was about nine hours and I’d leave after classes, which meant I’d be driving through the most boring state in the Union (which is Illinois—sorry, Illinois). So there I was, in the car, surrounded by boredom, in the dark, getting tired. 

So, I had to struggle to keep the car between the lines. I wanted to get home and not into a ditch. And so I took radical steps to make sure I got home. I’d pull my arm hair. I’d roll down the windows in the cold of winter. I’d sing-yell the Star Spangled Banner. And, if push came to shove, I’d stop at a rest area and throw cold water on my face. Anything to stay awake and make it home. 

When Jesus tells us to “watch” today, there is that same kind of flavor to his words. He says to us vigilate (not, vigilante)—vigilate, which means (from the Latin) to keep watch and to keep vigil. Specifically, vigilate has the sense of a guard on a city wall or a city tower overlooking the fields beyond the city. The guard there would “keep watch,” on the lookout. 

And, in particular, the guard would be on the watch for two things. First, and most obviously, for danger: an approaching army; a sandstorm; etc. And the guard would alert the city to this bad news so that it would arm itself against the danger. 

The guard would also be on the watch for good news: when the boys came home from battle; or the king returning from a long journey. The guard, seeing the king, would quickly and joyfully announce to the city this good news—another word for which is gospel, good news. 

So, when Jesus tells us to “watch,” it is not a passive watching as of television, but a readiness for the news—bad or good. 

What is quite interesting for us today is that Jesus tells Peter to vigilate when they are at the gates of the Garden of Gethsemane just two days prior to the famous Agony. Jesus tells Peter to vigilate there at the gates, in a way deputing Peter to be the guardsman on the watch when, later on, a lookout is needed at Gethsemane—which there will be. 

At Gethsemane, Jesus tells the Apostles to keep watch and to pray. They fall asleep. Including Peter. Jesus returns and says, “Could you not stay awake and vigilare for even an hour?” It was late at night. 

Now, Jesus had told Peter to be on guard not only throughout the night—“from evening, to midnight…”—but even to the first light: “cockcrow.” 

Cockcrow. 

That word sounds familiar. It’s at cockcrow when Peter denies Jesus three times. 

But here’s the thing: why did Jesus place Peter on the watch? On the one hand, yes: Peter was supposed to be on the lookout for when Judas, the betrayer, and the enemies arrived. Peter was supposed to alert the Apostles about the bad news. Not a fun gig, but that was his given mission. But, on the other hand, those guards of vigilate were also supposed to be on the lookout for good news. Peter was supposed to be the one who was supposed to be on watch through the night, to the first light, and then announce to all the city of Jerusalem—with great witness and great joy—that Jesus is the Messiah, the Savior, who comes with great gifts, the greatest of which is heaven itself! 

But instead of proclaiming that good news, Peter denies Jesus. So, not only did Peter fail to alert about danger, he also failed to announce about the good. It was a bad night for Peter. He had driven off the road. 

I think there is a message here for us as we begin Advent—as strange as it is to start this season with a reflection on Gethsemane. 

You see, when it comes to staying awake—to keeping the car on the road and getting home, if you will—staying awake and keeping vilgilate requires that we avoid three extremes. And they are not three extremes "out there," but "in here," in the soul. Peter fell asleep not simply because of things out there, but because he was not awake "in here."

First, we need to avoid sullen pessimism. It is very easy to become discouraged and depressed in these days and, when we are that way, it is easier to just stay in bed and sleep. The sullen pessimist who is always focusing on the bad is not on watch for the good. In fact, the pessimist is really quite bad at being an actual alert when actual danger arrives. What I mean by that is: do you know the story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf? The pessimist is the boy who is always saying, “The wolves are coming! The wolves are coming!” And when the wolves don’t come, people stop listening to the boy—such that, when the wolves actually do arrive, no one listens to the boy. Which makes him a bad watchman. 

The pessimist needs to roll down the windows of their car (that is, their soul) and let in some good. Perhaps they can take a lesson from children who eagerly await presents on Christmas Eve. Have you ever noticed children on Christmas Eve? You can’t get them to fall asleep! You have to force them because they are fighting sleep! And why? Because they believe and are excited about what will come at first light: the good news: the gifts! So, pessimists: each day this Advent, think of three things that are good. 

That’s the one extreme. The other extreme are the unbridled optimists. These are the ones who don’t just simply look on the bright side of things, but whose heads are so in the clouds that they miss the real troubles in life. There are fewer of them these days, but they are worth mentioning, because they too make bad watchmen—not only because they can easily be asleep to the real evils that attack our souls, but also because, as they have an imaginary idea of the good, when the good actually comes—in the flesh, Jesus Christ—they fail to actually see and announce it. 

The unbridled optimist, to use the analogy of the car again—the unbridled optimist needs to pull the hair on their arm and become aware of the pain that really afflicts people. Abortion is a real and grave evil. Atheistic communism and the persecution of religions is a real and grave evil. Poverty, homelessness, domestic violence, the sex-slave trade, consumerism, and the destruction of child’s creative imagination and social skills because we throw gadgets at them—these are all real evils that require our engagement. And not mere fluffy idealisms and happy thoughts. Each day, this Advent, you happy optimists need to encounter someone in need. 

That was the second extreme. The final extreme is lazy, apathetic, indifferent, self-centered consumerists and relativists—who shrug their shoulders at both the good and the bad. “Meh,” they say when Jesus is announced. “Whatever,” they mumble when faced with evil. They are already asleep. A good bit of cold water to the face would do them well.

Because they don’t even realize their peril. They think that sleeping is perfectly okay when driving a car. Like Peter, who didn't believe the bad or the good was important enough to pray and keep vigil about when Jesus asked. It is too bad that, since we are on this long, boring road in the night, we cannot see the carnage from all of the cars who have driven off the side of the road. Please, wake up. You need to keep your car between the lines—your soul safe from danger by keeping the Ten Commandments. If you don’t wake up, you may never wake up. I know this temptation. And that’s why I take it seriously. 

Because I’m announcing to you all good news and bad news. The good news that home awaits. The bad news that you could crash if we fall asleep. Therefore, vigilate! 

After all, Christmas is just a few weeks away. That’s good news for some of you. Bad news for others. And it really all depends on how awake you are. 

My prayer is that we may all be at the ready—vigilate—for when our Lord comes, so that you will have a joyful and wonderful Christmas.

The Books of 2020

Despite all of the darkness surrounding this year and the pandemic, there have been many graces—or, at least, opportunities for them. 

For me, one of those graces has been the rediscovery of writing. Another has been the rediscovery of a good book. 

In Iceland, there is the tradition of giving books as gifts on Christmas Eve. The cold, dark, and long evenings are then spent reading the gifted books. In fact, in Iceland, some 93% of the population reads at least one book in a year. 

With that in mind, I offer here a few words about some of the better books I’ve read this year. Perhaps one of them will find its way into your hands or into the hands of one of your friends or family.

  

 

Out of the Silent Planet, by C.S. Lewis 

            This list starts out with three CS Lewis books. I normally wouldn’t be so Lewis-heavy or even Christian-heavy to start, but these three books are part of his “Space Trilogy” and should be described together. And I hope you aren’t turned off by something described as a “Space Trilogy”—these aren’t really science-fiction books, anyway. They are a “fairy tale for adults,” Lewis says and, more, he doesn’t even like the term “space” as a descriptor of the world above. Rather, he says, they should be called the heavens—because the word “space” makes it seem like there is nothing up there when, in reality, there is a lot going on up there.

            In brief, this short, gripping book revealed that I have—and you the audience has—an incredible bias and prejudice. And you don’t even know it. And when you do discover it, you will be floored—and will never be able to go back to it.

            Books that achieve such a thing in the mind of the reader is worth putting at the top of such a list.

  

 Perelandra

            This is the second book in the Trilogy and it is the best. And that’s saying something given how tremendous an impact Out of the Silent Planet had on me.

            Many who read this book believe it is a re-telling of Adam and Eve. It is not. What it is, however, is an attempt to reclaim in you a worldview you never knew. That’s a heady thing: the concept of a “worldview”—that is, how you think the world to be and what governs it and what contains it and so on.

            While not an explicitly religious book, Perelandra can certainly affect one’s perception of religion (that is, if one connects just a couple of dots). To quote someone who read this book as an agnostic: “I thought the universe was too big for Christianity. After reading this book, I discovered it quite reasonable to think that Christianity was big enough for the universe.”

 

 

That Hideous Strength 

            This is the third and final installment of the Cosmic Trilogy. It is also the hardest to read because it is the most philosophical. It was also written after Lewis’ famous “The Screwtape Letters” and is, in my opinion, his perfection of that book. The points made in The Letters are now refined and given flesh and a moving plot as they are placed in a world with a modern-day feel. (Lewis, with some eerie premonition, describes—a half-century before our time—our current struggles with riots, media, and an academia separate from a transcendental objectivity).

            That is all to say that this book is not for the faint of heart or of mind. Nor is it for small children. Nor for the easily depressive. But it is tremendous, having been published in 1945. And, by the end of it, most readers are tired of playing nice and realize the need to have chests with bravery in them—or else live forever in this book’s world. 

 

 

The Killer Angels, by Michael Shaara 

            In October, I went on retreat in Virginia and, on my way home, I took a lengthy detour to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. Admittedly, I know little about the Civil War and the Battle of Gettysburg—save that it was a major turning point in the war—and even less did I know about Pickett’s Charge. So, when I visited the hallowed grounds and then the Visitor’s Center, I asked the ranger there for a book recommendation: “What is the best introduction ….?”

            This is the book she gave me. And it did not disappoint.

            Far from a description of the battle rife with military jargon, Shaara’s book gives an inside look into the heart and mind and soul of the generals and colonels. He does this having done a ton of homework (reading the histories and the personal letters and journals of the men) for which he won a Pulitzer in 1973. The result is a immensely readable and very truthful narrative that not only gave me a deeper appreciation into the decisions—many tragic—behind the battle, but also a greater appreciation for those who love the South and for why many are correct in wanting to protect the statues of Robert E. Lee. It also showed me the ignorance of those who simply argue “because racism”—but to approach that with a level-headedness anyway; for, above all, Shaara gives—in fits and starts—a greater reflection upon masculinity and what it means to be noble and a gentleman (hint: reflection is crucial—as is its fruit: an appreciation for those on the “other side”).

            The story is tragic as it is beautiful—and his description of tragedy at the end is itself worth the read.

    

A Severe Mercy, by Sheldon Vanauken 

            I read this book in my twenties and it made me fall in love with love and the beauty of love. But this book is not simply an autobiography of two lovers. This is, as Vanauken claims, a autobiography of Love Itself. And he’s right.

            But this is also one of the hardest books that you’ll read. It’s hard because his wife, Davy, dies young and early in the book. (That’s not a spoiler—he tells you straight away). It’s difficult because you see, as Sheldon retells of their falling in love and then their struggles with impending death—it’s a difficult book because you see what love can really, actually be. And that’s hard because, having had that, he loses it. And so the question is asked: “Is it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all?”

            Full of beautiful stories, descriptions of nature, poetry, pieces of music—the book makes you sigh and laugh and cry and then laugh and then sigh again. And I’m a guy.

            But I love how it addresses timely questions—“what is behind the failure of love in couples today” and “how do I grieve and will it end and then what”?—by giving profound (and not trite or preachy) answers. It was on that second question—about grief—that this book hit home for me on this re-read. And it’s amazing that the same book can bring about a totally different perspective on the second go-‘round.

            And for that reason, here it is on my list again. And why I made a special trip to visit their grave and to ask for their intercession.

 

 

 

Happy Are You Poor, by Thomas Dubay 

            Whereas “A Severe Mercy” is a hard read, “Happy Are You Poor” is a dangerous read. A book is dangerous when, as you are reading it (or, once you are done with it), you realize that you either have to jump over the chasm in front of you or be swallowed by the chasm opening up behind and beneath you. That is to say: this book makes clear that you have a decision to make about life.

            And that decision deals with your addiction and dependence on stuff. (Merry Christmas).

            Happy Are You Poor was my spiritual reading and was written by a priest, Dubay, who had made very-readable the lofty spirituality of St. John of the Cross and St. Theresa Avila in his more-popular work “A Fire Within.” That one was more popular because “spirituality” is easy when it can remain in the abstract. “Happy Are You Poor,” however, makes it clear that spirituality must be concrete—or, to quote Flannery O’Connor—to hell with it.

            While at times repetitive (because Dubay knows that some people pick up a book, read a chapter, put it down for months, and then come back—or, even, that some will only read a chapter that seems interesting in the Table of Contents), Dubay offers a tour de force for arguing the importance of a simple life. And he was writing this in 1984—long before minimalism was a thing.

            Of course, minimalism isn’t enough by itself—simplicity for simplicity’s sake—and so he connects it with something deeper. And his critique of "comfortable giving" is brutal.

            By the time I finished the last page, I had purged half of the stuff from my closet and had totally re-worked my spending habits.

            Something that can change life like that—yeah, onto the list it goes!

The Surprise - Homily for Christ the King (2020)

Jesus comes to us this morning as our Great King and the Good Shepherd who, at the Last Judgment, separates the sheep from the goats. Typically, when I hear the Word of God proclaimed, I feel a certain levity, a lightness—since it is Jesus, the Eternal Springtime, who I meet in these words. But when I began to reflect on these readings, I felt a certain heaviness, a weight on me. 

I brought this to Jesus and we talked about it. At first, I thought it was just the shorter, darker days; or perhaps it was the pandemic or current events. But that wasn’t it. (Although, those are certainly reasons to feel a kind of heaviness). 

I turned to the Gospel and re-read where Jesus says to “feed the hungry” and “give drink to the thirsty.” And I felt the heaviness again there—because, well, all of what Jesus says there seems to be a honey-do list. And sometimes I feel like I don’t need another thing to be told to do. 

But that wasn’t it either. 

And then I thought some more and I realize: all of these things—feeding the hungry, visiting the sick, and so on—all of these things Jesus did and often to miraculous results. Five loaves and two fish to feed thousands, restoring sight to the blind, visiting Peter’s mother-in-law who was sick with a fever. So, when Jesus tells me to do these things, He is clearly not being hypocritical. He does them, too. 

So what was the heaviness about? 

It was this: I saw Jesus feeding others, helping others, caring for others, even asking me to do the same. But deep down I was feeling and saying: “But, Lord, when do you do those things for me?” I mean, I was happy that Jesus helped others. But when did you do these things for me? 

I didn’t realize it, but deep down I was throwing a pity party. And that’s kind of embarrassing to tell you, because generally I think life is good—but we all have those moments and we all have that temptation. And Jesus allowed me to feel this heaviness so that He and I could talk about it in prayer. And so that’s what we did. 

And this is what He said in that time of prayer. It was meant for me, but perhaps some of you may benefit from it. 

When you were hungry, Anthony, He began in his reply to me, I the Bread of Angels and the Bread of Life fed you. From the time you were infant nursing, you have had many breakfasts and snacks and dinners—and even my body in the Eucharist. I have fed you. 

And when you were thirsty, I the Life-Giving Waters gave you drink: that cool water after a hike, the celebratory wine at a wedding reception—every day you have had had something to drink (have you noticed that?)—even so much as my blood in the Eucharist. 

And when you were naked, I who am clothed in the Splendor and Glory of the Most High have always given you clothes. You’ve always had an abundance of clothes. Even when you were naked at your baptism, I clothed you in a white garment, a sign of all of those graces poured out for you from the sacrifice of the Cross. 

And when you were ill—I, the Divine Physician, have always cared for you. You have had a few miraculous healings and don’t even know it. And all those sniffles and fevers—and even this pandemic—and more, even those spiritual illness that you have had in your life, I have been caring for you and healing you. 

And when you were grounded and alone or isolated, for those have been your prisons—that, and your fear and anxiety and sin—I who am always imprisoned in the tabernacle and the confessional have always visited you. Have you not noticed that there has always been a little light no matter the darkness? 

I had to sit with that for a while. 

Realizing that Jesus loves me—and not simply generally, but in these personal, intimate ways—realizing this is (how do I express this in words?)… Realizing this is everything. 

I feel I should explain that a little. 

When the good sheep, the heaven-bound souls, meet the Lord and He tells them that, when they fed the hungry, they were feeding Him—When Jesus tells them that, the heaven-bound are surprised. They are surprised that they were serving Him. 

But here’s the thing: the surprise is more than just being surprised about Jesus’ hidden identity (for even the goats, the hell-bound souls, are surprised by Jesus’ hidden identity). 

The “deeper” surprise is that the heaven-bound are surprised that they had fed Him who had fed them. “Hold on, wait,” they say in surprised and elated joy, “You mean to tell me that the One who had fed me all of my life came to me looking for food?” 

The good sheep know that Jesus has loved them personally, intimately in the small details of life and they are surprised that they, in loving another person in need—personally, intimately, and in the small details of life—had loved Him that way, too. 

The best way I can describe the surprise here is the experience of a husband and wife who, in their love for each other, happen to get each other the same thing for Christmas. There is joy, there is laughter, and there is this great, contented sigh of love and discovering—and re-discovering—how much love there has always been. Yes, we have both loved each other, they can say. 

All of this can be summarized in one simple sentence: the good souls realize that, at their Judgment, the One who is judging them is the One who has always loved them. I will be judged by my best friend: Jesus. 

Isn’t that lovely? 

And it’s true. And there would be little fear in that, wouldn’t there—being judged by your friend? 

Here, then, we can say one thing about the bad goats, the hell-bound souls. They are surprised by Jesus’ hidden identity, too. And in that surprise, they do something peculiar: They gloss over the words of Jesus. 

That doesn’t seem like much, so I should probably explain. 

The good sheep, they say: “When did we see you hungry and feed you? Or thirsty and give you drink? When did we see you naked and clothe you?” They go through the entire list with Jesus. But the bad goats—they gloss over all of that and simply say: When did we see you these things “and not minister to you?” 

There is an important point here. 

In glossing over the very acts of love, they reveal that they never knew the friendship of Jesus. They may have said, “Yeah, Jesus loves us but never really admitted that He loves me personally, intimately, in the small details of life. He may love me … generally… in an ambiguous way… But He doesn’t actually feed me and clothe me. He doesn’t really care like that.” 

And precisely because they glossed over Jesus’ love for them, they glossed over the call to love others. Their love was general, ambiguous, tinged with apathy, never messy, always sterile, and typically with anger or resentment at having been asked or obliged to ever do so. Their so-called love was not personal, nor intimate enough to love in the small details. 

And because there was this glossing over, the surprise did not have the permeating joy like that of lovers. Rather, the surprise came with a defensiveness revealed by the words: “We didn’t know.” 

And that’s the point. They didn’t know the friendship of Jesus. 

Which brings us full circle: I was experiencing that pity party and that heaviness because I was questioning Jesus’ friendship. 

And maybe that’s our challenge for today. To let it soak in that Jesus has fed you and given you drink and clothed you and healed you and cared for you and visited you all your life and in all of its small, personal details. You were once poor and have been made rich.

As you soak in that, you will want others to know that love. You’ll help others. 

And, in the end, when you come to your judgment, you will be surprised, too. That the One who has always loved you and whom you loved in the poor and the needy was your friend and a royal King, God Himself: Jesus Christ.

Two Days from Tuesday - An Explanation of the Parable of the Ten Virgins - 32nd Sunday in OT (A, 2020)

This morning, I’m sure many of you would like me to comment on the election. … And I’m sure some of you are also thinking, “Lord, please, no! Nothing more on the election!” But, while I shouldn’t say much, nor should I say nothing, I think today’s parable—the Parable of the Ten Virgins—gives us plenty of wisdom to reflect upon in our present moment. So, I personally will say no more on the election, but as I speak I believe the Holy Spirit will speak His Wisdom...

In order to draw out that wisdom, I’m going to take a slightly different approach today in my homily than I usually do. First, I’m going to explain a few of the details of the parable and explain them a little (what academics call a little exegesis). Then, I’m going to provide two important notes about the geography of where Jesus says the parable and of when He says the parable. And from there, I think we will quickly find the real-world application today. 

That said, I want to point out that what I’m about to give you is not my personal interpretation. This interpretation comes from the Patristic Fathers—that is, from those who were taught by the Apostles themselves or from those taught by them. A nice collection of these can be found in St. Thomas Aquinas’ Cantena Aurea. 

 

The Symbolism within the Parable 

So, as we begin the parable, we meet ten virgins. These ten virgins represent the entirety of humanity. We note that they are divided in half—five being wise and five being foolish—as humanity often is. Please note: Jesus does not say two are wise and eight are foolish. We often think that there are so few wise—or that the wise are a minority—but here Jesus numbers them as half. 

These ten virgins, all of them, are waiting. And for whom are they waiting? The bridegroom—that is, Jesus. 

Why are they waiting? They are waiting because, for some reason, the bridegroom is not there. And He is delayed. But the virgins all know that He is coming. This is a description of our current moment: Jesus ascended into heaven (and is thus, in a way, not here) and we are all waiting for the end of time when He shall “come again.” But, humanity has been waiting for a while. He is delayed. 

While the ten virgins (that is, all of humanity) waits for Him, Jesus tell us they all become “drowsy and fall asleep.” Paul, in our second reading (from his letter to the Thessalonians—which is a letter whose theme is very much about the end of all times)—Paul says, “I do not want you to be unaware… about those who have fallen asleep, so that you may not grieve like the rest who have no hope.” In other words, when Jesus says that the virgins “fell asleep,” He was saying that they died. All of humanity will die waiting. 

Then, at midnight—that is, in the darkest hour when no one expects the Messiah to return—the bridegroom, Jesus, is announced as coming. The messengers, whom we call angels, cry out in a “trumpet blast”: “Come out to meet Him!” 

But, remember, the virgins are dead. And we bury the dead. So, when the angels say “come out,” they mean “come out of your tombs.” This is the resurrection of the dead. The dead “wake up” and are raised from their graves when Jesus comes at the end of time. 

What happens next? 

Jesus says that the foolish members of humanity, when taking their lamps, brought no… oil… with them. 

Lamps… oil… what do they symbolize? The lamps represents the human soul. And the oil—the oil comes from the press, from the olive that is crushed. That is to say, the oil are the sufferings and sacrifices that we have offered to God in love when we felt pressed and crushed. 

The wise have this oil. They have lived a life of sacrificial love. And, as a result, their souls, the lamps, have the bright light that comes from this oil of sacrificial love on fire with the Holy Spirit. 

The foolish do not have this oil and thus do not have this light in this dark, midnight hour. 

So, when Jesus comes, the foolish scurry about, looking for this oil but find none. (Earthly life is the time to be pressed into oil; but in death, there is nothing more to be pressed).  So, the foolish ask the wise for some oil. And the wise, in their wisdom, speak something that seems to be harsh. The wise say: “go … and buy [it] for yourselves.” 

What does this mean? The wise are pointing out that the foolish, during their early life, had always sought comforts in the world, buying those comforts by selling their lives. Judas bought thirty pieces of silver by selling Christ. Judas thought he could buy his own salvation—and that’s why he was foolish. Thus, the wise are simply pointing out that how the foolish lived on earth is how the foolish will live in eternity: as fools: trying to buy their way into heavenly comfort without carrying the pressing Cross. And the wise can do nothing about that now in death. 

While the foolish are away, doing what they have always done, Jesus the bridegroom comes and brings the wise into the wedding feast with Him—that is heaven. 

The foolish come back and everyone is gone and it is still dark. This is hell. They find the doors locked and, without any humility, they command Jesus to open the door. They call Him “Lord,” for all will know Him as Lord. But Jesus replies: “I do not know you.” 

Now, of course, Jesus does know them—He is God and He knows all the hairs on our head. But what He is saying is: “We did not share the same love together. I extended my heart to you, but you refused. I carried the Cross for you, but you were nowhere to be found. I do not know you.” 

The doors remain locked—which means this is forever. 

Jesus then ends the parable with the warning: “Stay awake, for you know neither the day nor the hour.” 

 

A Geographical Note 

So, that is the explanation of the parable. I want to take a little detour and tell you about Mount Olives. Mount Olives is where Jesus ascended into heaven, forty days after His Crucifixion and Resurrection. Mount Olives, too, is where the prophets foretold that the Messiah would come at the end of time. 

At the base of Mount Olives, there is an olive press. This is where olives would be crushed so as to create oil. Next to that olive press there at the base of Mount Olives is a Garden. You know this garden: it is the Garden of Gethsemane—the place where Jesus was in agony during the night before He died. 

When I was on pilgrimage there, the tour guide told us that the word “Gethsemane” means, get this, olive press. 

Thus, in the Garden of Gethsemane—the Garden of the Olive Press—Jesus Himself is being pressed, crushed, under the weight of our sins. He sweats blood—the oil from the olive. 

And what were the foolish virgins lacking? … that very oil. 

This is all very mind-blowing, I think. But why do I mention all of this about Mount Olives and the Olive Press and the Garden of Gethsemane. It’s not just to make the connection about the virgins’ lamps and their oil. 

The reason is this: because Jesus taught His disciples this parable at the base of Mount Olives. 

That is, while He is telling all of this about the coming again of the Messiah, He could be pointing “up there” to the peak of Mount Olives—as though to say: this will happen and I will come again, even when I am delayed. 

And as He says the parable, the Garden of Gethsemane would be right over His shoulder. And He could point “over there” to the Garden and say, “Stay awake, for you know not the day nor the hour.” 

In fact, what does Jesus say in the Garden of Gethsemane: “Peter, will you not stay awake with me for one hour?” Peter, this is the hour that I was talking about! 

 

A Timeline Note 

Here, I must give you one final detail and that is about when Jesus told His disciples this parable. He doesn’t tell them weeks, months, or years before the Agony in the Garden. 

Jesus tells them just two days prior. The Agony in the Garden happens on a Thursday night. The teaching of the Ten Virgins happens when Jesus visited Gethsemane on that Tuesday afternoon. 

Can you imagine? 

Stay awake, for you do not know the day nor the hour—indeed, you have no idea, you think it’s going to happen a long time from now—but it’s just two days away, Peter. Two days. 

 

A Word for Our Times 

We know the rest of the story, right? In the Garden, Peter and the Apostles become drowsy and fall asleep. And then they scatter when Jesus is arrested. They were foolish. 

After the Crucifixion and, then, the glorious Resurrection, Jesus comes to them. They are afraid. Jesus doesn’t have to give them a second chance. He doesn’t have to forgive them. But He does. 

The point here is that, after the Ascension—on Mount Olives—Peter and the Apostles would have walked down the mountain and would have passed by Gethsemane and, also, the entry where Jesus talked about the Ten Virgins. 

And the Apostles would have begun to teach that parable to everyone, as though to say: Don’t be foolish like us. We didn’t realize we only had two days. And we received a second chance so that we could warn you now. Jesus will come again, in the night, like a thief. And you must be ready. You must let yourself be pressed by the Cross. Do not seek to buy your salvation, but be wise and seek it from him. We received the second chance to tell you this. This is your second chance. 

Or, let me put it another way: what if Our Lord had come last Tuesday, during Election Night? Would you have been ready? 

I mean, we spent all that energy and worry—and Our Lord could have come and interrupted the whole thing before votes were even begun to be counted. And some would maybe have become disappointed about that: You mean, the End of the World—now?!—but who won the election???!? 

And I must admit: had Jesus come that night, I would not have been ready. I was foolish. Because, sometimes—oftentimes—we get wrapped up in the stuff here below (and sometimes that stuff is pretty important), but we forget the more important, indeed more ultimate, things of life. 

Like Jesus. And Heaven. And that, well, you and I may actually have only two more days. 

 

A Resolution 

So, with your two days left, how are you going to get right with God? What do you need to do to be less foolish and more wise? Let’s make a resolution right now…. 

Live the next two days that way. Live the rest of your life that way. This is your second chance.

The Aspiration - Homily for the Solemnity of All Saints (2020)

I have an opening question to start today's homily. And that question is this: 

To what do you aspire in life? What is your life’s aspiration?

To have an aspiration means to have a dream, a goal, something to which you orient your life. That—whatever that is (that job, that home, that life)—that is what I want, that is what I want to achieve, that is what I'm aspiring to. 

The word “aspire” comes from the Latin, ad + aspirare. And it literally means: to breathe out. In other words, your aspiration is what you are breathing for. So, let me rephrase the opening question:

In this life, for what are you breathing?

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We breathe for many things in this life, but Our Lord says that those in heaven breathed for the following things. I've made a list. Those in heaven lived for the following things:

1. Him. 

            ...   

            ...

That's the list.

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My favorite mosaic
from the All Saints' Chapel
in the Cathedral Basilica in St. Louis

And who is this Jesus that they lived for, breathed for? He is the one who didn't care about the treasures on earth, because He had treasures in heaven; He was poor in spirit. He didn't need to be powerful on earth because His power came from above; He was humble and meek. Jesus was merciful and yet He hungered and thirsted for righteousness-- and still a peacemaker. He wanted this for others and when they refused, He mourned. He was pure in heart. And, because of all of this, He was persecuted.

And those in heaven-- because they breathed Him and loved Him, they became like Him. They were poor in spirit and pure in heart and merciful and even persecuted for it all. They are blessed and holy in heaven.

The Latin word for that is “sanctus,” from which we get the word saint.

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 St. John tells us that these, the saints, were the ones who “survived the times of great distress.” Times of great distress. We hear that and we may think of our own times. But, really, every single age, every single century has seen its struggles and its battle with evil and darkness. Such things are not simply for our age or the so-called Dark Ages. If you are breathing, you are going to experience "times of great distress."

And the saints are the ones who survived them. That is: they kept the faith.

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Some children at school ask me: Father Gerber, how many saints are there?

John says in the Book of Revelation that there are 144,000.

But anyone who has read the Book of Revelation knows that his language is not simply literal, but deep and often symbolic. The number 144,000 is not simply literal. It means something.

First, you take the 12 tribes of Israel, the people of the Old Testament. Then, take the 12 apostles, the foundation stones of the New Testament. What do you get when you multiply 12 by 12? You get 144.

Additionally, the number 1,000 meant, in ancient times, a large multitude. 

So, multiply that by 144 and what do you get? 144,000.

In a deeply symbolic language, John was saying: In heaven, there will be a large multitude of people who come from the Old Testament and the New, Jew and Gentile alike.

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But there is a question that comes from that. And the pressing question is this: will you and I be in that number? Will we be saints in heaven?

When the St. Louis Blues Hockey Team scores a goal, there is a song that is played on the organ. It's a delightful little song-- a Black Spiritual, actually-- that has lyrics: 

            When the saints go marching in

            O when the saints go marching in

            O Lord, I want to be in that number

            When the saints go marching in.

I love that. Each time the Blues score, I am reminded of my goal, of what I should be aspiring for in this life: I want to be in that number.

The whole goal of my life is to get to heaven. The whole goal of your parenting is to bring your kids to heaven. That's it-- to march in that number.

And that means, to put a very fine point on it: it means that, in order to get into heaven, we need to become saints.

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And as you hear that, you may wonder: "Well, shoot, if I gotta be a saint, I got no chance of getting into heaven."

And I think one of the reasons why we say that is because, firstly, we think that saints are only those who are canonized by the Pope. And that's not correct. They are many saints in heaven who have never been canonized.

But, I think the deeper reason why we don't think we can ever be a saint is because we have the saints "way up here." We see them as god-like and porcelain statues on pedestals without much personality. But, the reality is, is that they had emotions, some of them out of control emotions, and temptations-- lots of temptations!-- and fears and anxieties and doubts and even arguments with their spouse and their children. 

We tend to forget that Jesus came not for the righteous, but for the sinners. 

And one of the things about the saints is that they were firstly sinners-- ordinary people like you and me-- who responded to the extraordinary graces offered them in this brief life.

Can I tell you a brief story about such a saint?-- a saint who has given me inspiration for my aspiration...

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There was this guy named Mark. Not the evangelist Mark. A different Mark. This is a true story.

Mark was raised in a Christian family. He was a pretty ordinary guy. Tried to help out in his community. Became a doctor—ok, so he was slightly above ordinary.

And one day he came down with a stomach illness. It was pretty bad. And he was treated with some a powerful medication that contained opium-- which is the stuff of heroin. Mark recovered, but he became addicted to the opium drug. And he was ashamed and his family embarrassed.

He tried to break the addiction to the heroin, but he would fall. But, being a good Catholic, he would go to confession and receive God's mercy and resolve to do better. And Mark would do better, but then he would fall again. And he would go to confession again and receive mercy again and resolve to do better and he would do better for a time, but then he would fall again. It was a cycle. Fall, confession, mercy, resolve, fall, confession--

And, unfortunately, during one of those confessions, the priest told him to stop coming to confession and the Eucharist until Mark stopped the addiction.

Brutal.

(That is not the teaching of the Catholic Church, by the way).

So, there Mark is, an addict to heroin, unable to be absolved, and prohibited from receiving communion. With all that shame and embarrassment.

At this point, I think it would be safe to assume that most people would have given up and fallen away from the faith.

But Mark did not fall away. He would go to Mass even though he was refused communion. He would come, believing in the graces of just being there, being at the place of our Lord's crucifixion and resurrection, even though it was a crucifixion for him.

For 30 years he did this. 30 years. Can you imagine? Unable to receive the Sacraments, addicted to heroin for 30 years?

But when Mark prayed, he prayed to be brought to heaven. There was that hope in him. He aspired for this one thing: to be with Jesus forever in heaven—that is, if Jesus would take an addict.

One day, in Mark's hometown, it became illegal to go to Mass and to be a Christian. Mark and his family were arrested and were to be executed. The officials were going to kill Mark first, but he begged to be killed last so that none of his family would die alone.

And that's what happened. Mark was with his family members and comforted them in their final hour. And was killed last.

He died as a heroin addict. And as a saint. Mark is a saint because he persevered, carrying the Cross until the very end. Saint Mark Ji Tianxiang was canonized by Pope John Paul II—also a saint—on October 1^st, in year 2000, one-hundred years after his martyrdom.

And I only tell you his full name now because, up until I now, you thought Mark could have been anyone in our community. And that's the point: any of us can be saints.

Had I led off that story telling you he was a man who lived ages ago and in a foreign land-- had I led off with that, you would have put him on a pedestal and thought it unidentifiable.

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But Mark is one in that number that is marching in. And you and I can be one of them, too.

Mark aspired to be in heaven. Even though his life was being consumed with heroin, his deepest breaths were for Jesus.

And because of that, Mark now breathes the free air of heaven-- where there is no more suffering, no more tears, and no more heroin.

And that brings me to the end. And I'll end where I began: with a question:

To what are you aspiring in life?

For what are you breathing?