Thursday, August 18, 2016

What Karol Wojtyla Learned from the Salesians

What Karol Wojtyla Learned from the Salesians

Address for Teacher Orientation Day

Holy Cross School, Champaign, Ill.
August 16, 2016

In an article in America early this year, Jesuit historian Fr. John W. O’Malley is cited for a list of “five hooks that unify Jesuit teaching”:[1]

        1. help students examine their assumptions about life;

        2. help them understand the past (personal and larger);

        3. communicate faith that does justice, that serves others;

        4. study great literature, teaching how to put ideas into words;

        5. teach prudence by sharpening critical thinking skills.

There’s some great stuff there, as we’d expect from an order that has given the Church and society many great educators since 1540.

Other teaching congregations have their own approaches and styles, of course, e.g. the LaSalle Christian Brothers, the Irish Christian Brothers, the Marists, and countless societies of religious sisters.  I enjoyed 8 grammar school years with the School Sisters of Notre Dame, who were wonderful educators, catechizing us, teaching writing skills, fostering my love for reading—and of some relevance here, thru our 6th grade world history text introducing me to St. Thomas More, who became one of my favorite saints.

We Salesians, too, have our educational approach and style.  You’ve heard and experienced some aspects of that in the last three years, e.g., reason, religion, and kindness; Communion and confession; the three “white devotions” (Eucharist, Mary most holy, and the Holy Father).  Another key phrase or summary often used by Don Bosco was that we aim to make of our pupils good Christians and upright citizens.  That aligns very well with the Jesuits’ “five hooks,” but it’s broader in that it accommodates non-scholars, such as pupils in trade or agricultural schools or people of all ages learning basic life skills—as Salesian ministry does in many parts of the world.  You can imagine that would be the case, since our presence in more than 130 countries ranges from Amazonian jungles to high tech First World universities, from refugee camps in Kenya to hostels for university students.  We cover a wide range of educational needs.

I’d like to look with you this morning at how we answered the needs of and left lasting marks on two parishioners from different parts of the world, from very different contexts, who went on to distinguished careers—to understate it.

Karol Wojtyla and his widowed father moved from Wadowice to Krakow in September 1938 so that 18-year-old Karol could attend university.  They took an apartment in the Debniki neighborhood, across the Vistula River from the city center with its royal palace, cathedral, and university.  Their apartment at 10 Tyniecka Street was around the corner and about three minutes’ walk from St. Stanislaus Kostka Church, served by the Salesians since 1931,[2] and since 1933 also the seat of the Salesians’ South Poland Province.  Every morning Karol attended the six o’clock Mass before going to class.  Even after entering the underground seminary program in 1942, he remained a parishioner until 1944.  Once the German occupiers were driven out, the seminarians were able to move safely into the archbishop’s residence.
St. Stanislaus Kostka Church, Krakow

George Weigel’s biography of John Paul II, Witness to History, calls St. Stanislaus “a dynamic parish in which the Salesians placed great emphasis on youth work” (p. 59).  In his autobiographical Gift and Mystery, John Paul refers to his parish as the “particular place … from [which] I received much during that period.  I believe that the presence of the Salesians played an important role in the formation of my vocation” (p. 23, italics in original).

We all know of John Paul’s outstanding devotion to the Virgin Mary, something which every Polish Catholic learns from his earliest years.  But in Gift and Mystery he notes the “special devotion to Mary Help of Christians in the parish, in conjunction with the ‘Living Rosary’” that the young men and women of the parish practiced during the Nazi occupation under the inspired leadership of a layman, Jan Tyranowski (now a “servant of God” whose cause of beatification the Salesians are promoting[3]).

Chapel of MHC at St. Stanislaus,
with image before which the future Pope prayed.
John Paul writes that “a change took place in my understanding of devotion to the Mother of God,” viz., that not only does Mary lead us to Christ but also that Jesus leads us to his Mother (p. 28).  Years later, the Salesian news service reported, “It was precisely in front of the image of Mary Help of Christians venerated [at St. Stanislaus] that young Karol came to the decision to devote himself entirely to the service of the Lord and his Church.”[4]  Cardinal Wojtyla said in 1972, “In front of this picture I prayed and I grew strong in my priestly vocation.”[5]

During the first year of the German occupation, into 1940, the Salesians—about a dozen priests and brothers—tried to continue their youth apostolate in the parish clandestinely.  But it was too dangerous.  The Nazis were highly suspicious of any sort of activity that organized people, and to reduce any likelihood of organizing had already arrested and either sent to concentration camps or summarily executed most of the army officers and intellectual leadership of the country.  At Poznan, five young leaders in the Salesian youth center were arrested in September 1940 and eventually executed for the illegal activity of teaching catechism.  (They were beatified in 1999 by John Paul among 108 Polish martyrs of the Nazi occupation.)

So the Salesians proposed to Jan Tyranowski that he quietly and secretly organize the youths of the parish with what they called “the Living Rosary.”
Tomb of Jan Tyranowski
St. Stanislaus Kostka Church
Tyranowski, 39 at the time, was an accountant by training but a tailor by trade (helping his father) and deeply spiritual—especially following the Carmelite tradition (Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross), to which he introduced his young disciples, including Wojtyla.  Weigel writes that this Living Rosary “consisted of groups of fifteen young men, each of which was led by a more mature youngster who received personal spiritual direction and instruction from the mystically gifted tailor.  Tyranowski met with the entire Living Rosary organization every third Sunday of the month and was also available to any member ... as needed. . . .  In weekly, hour-long meetings in his apartment, Tyranowski taught his group leaders both the fundamentals of the spiritual life and methods for systematically examining and improving their daily lives,” and he included the apostolic dimension of the Christian life, teaching them to serve others (p. 60).  By 1943 he had four such groups, and Karol Wojtyla was the leader of one of them.  The Gestapo raided Tyranowski’s apartment once during one of the meetings, but somehow the tailor convinced them there was no conspiracy going on.  Of course there was a conspiracy going on, Weigel observes, but not of the kind the Gestapo needed to worry about.  The youths were conspiring to deepen their spiritual lives, to apply the Gospel to their daily living, and to plan for a postwar Poland.
St. Stanislaus Kostka Church, interior
On May 23, 1941, a few months after Jan Tyranowski undertook his secret project, the Gestapo came for 12 of the Salesians, leaving in the parish, John Paul says, just one old priest and the provincial (p. 23).  By the end of 1942, ten of the Salesians had perished in Auschwitz; one, Fr. Joseph Kowalski, has already been beatified among the aforementioned 108 martyrs; the cause of the other 9 priests is being studied.

Servant of God Fr. Jan Swierc, pastor of St. Stanislaus Kostka Church,
killed by the Nazis in Auschwitz in June 1941.
When religious orders hold their general chapters—worldwide legislative and electoral assemblies every 6 years or so—they customarily request an audience with the Holy Father at the Vatican.  So did the Salesians’ GC23 in 1990.  They were astonished when, breaking all precedent, John Paul said, No, I will come to you at your generalate![6]  It showed the unusual esteem and affection in which the Pope held his former parish priests.

Twelve years later, in 2002, he addressed GC25 (in the Vatican), reminding the chapter members of what he had known first-hand at St. Stanislaus:  The Salesians live among the young, as Don Bosco wanted.  “You are happy among them,” he said, “and they enjoy your friendly presence.  Yours are ‘houses’ [or ‘homes,’ depending on how you want to translate casa] in which they feel at ease.  Isn’t this the distinguishing feature of your apostolate in every part of the world?”[7]

And that no doubt is why he returned to St. Stanislaus Kostka two days after his ordination for one of his “first Masses,” even before going back to his native city and home parish, and on his last visit to Poland in August 2002 he came back to the church again to recall his roots and the heroic sacrifice of his Salesian mentors and Jan Tyranowski.[8]

Here are five takeaways from St. John Paul’s Salesian experience; or “five hooks,” if you liked Fr. O’Malley’s term:
Pope John Paul with youths at a Salesian gathering
Colle Don Bosco, Castelnuovo, probably in 1988
        1. Karol Wojtyla learned how to serve the young.  The Salesians were present to the young in the parish, and they modeled Christian discipleship for the young.  Youth ministry, a presence among the young, became a major feature of his priestly life, for which he was noted as a university professor.  And of course we know how he started World Youth Days and connected with the young whenever he was among them.  The young are the very reason why we are here—to serve them and to help them meet and fall in love with the Lord Jesus.  We are here to be with them, not merely to observe them, not merely to instruct them.  In the Salesian terminology of recent years, we accompany them, as Jesus accompanied Cleopas and his companion on the way to Emmaus on Easter afternoon.

        2. Karol’s Marian devotion, already present from his earliest years, was deepened and transformed at his Salesian parish, and he apparently felt Mary directing his life.  Addressing her, he became totus tuus, “all yours.”  We have to help our young people meet Mary, pray to her, let her into their lives—and do all that ourselves; not because Mary is the end of our piety but because she and her Son are inseparable.  She shows us how to listen to Jesus and stay with him in life’s most difficult moments.

        3. Karol’s vocation was nurtured in his parish, and nurtured particularly by a spiritual guide.  One of his companions in the Living Rosary group, another priest, said that without Jan Tyranowski neither one of them would have become a priest.  Every child in our school has a vocation, and it’s part of our ministry to nurture that vocation—starting with their baptismal vocation, their call to be disciples of Jesus and to be saints.  Then we all live that out in a particular way, or over the course of our lives, maybe in more than one way (like last Friday’s saint, Jane Frances de Chantal, or Mother Seton).  Obviously, our kids aren’t going to make any definitive decisions about how they’re going to live as Christ’s men and women, but it’s part of our ministry to help them explore, in age-appropriate ways, how God might call them eventually to married or single life, to some form of consecrated life, or to the diaconate or the priesthood.

        4. Karol Wojtyla saw the heroic witness of his Salesian priests and brothers—and many others, to be sure.  The Nazis were as ruthless against the Polish intelligentsia and structures of civil life as they were against the Jews.  He saw that tyranny could be resisted and that the Church could be a rallying point for maintaining the dignity of the human person and the eternal truths of God.  He put what he learned into practice as bishop in Communist Poland, and as Pope in tearing down the Iron Curtain.  Similarly, our ministry includes the utmost respect for our children as God’s children; and for our co-workers—teachers, administrators, and staff.  It includes instilling in our students and even their parents an appreciation for truth and for a free conscience that can choose that truth and follow that truth in one’s daily life.  It includes teaching them to be sensitive to injustice and to resist it.  We don’t leave “truth, justice, and the American way” only to Superman!

        5. Karol experienced the power of lay witness and lay leadership in the example of Jan Tyranowski.  Emphatically, he insisted that the clergy don’t belong in partisan politics, neither in the developed world nor in the developing world.  But further, the civil or political sphere is where lay Christians must be active and influential, bringing their convictions about human dignity and human rights to bear on all of society.  That was part of Don Bosco’s method, e.g., in his helping youths find employment and monitoring them and their work environments, in setting up mutual aid societies, and in sending his young men out to nurse and otherwise assist the victims of the cholera epidemic that ravaged Turin in 1854 (protected by the Virgin Mary and their own commitment to avoid sin).[9]  The Christian layman and laywoman has the apostolic mission of transforming culture and society.  So we teach our kids to be attentive to the poor, the afflicted, immigrants, people of different races, religions, cultures, etc.  We teach them responsible use of social media and the mass media.  We teach the boys to respect the girls, and we teach the girls modesty.  We strive to raise them up as responsible citizens of both our country and their heavenly homeland.
Pope John Paul in Turin, 1988
May we all find in this great Salesian “old boy,” St. John Paul the Great, something to inspire us and help us be, not just better teachers, but better educators, better evangelizers, better servants of the young.

Part II: What Jorge Bergoglio Learned from the Salesians, will follow.



    [1] Raymond A. Schroth, SJ, “Teacher, Heal Thyself,” America, Jan. 18-25, 2016, p. 24.
    [2] Salesiani di Don Bosco, Annuario 2015, vol. I (Rome, 2014), p. 483.
    [6] Documents of the 23rd General Chapter of the Society of Saint Francis de Sales (Rome, 1990), pp. 192-197, 238-241.
    [7] Documents of the 25th General Chapter of the Society of St. Francis de Sales (Rome, 2002), nn. 141-146 at n. 145.
    [8] ANS Oct. 16, 2014 and April 2, 2015.
                [9] Giovanni Battista Lemoyne, SDB, The Biographical Memoirs of Saint John Bosco, trans. Diego Borgatello, SDB, vol. 5 (New Rochelle, N.Y.: Salesiana, 1969), pp. 50-66.

Monday, August 15, 2016

Homily for 20th Sunday of Ordinary Time

Homily for the
20th Sunday of Ordinary Time
Aug. 14, 2016
Luke 12: 49-53
Holy Cross, Champaign, Ill.

“Do you think that I have come to establish peace on the earth?  No, I tell you, but rather division” (Luke 12: 51).

Those sound like strange words coming from the mouth of Jesus, whom we call the Prince of Peace, the one who brings all of humanity together, into unity with his Father.

Peace and unity are indeed his promise.  They are possible when we commit ourselves to the Father thru Christ.

Christ tells us, as we pray during our preparation for Communion at every Eucharist, “Peace I leave you; my peace I give you” (John 14:27).  Those words come from what he said to the apostles at the Last Supper, where he continued, “Not as the world gives do I give it to you.”

The world offers a kind of peace.  1st-century Roman historian Tacitus described Rome’s conquest of Britain thus:  “where they make a desert, they call it peace.”  Some of you are old enuf to remember Neville Chamberlain’s assurance in 1938 of “peace in our time,” peace bought temporarily by yielding to Hitler’s territorial demands. 
Bundesarchiv Bild 183-H12751, Godesberg, Vorbereitung Münchener Abkommen.jpg
There was a peace called “the balance of terror” during the 1950s, ’60s, and ’70s, the standoff between the Soviet Union and the U.S. when both nations were armed with thousands of nuclear weapons they dared not use but were always ready to launch.

Such isn’t the peace that Jesus offers us, obviously.  His peace is one of reconciliation with God, of forgiveness of sins, of restoration of a genuine brotherhood between people.  That’s what earns him the title Prince of Peace, and titles like Savior and Redeemer.

But, paradoxically, the way to Christ’s peace involves fighting, battle, unending war—against our own passions, our own selfishness, our own unbounded tendencies to pride, greed, envy, laziness, lust, anger, and gluttony; against our desires for fame and fortune, for pleasure and power.  There’s no peace in our hearts till we’ve repented of all that, more or less controlled all that (the work’s never finished in this life), committed ourselves to the beliefs and moral code of Jesus Christ, and surrendered to him our human frailty.  St. Paul recognized the source of peace when he wrote to the Corinthians, “When I am weak, then I am strong” (II, 12:10)—admitting his need for the power of Jesus Christ.

But the battle doesn’t end there, unfortunately.  When we live as God wants, we’ll be at war with the devil, and thus with the world.  The devil tempted Jesus by offering him all the kingdoms of the earth, which are in his power (Luke 4:6).  That’s a regular theme in Western literature:  the story of Faust in medieval legend, dramas by Marlowe and Goethe, a novel by Thomas Mann, music of Gounod, Wagner, Berlioz, and Stravinsky, and a short story you may have read in school, Stephen Vincent Benet’s “The Devil and Daniel Webster.”  (If you didn’t read it, do!  It’s a good story.)
Dr. Faust, by Jean-Paul Laurens
Our 1st reading told us what the rulers of the kingdom of Judah did to Jeremiah on account of his preaching the word of God in Jerusalem.  Jesus warns us today of the unpleasant truth that when we choose him we may be rejected by those closest to us, even our own families.  Conversion stories are filled with such examples, from Roman times, when for example fathers denounced their own daughters as Christians because they wouldn’t marry the fellow Pater had picked out for them, to our own times, when conversion to Catholicism may mean that one’s dyed-in-the-wool Protestant or Jewish parents and siblings will never speak to you again—not to mention the reaction that converts from Islam face!  You’re all familiar with Thomas More’s story, how he rejected his wife’s and his beloved daughter’s appeals to swear King Henry’s oath and come home, but he refused to violate his convictions.

If we’re fortunate, that kind of division we’ll not have to face.  How we wish some politicians had the courage of Thomas More, the patron saint of statesmen, had enuf conviction to bring what they say they believe in private to their making of public policy.

But each of us has to look at how we handle what we used to call human respect—or peer pressure.  Would I cheat on my taxes because of some perceived advantage to my family?  Would I pressure a son or a daughter to seek an abortion lest the family be embarrassed—or inconvenienced?  Would I patronize a porn movie like 50 Shades of Grey or Bad Moms because my friends want to see it?  Would I steal office supplies at work because everyone else does?  Would I pirate a movie, music, or software because a friend “needs” a free copy?  Would I support my child’s decision to enter the seminary or religious life?

Students, do you share your homework or pass around test answers because our classmates expect it?  Do you go out drinking because you want to be cool with the guys?  Do you look at or share porn because that’s what your “friends” do?
Separating the sheep from the goats: Matthew 25:31-46
Yes, Jesus truly has come to cause division—to separate us from our fallenness; to separate those who walk thru what he called the narrow gate that leads to eternal life from those who choose the wide and easy road that leads to hell (Matt 7:13-14); or, following his parable of the Last Judgment in Matt 25, to separate the sheep from the goats on the basis of how faithfully we’ve lived the gospel of mercy and compassion toward one another.

May God assist us to choose and to act wisely, and so find that peace which Christ offers!

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Homily for Feast of St. Lawrence

Homily for the Feast of
St. Lawrence
Aug. 10, 2016
Collect
Holy Cross, Champaign, Ill.

Today’s collect noted St. Lawrence’s “faithful service” and “glorious martyrdom,” and it asked God that we might “love what he loved” and “practice what he taught”—in other words, that we might imitate him.

St. Lawrence
Church of St. Lawrence, Shelton, Conn.
We don’t know much about Lawrence.  We do know he was 1 of Rome’s 7 deacons, and that in 258 he was martyred 3 days after Pope Sixtus and 4 of the other deacons were put to death; their memorial is Aug. 7.  We suspect the remaining 2 deacons also were caught and martyred.  The Church’s persecutors like to go after her shepherds 1st and either cow them into submission or make examples of them so that the sheep will fall into line.

We also know that devotion to Lawrence became immensely popular after his martyrdom.  His name is included with the apostles and a few of the other early martyrs in the Roman Canon; liturgically, he has a feast, not a memorial like most saints; and the Emperor Constantine built a beautiful church over his tomb, which still today is considered one of the 7 major churches of Rome and is worth a pilgrimage if you go to Rome.

Then there is the legend about Lawrence that underlies his enduring popularity.  He is reported to have had special charge of the Church’s almsgiving, and thus access to the Church’s funds.  The Roman prefect carrying out the imperial orders of the persecution told Lawrence—so the story goes—that Christ instructed his followers to render to Caesar what was his and to God what was his.  So Lawrence should bring in the Church’s wealth for the emperor, and the Church could give God the worship he wanted.

Lawrence agreed to produce the Church’s treasures; he just needed a few days to collect them.  That may be why he was martyred 3 days later than the Pope and the other deacons.  After 3 days he showed up in court with all the Roman poor whom the Church was assisting with alms.  He informed the prefect, “Here are the Church’s treasures!”

The prefect, needless to say, was not amused.  He ordered Lawrence barbecued to death.

Lawrence made a link between what the Church does inside its places of worship and what it does outside; or, in the ideas contained in the collect, between “love” and “practice”; his “faithful service” led to his “glorious martyrdom.”

My brothers and sisters, we’re aware of how the Church is being persecuted in our time—Christians taxed, robbed, exiled, beaten, burned, beheaded —in the Middle East.  The new leader of Boko Haram in Nigeria announced his intention of killing all the Christians he can.  Priests who denounced drug lords in Mexico or the Mafia in Sicily get killed.  North Korean Christians risk death or labor camps.  This kind of list could go on a lot.

And here our bishops are reminding us that we face a regular barrage of harassment and constant legal threats, which is why Bp. Jenky has us praying at every Mass for the freedom of the Church.  Our practice outside these walls is under a relentless secular, atheistic assault:  our universities, hospitals, nursing homes, places of business, and personal consciences.  Popular entertainment, the mass media, and academia jump to label us as homophobes, women-haters, and opponents of science—because we uphold natural law against the depravities of the sexual revolution and uphold the dignity of the tiniest human beings:  no experimenting on people, no treating human beings as lab experiments nor as marketplace commodities.

One of the issues in this fall’s elections is religious freedom.  One party’s official platform has a whole paragraph on that, including a sturdy defense of the rights of conscience.  The other party says it will defend the rights of religious minorities in the Middle East, but here at home, “We support a progressive vision of religious freedom that respects pluralism and rejects the misuses of religion to discriminate.”  That’s in the paragraph on LBGT rights, which outweigh our religious beliefs or our freedom to act on our beliefs or, at times, even to voice our beliefs.  That position has also prevented the passage of legislation that would guarantee the rights of doctors, nurses, and hospitals to refuse to be involved with abortion or sterilization.

As St. Lawrence gave his life because his faith required a public stand, we have to do more than believe; we have to practice what we believe.  I am a follower of Jesus Christ, and I follow him in both public and private.  As a free man, Lawrence would not be coerced into worshipping the emperor, into letting the emperor rob the Church, into leaving the poor without protection, or into doing what he was personally opposed to but it was more convenient to do anyway.

Sunday, August 7, 2016

Homily for 19th Sunday of Ordinary Time

Homily for the
19th Sunday of Ordinary Time
Aug. 7, 2016
Heb 11: 1-2, 8-19
Holy Cross, Champaign, Ill.

“By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to go out to a place that he was to receive as an inheritance” (Heb 11: 8).

As I prepared to move out here from New Rochelle in June, I went to AAA and asked them to prepare a trip-tik for me.  I knew where I wanted to end up, and with whom, what the distance was and how many days it should take.  I needed only to have the best route marked out for me.

Other people use GPS for the same purpose—probably more than use a trip-tik or even Mapquest.  I tend to be a bit old-fashioned and definitely not P.C.

A century ago, 2 centuries ago, our ancestors came to this land more blindly. 
Immigrants arriving in Boston, early 20th century
Maybe they had a relative here already who’d receive them and guide them on arrival, or maybe they’d connect with one of the many immigrant aid societies to help them find housing and employment.  Or maybe they wouldn’t.  Maybe they came expecting to find the streets paved with gold—and then, as has been said, learned the streets not only weren’t paved at all, but they were the ones who were going to pave them.

But the 19th- and 20th-century immigrants to America had a rough idea where they were going, and the possibility, if things didn’t go well, of returning to Ireland, Germany, or Italy—as many of them did.  They came to America with great hopes for freedom and opportunity, as to a new promised land, and their children inherited a better life.

The Letter to the Hebrews tells us that Abraham “sojourned in the promised land as in a foreign country” (11:9), that “promised land” being the Promised Land:  Canaan, which would become Israel when his descendants did finally occupy it.  The letter tells us Abraham went there “not knowing where he was to go” (11:8)—quite a contrast to our ancestors’ trek across the ocean or how we move about today; it seems some people can’t go to the grocery store without GPS!  Abraham moved his family, tents, and herds not only without GPS but even without a compass or a map (like an unprepared Boy Scout)—perhaps with just some oral guidance to the next watering spot or grassy meadow; and with abundant faith in God’s direction, as we read in Gen 12:  “The Lord said to Abram:  ‘Go forth from the land of your kinsfolk and from your father’s house to a land that I will show you.’  Abram went as the Lord directed him” (vv. 1,4).
Journey of Abraham and His Family
Giovanni Benedetto Castiglione, 1664
Even when Abraham arrived in Canaan, the land pointed out to him and promised to him and his descendants, it remained just a land of promise.  He had yet no children for the fulfillment of God’s promise that his descendants would inherit the land thru which he wandered for years as a nomadic herder “dwelling in tents” (11:9).  He didn’t possess an inch of it until he purchased a cave in which to bury Sarah when she died (Gen 23).

What Abraham did have was faith in God.  He went where God led him and did as God instructed him.  And God fulfilled his promises of descendants as numerous as the stars of the sky, and possession of the land, the land we call today Israel after Abraham’s grandson.

The Letter to the Hebrews offers some additional examples of people of faith, which our reading this morning skips over.  Their faith, the letter says, was in “the city with foundations, whose architect and maker is God” (11:10), a city in “a better homeland, a heavenly one” (10:16).  That’s the point the author wishes to drive home to us:  that in this life we are wanderers, homeless nomads, pilgrims on our way to our real home—what the hymn “O Salutaris” calls “our true native land with thee,” i.e., with God.  Jesus told his apostles at the Last Supper that he was going to prepare a place for them (John 14:2-3).  This is our faith, a faith pointing us, like Abraham, to a place we haven’t seen, a place we don’t know, a place to which God is leading us.  Our GPS, our map, our sure guide is God’s Son, our good shepherd.  Our prayer a short while ago was “that we may merit to enter the inheritance” God has promised to us (Collect)—like Abraham and his descendants.  Similarly, the 3d Eucharistic Prayer prays “that we may obtain an inheritance with [God’s] elect,” his chosen ones, his saints.

In a different context, St. Paul makes a strong argument that we are descendants of Abraham—not on the basis of physical descent but on the basis of faith (Rom 4).  We believe what God has promised.  We are marching—or perhaps sometimes we’re trudging or shuffling—on a journey to the homeland prepared for us.

When we set out on this journey at our Baptism, most of us weren’t aware of what we were doing, or what God was doing in us. 
When we’ve reaffirmed our journey—by Confirmation, by a return to the Church, by a firm commitment to Jesus Christ and to his Father—we still don’t know any more than Abraham did about the journey ahead of us.  When we collect a college degree, when we start a new job, when we get married, when we become parents, when we enter religious life, when we get ordained, we don’t really know what we’re getting into.  When I was ordained 38 years ago, I’d never heard of Champaign, Ill., altho it was already a stopover on my pilgrimage route; altho my ministry was already part of God’s trip-tik for you.  (Pray that we all stay on the right road!)

We start out on our journeys with faith and hope.  The same with our lives as disciples of Jesus:  we’ve decided to walk along with him, not knowing the route by which he’ll guide us home, or what obstacles we’ll meet or whom we’ll be traveling with (besides him).  The journey will get us where we want to go, however, as long as we let Jesus lead us:  he is “the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6) as well as the good shepherd.  Attend to him, then; listen to him, follow his directions—in the sacred Scriptures, in the sacred liturgy, in the teachings of his Church, and in your daily prayer.

God bless you!

Homily for Funeral of Mary Byrnes

Homily for the
Funeral of  Mary Byrnes
Aug. 5, 2016
1 Thess 4: 13-18
Holy Cross, Champaign, Ill.
                    
“We do not want you to be unaware, brothers and sisters, about those who have fallen asleep, so that you may not grieve like the rest, who have no hope” (1 Thess 4: 13).


Note that St. Paul doesn’t say that we shouldn’t grieve at the death of our loved ones.  Jesus wept at the tomb of his dear friend Lazarus (John 11:35), even tho, presumably, he knew what he was about to do!

But St. Paul tells us not to “grieve like the rest, who have no hope.”  By “the rest,” he means the pagan world in whose midst these mid-1st-century Christians lived at Thessalonica.  Is there anything more grievous, anything sadder, than the mourning of people who don’t believe in God or don’t believe in the resurrection, in life after death? who believe that this life and its transient joys and inevitable sorrows are all there is? who believe that, in the words of a catchy but cynical tune of the late ’70s, “All we are is dust in the wind”?

Actually, there is something sadder, something more grievous than the mourning of unbelievers, of those “who have no hope” because they don’t know “that Jesus died and rose” (4:14) and “thus we shall always be with the Lord” (4:17).  What’s sadder is the death of someone who lived like a pagan, someone who died unrepentant of his or her sins and left loved ones mourning in fear for his or her salvation.

In his preaching Jesus constantly invited us—all of us, for all of us are sinners, after all—to repent and turn to him.  And he made those who came to him welcome, healing souls as well as bodies.  But he also had stern warnings for those who refuse to repent, refuse to prepare themselves for judgment:  words like “depart from me, you evildoers” (Matt 7:23) and “they will be cast into the outer darkness, where there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth” (Matt 8:12; cf. 25:30).

On the other hand, while we’re alive, it’s never too late to turn to Jesus with a plea for forgiveness, as we learn in the gospel passage immediately before the one I read, the passage about the so-called “good thief” executed for his crimes alongside Jesus, who asked Jesus to remember him when he came into his kingdom and was promised paradise that very day (Luke 23:39-43).

How refreshing to hear a life story and the virtues of someone like Mary Byrnes!  As you heard Diane [Ruedi] describe, she embodied kindness to people and to all God’s creatures.  She also suffered patiently for 3 long years—unintentionally also giving her children the chance to grow in holiness by patiently attending to her needs.  And she welcomed the sacraments of our Lord Jesus for a final time last week.

The people whose passing from us to the house of the Father we mourn are people who, as best we can see, lived virtuously, lived like Jesus as much as we frail humans can—worshiping God faithfully, practicing kindness, patience, generosity, chastity, humility, etc.  But our mourning isn’t like that of those without hope—hope of eternal life, hope of God’s tender mercy.  Our hope is ever in “the living one” who “has been raised” from the tomb (Luke 24:5-6),
who will snatch up all his faithful people to be with him always, raising them too from their graves, to “shine brightly like the splendor of the firmament,” to “be like the stars forever” (Dan 12:3)—not the Hollywood stars, but the most resplendent stars of God’s creation, resplendent because they radiate God’s own glory, God’s own light, God’s own goodness.  We pray that Mary enjoy such splendor forever and that, in God’s good time, we may join her in the Father’s house, in the place “prepared for us from the creation of the world” (cf. Matt 25:34).

Sunday, July 31, 2016

Homily for 18th Sunday of Ordinary Time

Homily for the
18th Sunday of Ordinary Time
July 31, 2016
Col 3: 1-5, 9-11
Holy Cross, Champaign, Ill.

“If you were raised with Christ, seek what is above, where Christ is seated at the right hand of God” (Col 3: 1).

In the 1st 2 chapters of the Letter to the Colossians, St. Paul presents some basic Christian doctrine.  E.g., last week he told his readers—and us—“You were buried with [Christ] in Baptism, in which you were also raised with him thru faith in the power of God, who raised him from the dead” (2:12).  In the 3d chapter, where we are this evening/morning, Paul applies the doctrine to life, i.e., to our daily attitudes, choices, and actions—to morality.

Baptism, he implies, has identified us with Christ.  Our descent into the sacred waters—early Christians were baptized by immersion—is a symbol of Christ’s death and burial, and our coming out of the waters, of his resurrection.  Our union with Christ thru the sacrament is so powerful that it will carry us, too, thru death into the immortality of the resurrection.

Do you remember how you anticipated Christmas when you were child?  All during Advent could you think of anything else than Santa, presents, and the tree?  Paul urges us to place the same laser focus of our minds on our Lord Jesus Christ.  He commands us to live as if we’re already risen, already enjoying the life of heaven, life above, with Christ our Savior:  “Seek what is above….  Think of what is above. . . .  Put to death the parts of you that are earthly….  You have put on the new self, which is being renewed … in the image of its creator” (3:1,2,5,10).

Paul uses an image we understand:  changing clothes, like getting out of our work clothes or beach clothes for an appointment or celebration that demands something more formal, something cleaner, something dressier, like dinner at a fine restaurant, a wedding, or coming to church (in our “Sunday best”).

Even more would 1st-century Christians grasp the change-of-clothes image.  For their Baptism into the new life of Christ, they literally stripped to be immersed in the waters of life, and on coming out put on the clean, new, white garment of the neophyte, the newborn member of the body of Christ.  They had put on a new self, a new persona, symbolized by a dramatic change of clothes.
Baptismal ritual in the early Church
(source unknown)
We have echoes of that today in the baptismal ritual, in which a white garment is still presented to the newly baptized—which adults usually put on over their street clothes and an infant wears symbolically for a moment or 2.

In the old days, when a young man or woman was vested in the habit of a religious order, often these words of Paul, or their parallel in Ephesians, were quoted; the religious was taking on a new persona, undertaking a newer and more intense union with the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus and was committing himself or herself to act accordingly.  With that new persona often came a new religious name, e.g., Thomas Merton became Fr. Louis Merton—that’s what you’ll see on his gravestone at Gethsemani Abbey—and Edith Stein became Teresa Benedicta of the Cross.  Some religious orders continue these practices today for the same reasons.  (FYI, the Salesians have changed the formula for their clothing investiture, and we never changed our names.)

You know, of course, that a newly elected Pope takes a new name, indicating his new persona as the successor of St. Peter and the vicar of Christ—no longer merely shy, quiet Jorge Bergoglio from Buenos Aires, but bold, outspoken Francis, bishop of Rome.

To return to Paul.  What’s he telling the Colossians to take off, to put aside, like dirty or raggedy clothes?  Their pagan way of living!  Paul names some prominent vices, and you know very well they’re not afflictions of only the 1st century:  impurity, passion, evil desire, greed, and idolatry are listed in our passage; in v. 8, which the reading skips over, Paul names in addition “anger, fury, malice, slander, and obscene language.”  Then the reading picks up with lying.

Paul has hit on most of the capital sins, the so-called 7 deadly sins that are at the root of just about all the evil that people commit:  pride, lust, greed (or covetousness), gluttony, anger, sloth, and envy—which, if left unchecked, will land you in hell faster than the Cubs can blow a late-inning lead.

The new self clothed in Christ “seeks what is above, … thinks of what is above,” desires what is above, where Christ our life is.  From our heart come our words and deeds.  If we aspire to “appear with him in glory” (3:4) when he returns on the Last Day and raises everyone from our graves for the final judgment, then our hearts must assume that mind, that attitude, which was in Christ Jesus, as Paul exhorts the Philippians, an attitude of humility and sensitivity to the needs of our brothers and sisters.  The new self clothed in Christ is humble, chaste, kind, attentive, patient, and joyful.  It exercises self-control, exhibits fortitude, practices piety and other virtues.
The Last Judgment, by Hans Memling
Yes, we all fall short; none of us is a perfect image of the new man who is the Risen Christ.  That’s why Christ in his mercy and wisdom left us a sacrament that’s like a new Baptism, viz., Reconciliation.

Our reading today ends with a reminder of the universality of God’s call, God’s gift, God’s grace in Christ Jesus.  (It also ends our short series of Sunday readings from Colossians, altho the letter itself goes on for another chapter and a half.)  Paul reminds us that in Christ there are no distinctions between different races or nationalities or social standing or economic status.  Christ wondrously transforms all who seek him sincerely, all who open focus hearts on him.

Thursday, July 28, 2016

Homily for Wednesday, 17th Week of Ordinary Time

Homily for Wednesday
17th Week of Ordinary Time
July 27, 2016
Jer 15: 10, 16-21
Marian Mass
Holy Cross, Champaign

You all remember reading Hamlet in high school?  You might even remember the advice the courtier Polonius gives to his son Laertes before he heads off to university.  Amid the 20 or so lines is this:

            Neither a borrower nor a lender be,
             For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
             And borrowing dulleth edge of husbandry.[1]

(For those not up on 17th-century English, husbandry means “control and judicious use of resources.  But we still speak of “husbanding our resources, don’t we?)

But borrowing and lending aren’t what’s gotten Jeremiah into a black mood, into a deep hole in Jerusalem’s social life.  Poor Jeremiah!  Altho he says today that he’s devoured the Lord’s words, and those words “became my joy and the happiness of my heart” (15:16), he’s not at all a happy fellow.  He’s the prototype of the prophet of doom:  “a man of strife and contention to all the land!” (15:10).  In the 1st line we heard tonite, Jeremiah laments his birth, and in another passage he curses the day of his birth and the man who brought its supposed good news to his father (20:14-15).

Michelangelo's Jeremiah: Sistine Chapel
Why?  Because he himself is the object of men’s curses—not because he’s been a stingy lender or a profligate borrower, but because of that word of God that he’s devoured; because he bears the name of the Lord of hosts, meaning that he knows he’s a prophet of the Lord, however unwilling, and everyone knows he claims to speak in the Lord’s name, whether they want to believe it or not.

The trouble is, they don’t believe it, or don’t want to believe it:  not the king, not the nobles, not the priests (and Jeremiah himself belongs to a priestly family).  We don’t really know what the common people—the 99%—thought, and in biblical times that didn’t count for much anyway.  And nobody likes someone who’s always got a big black cloud over his head, warning of God’s anger and the coming destruction of Western civilization, or in Jeremiah’s case, of Jerusalem and all of Judah.

So Jeremiah is alone, an outcast:  “I did not sit celebrating in the circle of merrymakers; under the weight of your hand”—he’s addressing God—“I sat alone because you filled me with indignation” (15:17).  Jeremiah’s indignant because of his people’s sins—their worship of Baal and Astarte, their oppression of the poor, their violations of the Sabbath, their disregard for the covenant between them and the Lord God—and indignant because of the situation that God’s put him in:  “Why is my pain continuous, my wound incurable, refusing to be healed?  You have indeed become for me a treacherous brook, whose waters do not abide!” (15:19).  Another time he yells at God, “You deceived me, O God, and I was deceived” (20:7), or in Msgr. Ronald Knox’s more colloquial rendition, “[You] sent me on a fool’s errand.”

Jeremiah’s ticked off at God and is telling him so.  We’ve all heard, “No good deed goes unpunished,” and Jeremiah’s going thru that in spades.

Consolation isn’t exactly what God answers him with:  “If you repent, so that I restore you, in my presence you shall stand.  If you bring forth the precious without the vile, you shall be my mouthpiece.  Then it shall be they who turn to you, and you shall not turn to them” (15:19).  The Lord goes on to promise that Jeremiah will be able to withstand the insults and assaults of the people because God will stand by him.

Do you ever feel like Jeremiah?  Feel like you’ve done everything you’re supposed to do to be a good family member, good employee, good disciple of Jesus—and you get the cold shoulder, unfair blame, insufficient credit, or worse?

Unfortunately, that’s part of life.  Not only Jeremiah but also Jesus had the experience.  Like Jeremiah, Jesus felt isolated and abandoned.  His chosen friends betrayed him, denied him, and ran away.  Even his Father seemed to have forsaken him, as Jesus cries out from his cross, quoting Ps 22 (Mark 15:34).  The psalmists, too, do their share of moaning to God.

Both Jeremiah and Jesus show us that we can complain to God about the events of our lives, the people in our lives, the flow of our lives.  We can lay it all out—because God is our Father, our abba or daddy, Jesus calls him and teaches us to call him (last Sunday’s gospel—Luke 11:2).  God can handle our distress, our anger, our despondency; and we ought to express them to him.

Then, like Jeremiah, we have to listen to God’s reply.  God told him to suck it up, to get his prophetic act back together—to be faithful to his vocation, and God would be faithful to him.

Faithfulness was Jesus’ approach too.  “Abba, not what I will but what you will,” he prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane (Mark 14:36); and on the cross, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit” (Luke 23:46).

Mother Teresa used to say, “God doesn’t call us to be successful but to be faithful.”  That’s a struggle, for sure, for us who aren’t Mother Teresa.  Yet from her private letters we know now, years after her death and approaching her canonization, that she spent years in spiritual darkness, not feeling, not experiencing, the presence of God in her life.  But she persevered, as all of us can—because we know God loves us.  That love is the treasure in the field for which we risk everything, the pearl of great price that we grab hold of (cf. Matt 13:44-46) because we know its incomparable value.

We look also to the example of our Blessed Mother, who experienced untold pain and grief—her traditional 7 sorrows—but we know how richly God has rewarded her faithfulness and perseverance.  We invoke her protection and intercession as we too strive to be faithful and persevere in following her Son.



                [1] Hamlet, I, 3:75-77.