Author: patcamerino

Today’s question, again, is a very personal one, so you don’t need to answer it out loud. My question is: how many of you today are wearing chains? I don’t mean a gold or silver chain around your neck, but rather those invisible chains which bind you to the past. Chains forged from actions we call “traditions” and “habits.” Those chains which are the yokes of slavery that Saint Paul speaks about in his letter to the Galatians we heard a few minutes ago.

In our first reading from the Hebrew Testament, we also heard about yokes, about twelve yoke of oxen. In that story, the prophet Elijah, spelled with a “j”, chose his successor, the prophet Elisha, spelled with an “s”. One morning the young Elisha was out plowing with his twelve yoke of oxen, a significant number of animals, indicating he was from a very wealthy family. When the older Elijah saw the young man and knew that this was to be his successor, what did he do?

According to the story, he didn’t go up to Elisha and say, “I’ve got a new job for you, you’re to get ready to be my replacement.” No, Elijah was more subtle than that. The old prophet took the hair shirt he was wearing, which was almost like a badge of office, every prophet had a very distinctive hair shirt, and put it over the young man’s shoulders. The meaning was very clear to young Elisha. He was called to become a prophet. But first he wanted to say good-bye to his parents.

Now I personally don’t think that’s too much of a request to have made. If one of my sons were chosen for a major, new job in someplace like New York City, I’d like for him to say good-bye before he took off. But that’s not how things are done when it comes to doing God’s work. When Elisha wanted to go home and tell his parents, the elder prophet said something to the effect: “Hey, no problem. I’m not forcing you to do anything against your will. If you don’t want this opportunity, that’s up to you.”

But Elisha did want that opportunity. So much so that he immediately broke all ties with his past. He slaughtered the oxen, tore up the wooden plow and used it for kindling to cook the cattle. Now that’s breaking with the past in a big-time way. After all, the oxen and the plow probably belonged to his father. It’s unlikely his old man would want him around the house after that. With that kind of statement, Elisha destroyed the ties which bound him to his past. He had nowhere to go but where the prophet Elijah and their God would lead them.

Which brings us to the story of another man who went where God would lead him. The gospel story from Luke we heard today begins a new chapter in the life of Jesus. His journey to Jerusalem. From now until the end of the liturgical year our gospel readings will be Luke’s account of Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem, the place where he will suffer, die, and be raised from the dead.

Today’s readings begin with the lines: “as the time approached when Jesus was to be taken from this world, he firmly resolved to proceed toward Jerusalem …” some of the older translations are closer to the original wording which says, “he set his face towards Jerusalem.” No matter how it is said, the results are the same: Jesus knew he must proceed to Jerusalem even though his actions would cause the authorities to try to stop him. He had to go to Jerusalem even if the journey would cost him his life.

Jerusalem, the holy place of God. Jerusalem with the temple of God, the only place where according to Judaic tradition, God could be properly worshiped. The Samaritans, however, thought otherwise. According to their tradition, God must be worshiped on mount Gerizim, which was why the Samaritans would not welcome anyone who was on a journey to Jerusalem.

Jerusalem. Many of you are probably aware that Father Paul, three weeks ago, took about fifty people, most of whom are from CGS, on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Over the coming weeks I’m sure you’ll hear more about the Holy Land from your friends and from Deacon Al, Father Paul and me, than you will want to hear. But there are two stories I’d like to tell about our trip. Stories about traditions.

The first one is about coffee. Or rather about coffee cups. Many Americans after a good dinner, or even a mediocre one, enjoy having a cup of coffee. Well, don’t expect to get one in Israel! According to Jewish dietary laws, all foods are classified as either meat or dairy. The two can never be served together. The typical Israeli breakfast is a feast of cheeses, cereals, fruits, eggs and pickled or creamed fish. You can also have great coffee with cream.

Come dinner time, meat is served. However, when there is meat, there can be no dairy products such as cheese, butter or milk. In fact, two sets of dishes are used; one for the dairy breakfast and another for the meat dinner. These dishes must remain separate in every kosher home or restaurant in Israel. This means that coffee, which is usually served with cream or milk, can not be served following a meat meal, even if you don’t take cream in your coffee.

The coffee cup is still not kosher and can not be used in the same place where there are dishes used for meat. One member of our group wondered why there could not be special kosher coffee cups. But that is simply part of the tradition. To see a coffee cup at a dinner where meat had been served would be very scandalous for an Israeli.

Now least you think that only Jewish tradition is strange in Israel, here is a second story for you. The story of the chasuble. Do you know what a chasuble is? It’s the outer robe that a priest wears. Deacons, like me, wear dalmatics. They have sleeves. Chasubles don’t have sleeves. Which is one way to tell the difference between a priest and a deacon. Now for the story.

One of the highlights of our journey to Jerusalem was the celebration of the mass in a Franciscan chapel next to the Holy Sepulcher, the place where Christ was buried. Father Paul had finally managed to get a time slot to use the chapel, with the help of an Arab merchant, believe it or not – but that’s another story.

Anyway, the time for the liturgy had arrived and the chapel was filled with the fifty of us and a handful of other tourist-pilgrims. Father Paul entered the chapel wearing a very attractive chasuble. But the room was very warm and he wanted to be more at home, so he took off the chasuble and put it on a chair. He was prepared to celebrate the liturgy wearing an alb and stole, like we often do at daily mass. He jokingly asked us to remind him to put it back on before he left the chapel, because the little, old Franciscan who let us use the chapel insisted that Paul wear it.

Well, just as Fr. Paul stepped forward to greet us and begin the mass, the huge doors to the chapel opened and in walked the little, old Franciscan priest. He saw the chasuble on the chair and picked it up and elaborately spread it on the altar. There was no way that Fr. Paul could celebrate mass without putting on the chasuble. Which he did. Then the Franciscan priest went to the back of the chapel and up into a darkened choir loft where he stayed for the rest of the liturgy. I’m sure he was taking notes on all of us for the whole service and thought we were a group of heretics, especially at the Sign of Peace where we hugged and cried and rejoiced.

Again: tradition. According to that particular Franciscan’s tradition, the only way a priest could say mass was wearing a chasuble. For us, the only way to participate fully in the joy of the Eucharist is to have a meaningful exchange during the Sign of Peace.

Traditions are those actions which link a culture to its past. Now don’t get me wrong. Traditions in and of themselves are needed in order to preserve a culture. But what about traditions which need to be changed? And the same for habits, those individual actions which link each one of us to our past. Again, there are, of course, good habits. But what about the bad ones?

Traditions and habits can be the foundation upon which a solid life as a society, or as individuals, can be built. Yet, traditions and habits can also be chains which shackle us to the past.

When we are asked to work for social justice, what excuse is given? Do we ever say:
● I can’t do that, it’s not me.
● I can’t serve in a soup kitchen, I’ve never done anything like that before; it’s not me.
● I can’t take in a foster child; that’s not my thing.
● I can’t be part of a pro-life march, that’s not where I am. It’s not me.

When we are trapped by our behavior, what excuse is given? Do we ever say: I can’t change, that’s just the way I am. I can’t give up drinking; that’s just the way I am. I can’t stop having an extramarital affair; that’s just the way I am. I can’t control my homosexual behavior; that’s just the way I am.

When we are asked to do something different for the benefit of others, do we fall back on our old societal traditions and our personal habits and say, I can’t change, that’s not me. When we know that we must change for our own moral and spiritual benefit, do we pull our chains around us tighter and say: I can’t do that, it’s too difficult, it’s not me.

Some two thousand years ago, on a journey to the place where he would suffer, die and be raised for us, the Son of God urged those who would follow him to put aside the past, to allow the dead to bury the dead. He said that those who look to the past for encouragement and comfort are not ready to walk with him into the present and future Reign of God.

The question we need to answer is this: do we use our traditions and habits as foundations upon which to grow; or as excuses not to change what needs to be changed? The choice is ours. What chains do we wear today?

Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time; June 28,1992
1 Kgs 19:16, 19-21; Gal 5:1, 13-18; Lk 9:51-62

“When in the course of human events, It becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands Which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.”

My question for today is an easy one: what is the source of the words I just quoted? “The Declaration of Independence of the Thirteen Colonies in Congress, July 4, 1776.” This weekend we, of course, are celebrating our freedom and our commitment to these principles. But what does this mean in terms of today’s scriptural readings? A lot!

Today’s readings focus on freedom and commitment as much as do the words of the Declaration of Independence for those Thirteen Colonies. And so it is important to consider what our Christian tradition has to say about freedom and commitment. For it is in our Christian tradition – and especially our Catholic heritage as articulated throughout history, in particular by John Paul II – that tells us that freedom without “loving-service” is anarchy. This, then, is the focus for today’s reflection: true freedom is found only in loving-service to others. Without this loving-service, freedom becomes anarchy, a time of destruction. Freedom demands a commitment to this loving-service for others.

Our founders who wrote our Declaration of Independence recognized a need for such commitment. The concluding words they wrote are these: “And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.” They well appreciated the need to move forward together, without holding on to the past; to set aside their comfort in order to advance the mutual welfare of the people.

Our first reading from the history of the Jewish people speaks of commitment to the future and to others; and a breaking of the ties of the past. In this reading, the prophet Elijah must seek his replacement, another prophet, to encourage God’s people. And so he invites young Elisha to follow him.

Perhaps we think Elijah gave his invitation in a strange way. But prophets often acted-out in symbols the event that was to occur. We may speak of a new person putting on the mantle of the one who is succeeded. Well in this first reading, this is what actually happened. The prophet Elijah placed his cloak, his mantle, on the shoulders of the young Elisha, who knew immediately what the symbolism meant. He was to succeed Elijah. And how did Elisha respond?

It was not immediate acceptance. He was willing to go, but first he wanted to make his good-byes. And Elijah agreed that young Elisha was free to accept his invitation or to return to his family. Elijah did nothing to abridge the young man’s freedom. But then Elisha realized that his commitment must be made completely; that he could not return to the way of life he once lived. As we heard, he slaughtered the twelve yoke of oxen he had needed for his livelihood. He not only did this but he even burned the plow! There was to be no turning back.

Yet, there is a passage which we usually pass by too quickly. We tend to see Elisha going off immediately with Elijah, and forget that he did not just destroy the oxen but rather he cooked them; and gave them to the people to eat. He distributed his fortune to others before he went towards his unknown future. Already he was engaged in an act of loving-service.

Our Second Reading from Saint Paul’s Letter to the Galatians speaks even more eloquently of freedom and our call to loving-service. Listen carefully to his words: “It was for liberty that Christ freed us. So stand firm, and do not take on yourselves the yoke of slavery a second time. My brothers and sisters, remember that you have been called to live in freedom … but not a freedom that gives free rein to the flesh. Out of love, place yourselves at one another’s service. The whole law has found its fulfillment in this one saying: ‘you shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ If you go on biting and tearing one another to pieces, take care! You will end up in mutual destruction.” It is on such words as these written by Saint Paul that I would maintain that freedom without loving-service is anarchy; that unbridled freedom leads to destruction.

In our gospel reading from Luke, we heard the report of what happened when Jesus entered a Samaritan town on his way to Jerusalem. Now the Samaritans, as you know, had an on-going feud with the jews. And so it is no wonder that they would be most unfriendly to a group bound to the Jewish Holy City. James and John, two of Jesus’ closest disciples, were not pleased with this unfriendly treatment. They wanted Jesus to call down fire from heaven to destroy those perceived as enemies. But Jesus did not rebuke the Samaritans. Rather, he reprimanded his followers for their desire to destroy those who were unfriendly towards them.

Jesus had no desire to destroy those who were not committed to following him. They had a free choice not to follow him. But from those who did ask to follow him, Jesus demanded a strong commitment.

When one such young man, much like Elisha, said “let me bury my father first,” we hear Jesus say: “let the dead bury their dead; come away and proclaim the kingdom of God.” These sound like very harsh words, indeed, from Jesus. But some scripture scholars point out that there is no indication that the young man’s father had died yet. That what the young man had meant was, at some future time, when all of my current responsibilities have ended, then I want to follow you.

Jesus’ words in response sadly acknowledged that some people may say they want to be free to follow him, but, in reality, lack the commitment to do it. For when another said: “…first let me take leave of my people at home,” Jesus responded: “whoever puts his hand to the plow but keeps looking back, is unfit for the reign of God.” Once a person has chosen to follow Jesus the Christ, there must be no turning back to the old ways. One must be free to move onward.

But no one moves on alone. Each is accompanied by Jesus, himself; each one of us is accompanied in a very special way. All of our scriptural readings for today have dealt with plowing and with yokes. There is of course, one other story about yokes. In Matthew’s gospel we hear the words: “Come to me, all you who are weary and find life burdensome, and I will refresh you. Take my yoke upon your shoulders and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble of heart. Your souls will find rest, for my yoke is easy, and my burden light.”

When we hear this invitation, we need to recall that Jesus was once a carpenter. A major job for a village carpenter was the construction of yokes for oxen. It was an exacting job. Each yoke was individually fitted to the oxen. The carpenter would first measure the oxen, like old time bootmakers measured Texans for boots. Then after the carpenter had completed the preliminary work, the oxen would be returned for exact fittings until the yoke was just right for each animal. It would not do to have the animal harmed by the yoke. Well, the Greek word usually translated as “easy” actually means “well-fitted.” Jesus, the carpenter, actually said: “my yoke is well-fitted,” you will not be harmed when we are joined together.

And this is what we are called to do. We are called to be yoked with Jesus the Christ in loving-service to others. He seeks our commitment to go forward with him into the reign of heaven.

His weekend we will gaze up into the heavens to view the fireworks which celebrate our nation’s call to freedom. We will see the celestial fires that prompt our “Oh’s” and “Ah’s.” But they will quickly vanish into smoke. As the ground shakes beneath us and young children cover their ears in the final bombardment, let us renew our own commitment to follow the light who exceeds all light. Let us resolve not to drift like left-over smoke but rather to catch a falling spark and kindle it into a flame of loving service – as we join with our Lord to become a light unto the world.

Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time; July 2, 1995 (Fourth of July weekend)
1 Kgs 19:16, 19-21; Gal 5:1, 13-18; Lk 9:51-62

How many of you have seen “Titanic?” Well, my question for today is for you. As for the rest of you, if you’re not planning to see “Titanic,” you might ask your friends after mass, what my question was all about. And if you haven’t seen it yet, but plan to, I’ll try to phrase my question so it doesn’t give too much away. My question is this: did Rose release “the Heart of the Ocean” by accident or on purpose? Did she relinquish her past by chance or by desire? That actually is a basic question for each one of us. Can I give up my past, what I have held on to, and what I have achieved, in order to move towards an uncertain future – a future that calls me forward, even if I am reluctant to go?

We heard about such an event in today’s first reading about two prophets: Elijah and Elisha. It’s the story of an older, established prophet, Elijah, nearing the end of his days on earth, and the need for him to find a young replacement, one who could continue his work on behalf of the Lord God. So Elijah found Elisha, the son and heir of a very wealthy man. At least his father was wealthy enough to own twelve yoke of oxen. And someday, Elisha would inherit all of his father’s property, both the land and the oxen to work it.

However, that is not what Elijah and the Lord God had in mind for Elisha. Instead of being a wealthy landowner, he was to be a poor, humble prophet who would wander the land and call others to return to the Lord God. When Elijah chose Elisha, the young man was not immediately willing. He wanted to say goodbye to his parents which, to me, seems the least that he should do.

But how did Elijah respond? Well, more or less he said: hey, Elisha, you have your own free will. It’s up to you to do what you want to do. If you want, you can go home and perhaps allow your folks to convince you how foolish it would be to give up all of this and go with me to follow God’s call. It doesn’t matter to me.

And what did Elisha do? Instead of going home, he made it impossible for him to return. He destroyed the wooden yokes in a bonfire he made to roast the slaughtered oxen. That’s destroying your past ties in a big-time way. Yet it appears to be a way that the Lord God approved of. His son advised the same thing to those who would follow him.

In our gospel reading we hear Jesus say to one person: if you follow me, there will be no safe haven, no place for you to hide, no place for you to call home. Even wild animals have lairs to run to. Even birds have places to raise their young. But if you follow me, expect no place even to sleep comfortably.

And to another Jesus said: if you really want to follow me, you must not wait until the time is perfect, a time when you are free of other responsibilities like taking care of your parents. You cannot wait for them to die first; you must come now, immediately.

And to a third he said: if you really want to follow me, you must give up your support group. You must let go of those who have given you comfort and friendship. You must give up your past if you accept my call to journey with me to Jerusalem, to follow your destiny.

And what is our destiny? To what are we called? What are our vocations, our callings: the ways we are to journey with Jesus the Christ? According to what we learned as youngsters in early catechisms, there are three vocations, three callings, three ways we can proceed on our journey with him. We learned that there is the married life, the single life, and the religious life. Let’s take a look for a moment at these three vocations, these three callings.

In the married life one is called to journey with Jesus along side one other person, a spouse. Here in this month of June and of marriages, many remember how a husband and wife are to walk as a couple with Jesus. A couple like the one who accompanied him on the road to Emmaus, who heard him speak, and were present at the breaking of the bread, before returning to the community to share the word – the word that he is risen and is with us now.

In the single life, one is called to journey with Jesus without any other direct assistance but in the company of many others who also walk with him as companions and friends. Each one is like the woman who meets him alone in the garden and then runs to tell the others that he is risen and is with us now.

In the religious life, one is called to journey with Jesus without a unique tie to any one person but rather to the entire community of believers, to the gathering, the Church. Each one is like the beloved disciple who rests beside Jesus at the communal meal, the one who peers into the empty tomb before returning to the community to tell them that the Lord is risen and is with us now.

Yes, whether we are called to journey in the married life, the single life or the religious life, each one of us has the vocation to share that life with others in our community, to tell others: he is risen and is with us now. And we are to live out the words we heard in today’s letter from Saint Paul to the Galatians: “out of love, place yourselves at one another’s service.”

At the same time, Paul reminds us that we are no longer bound by what he calls “the law,” the way of dead traditions that would yoke as to the slavery of the past but rather, we are guided by the spirit.
Paul tells us that it is possible to give up the old ways, the old life; those habits and events which are death-dealing, which make us tear one another to pieces; those actions that lead to mutual destruction.

Jesus knew first-hand about death and destruction, those elements that awaited him in Jerusalem, the place to which he was being called. On the one hand, he realized that this is the city where he would suffer his passion and his death. But Jerusalem would also be the city of his resurrection and of his glorification with God.

The journey before each one of us leads to the destiny of our own Jerusalem: a place of potential despair but also, a place of abiding hope. Perhaps on our journey, we each sail aboard a vessel towards a new land. Our ship may be the Titanic or it may be the Mayflower. And on that journey, we may need to let go of the past, to open our hand, to give up the “Heart of the Ocean” and find the Heart of God.

Thirteen Sunday of Ordinary Time; June 28, 1998
1 Kgs 19:16, 19-21; Gal 5:1, 13-18; Lk 9:51-62

I wonder how many of you have joined the nostalgia movie kick this summer. It seems that all of the blockbusters for the last month or so have been based on the past we want to re-capture. The biggest appears to be “Batman.” I don’t know about you, but I practically grew up with the “caped crusader,” although at the time I didn’t realize he had so many psychological hang-ups. However, my real favorite was Captain Marvel. Wouldn’t it be great if an adolescent boy could really say a magic word and turn into a muscle-beach hunk in a red suit? How many of you remember that secret word? That’s right: SHAZAM.

Besides this summer’s Batman nostalgia, we also have a movie for the younger folks whose memory goes back only as far as “Ghost-Busters“. For the in-between crowd, there’s the latest “Indiana Jones” epic. However, if you’re not into sequels for your nostalgia, you can also see “The Dead Poet Society,” or the real nostalgia-grabber: “Field of Dreams.”

“Field of Dreams” may be the best of the nostalgia movies for this season. It embodies so many of the major elements of our American mythology, especially all those wonderful memories about summertime when the living was easy.

One of the images in today’s gospel reading focuses on a summertime image. If you close your eyes, can’t you just see those fields ready for the harvest. For some of you, it might be corn fields like those you saw in “Field of Dreams.” Perhaps it might just be a field of tall grass ready to be cut and carried to the hayloft in the barn in an old wood-bottomed truck that looked nothing like the pick-ups driven by our city farmers here in Houston.

It would be very tempting to focus on scenes like this for today’s reflection. To meditate on swimming holes and rope swings. After all, did we not hear in today’s gospel how the seventy-two disciples were to bring “peace” to the households they visited when Jesus sent them out? Aren’t these visions of “peace” and comfort worth thinking about? I fully admit that they are. Nevertheless, the focus of today’s reflection is on our bringing that peace and comfort to others rather than upon our receiving it.

As much as we might want to forget it, there is another summertime nostalgic story. Do you recall the fable of the ant and the grasshopper? How the grasshopper fiddled and played all summer while the industrious ant worked at gathering her supplies for the winter and was able to survive while the poor grasshopper suffered in the cold. In our gospel story we are once more reminded how we need to prepare the way for Christ. Let’s take a closer look at what we heard in today’s gospel reading.

First of all, there is the matter of the seventy-two followers Jesus sent out to the towns where he planned to go. Most of the time we think about only the Twelve Apostles; how Jesus sent them out on special missions. We sort of view all of his other followers as part of the crowd. A crowd who listened to him, who were perhaps healed or changed by his presence but weren’t really expected to do anything else. Yet in today’s reading we are told something different. Jesus not only sent out twelve special messengers, twelve men we call apostles, since that is what the word “apostles” means. (It means messengers, or ambassadors, those who are sent out), Jesus sent out not only twelve apostles but six times as many men and women to preach that the Reign of God is near.

What does that mean for us? I believe it means we can’t hide behind the excuse that you have to be someone special, one of the select Twelve, in order to spread the message of Christ. I believe that while bishops may view themselves as the heirs of the Apostles, all Christians are heirs of the Seventy-two whom Jesus sent out to the towns ahead of his coming to them personally.

And what instructions did he give to those seventy-two men and women? First of all, he reminded them, and he reminds us, you don’t have to be completely prepared to do God’s work, to spread the Good News of the kingdom. The Seventy-two did not need to carry a walking stick or a traveling bag. All they needed was what they had. We, too, do not need extra equipment in order to speak about the Christ. What we have and who we are right now are all he expects of us. What else did he tell them?

At first, it might sound puzzling to hear him say that they should not greet anyone along the way. That sounds down-right unfriendly and not like Jesus at all. Perhaps, what he was really saying is something that we all need to hear: don’t procrastinate. Don’t put off getting to where you are needed. Do what must really be done rather than what you might think is more pleasant to do. How many times have we said something like: “I’ll start my diet tomorrow?” Or when it comes to our spiritual welfare, something like: “I can start praying tomorrow, today’s is almost over and there isn’t any time left today.”

Besides telling the seventy-two disciples to use what they had and not to delay in doing what must be done, Jesus also instructed them on what they had to do in order to prepare the way for his coming. They were to bring to each place, the Peace of Christ; they were supposed to stay where they were needed and not go off from place to place looking for new adventures; and finally, they were to cure the sick who came to them.

These may be thought to be difficult tasks for the Seventy-two and for us to accomplish. How do we bring peace? Why is it necessary to stay in one place? How do I cure the illness of others? Perhaps it might help to take a look at another image we heard about in today’s readings: the major image we saw in the First Reading from Isaiah.

In this passage, Isaiah speaks of Jerusalem and of God in terms of a nursing mother. This is a difficult image for us. In our modern, American culture, we can imagine God as a father and pray to a masculine God as Jesus taught us when he gave us the prayer to “Abba”. I admit that it is not often that I think of God as a mother who nurses me.

Ours is a “Simulac” culture. We seldom think of breast-fed babies. We rarely remember the classical art depicting a nursing Madonna. But think for a moment of that image of the peace and comfort of those classic portraits. Imagine for a moment the absolute stillness of the mother and child. Agitation and nursing are incompatible. There is an absolute demand for stillness, for peace, for comfort, for inner healing during such moments. It is with this in mind that Isaiah can quote God as saying: “Oh, that you may suck fully of the milk of her comfort, that you may delight at her abundant breasts! … as nurslings, you shall be carried in her arms, and fondled in her lap; as a mother comforts her son, so will I comfort you.”

Indeed, God is our father and our mother. God is our parent who gives us peace. God is also the one who sends us forth in the words of his Son to bring peace to others, to heal the illness of others.
● We are to heal broken hearts, broken bodies and broken spirits.
● We are to drive out the demons of despair, of hatred, of anger and of strife.
● We are to comfort those who are imprisoned by guilt and by loneliness.
● We are to nourish those who are hungry in body and in soul.
● We are to clothe those who are naked in body and uncovered in their loss of dignity.

We are the laborers who are sent into the fields. We are not sent into these fields alone; each one by himself or herself. Instead, we are sent out in pairs, we are sent out in community to harvest the fields. And when those seventy-two laborers returned to Jesus to tell him about the wonders they had accomplished in his name, he reminded them of one last important matter. He reminded them that they should not take pride in what they had accomplished; they should not be proud that they expelled demons and evil spirits, but rather rejoice that, because of him, they were part of that kingdom which they proclaimed.

A few minutes ago, I said that the movie, “Field of Dreams” is a major example of a movie focused on nostalgia, a sentimental return to the past. But it is also a movie which tells what a person must do when called by an unseen voice. It tells of how a person must continue to work when others believe that the work is unproductive or even crazy. Two thousand years ago, Jesus sent seventy-two people out before him to tell others that the Kingdom of God is near. I wonder if he said something like this to them, and now, to us: “If you build it, he will come.”

Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time; July 9, 1989
Is 66:10-14; Gal 6:14-18; Lk 10:1-12, 17-20

My question for today fits in with the national holiday we celebrate this weekend. It’s about the event occurring on July 3rd and July 4th, 1776. My question is this: If you were alive some 234 years ago – and a member of the Continental Congress meeting in Philadelphia – would you have signed the Declaration of Independence?

Would you have been a conservative delegate in that Congress – one who desired to preserve the existing relationship of the colonies with their rightful ruler, George III? Would you have left the meeting – as did those who wanted to continue the status quo rather than to become a traitor?

Or being a liberal desiring change, would you have been willing to be a traitor to the crown, to the king of England, whose rightful power was derived from God – as it had been for hundreds, if not thousands of years of history? Remember: the divine right of kings had been in existence since very ancient times. Would you have been willing to put your signature on a document that called the king a tyrant to be overthrown? After all, this Declaration of Independence listed all of the “wrongs” the colonists believed King George had committed – and why there should be independent states.

Would you have agreed that “all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness?” Today’s scripture readings agree with this point of view. These readings do not support the status quo, they are in favor of change … in favor of a new life for the oppressed.

In our first reading we hear the words spoken by the Prophet Isaiah addressing those Israelites held in bondage in Babylon. Isaiah spoke of a return to Jerusalem over which the LORD GOD would spread peace and prosperity like a river. A place where they would be nurtured as would a child by its mother. A place of comfort and acceptance.

Those colonists who first ventured to the New World some three hundred years ago, saw America as the “New Jerusalem” … a land where “[their] hearts shall rejoice and [their] bodies flourish like the grass.”
● A place of new hope for the ages.
● A place where they could escape from the repressions which had held them back.
● A land where they could seek a new life for themselves and their families.

Through their own hard work over the ensuing years, they were able to fulfill this promise and form a new nation, a nation with the motto: “e pluribus unum …. out of many, one.” It is from our long tradition that, in 1938, FDR began a presidential address to the Daughters of the American Revolution with the words: “My fellow immigrants …”

It is with this tradition of being a nation of immigrants that – in a recent letter to all priests and deacons – Cardinal DiNardo encouraged all Catholic homilists to address the concerns of immigration on this Fourth of July weekend, the time of our annual celebration of our Independence, of our willingness to change from a known past to an unknown future.

Yes, July 4th would be a good time to recall how in the 1700’s the people of Ireland arrived here as indentured servants, working off their immigration costs in order to become citizens of this nation.
● To recall the 1800’s when the French fled the sometimes deadly results of their own revolution to come to the United States.
● To remember that the Irish and French were soon followed by the Germans who, looking for a better life, settled the American frontier from Pennsylvania to the mid-west and Texas.

It is also time to recall how, in the early 1900’s, the newly imposed quota system for immigrants limited the numbers from Eastern and Southern Europe arriving in New York City or Galveston. It was during this period that my own grandparents came to Ohio from Poland and from Italy. They spoke no English. They came here for a better life. Obviously I’m glad they did.

However, it was not a problem-free life in which my grandparents, my American-born parents and I lived out the hopes and dreams of my grandparents. In the early 1900’s, Ohio was the site of Ku Klux Klan threats against Catholics, especially first-generation Catholics. The KKK tried to toss my mother out of a window at school, because she was a Roman Catholic who supposedly followed a foreign leader, the Pope.

The discrimination I endured was more subtle. It occurred only after I introduced myself to others, especially adults. When I said that my name was Pat Camerino, the usual response was: “Really … you don’t look Italian.” I was never sure how to respond to such a comment. I could not understand how I quickly moved from being accepted – to being viewed as somehow associated with the Mafia in Niles, Ohio: the industrial town where I was raised.

Unfortunately, some sixty years later, although the situation has changed for me as a Italian-Polish-American, it has not changed for recent immigrants from Mexico or Latin America or from South-Asian countries such as Viet Nam. In fact it may not have changed from the time when Jesus sent out his 72 friends to the towns who had not yet heard his teachings. The words he spoke to his friends could just as easily be said about these recent migrants: “The harvest is abundant but the laborers are few, so ask the [foreman] to send out laborers for his harvest. Go on your way, behold, I am sending you like lambs among wolves. Carry no money bag, no sack, no sandals, and greet no one along the way. Into whatever house you enter, first say, ‘Peace to this household.’ If a peaceful person lives there, your peace will rest on him; but if not, it will return to you. Stay in the same house and eat and drink what is offered to you, for the laborer deserves his payment.”

Yes, many of the residents of the towns the disciples entered did not accept them … just as many who arrive in our towns and cities are not accepted. And yes, there are those who might say: but Jesus was talking about his disciples, not about illegal immigrants or even those with documents that show they are legal immigrants.

And yes, there are differences between those who do not follow the law and those who do. There was also a time when “workers without papers” were called WOPS … a term many applied equally to my American-born parents. Yes, the legal status of migrants is important. However, as Cardinal DiNardo and other Houston religious leaders have pointed out … many of our current immigration policies and practices do not allow a humane and fair implementation that would allow for an increase in the legal immigration of those either fleeing repression and danger – or those seeking to improve the way of life for their families, as did my own grandparents.

Another religious leader, Saint Paul, believed that the teachings of Christ set us aside from prior associations which bound us. Saint Paul reminds the Galatians that it was neither circumcision (which identified all Jewish males and which once bound them to the Laws of Torah) nor un-circumcision (which identified all Gentile men) – that now mattered. Rather peace and mercy are to be shown to all who practice the teachings of the crucified Lord Jesus Christ. The sign of the cross now unites all who follow him.

Two hundred and thirty four years ago, members of an assembly meeting in Philadelphia said that certain truths are self-evident … that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with the rights of Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. They were courageous leaders who were willing to sign a document stating this and, thereby, becoming traitors to the existing order. They were willing to look to a different future, a changed future, in which these words might became a reality for everyone.

Today we are not called to sign such a world-changing document. But as followers of Christ we are called to accept our brothers and sisters and state: “The kingdom of God is at hand for you.” Yes, for all of you.

14th Sunday in Ordinary Time; July 4, 2010
Is 66:10-14c; Gal 6:14-18; Lk 10:1-9 (shorter form)

Well, we’ve just heard what might be one of the best-known parables in the Bible, the story of the “Good Samaritan.” You may have heard it so many times that, if you were asked, you could probably re-tell it, almost word for word. By now, you could probably give your own homily on just what it means – or is supposed to mean.

We have a lawyer – or a student of the law, depending upon the translation – ask Jesus a question: “Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life? How can I gain entrance into the kingdom of god you keep talking about?” Jesus, like many Jewish teachers, answers the question with another question: “What do our holy scriptures, our written Law, have to say about this question?”

The questioner responds by repeating the core of the Hebrew Testament: “Love the Lord, your God with all your heart, with all your being, with all your strength, and with all your mind, and your neighbor as yourself.” Jesus wholeheartedly agrees with this scholar of the law; but this particular lawyer continues to express his puzzlement by asking: “Who is my neighbor? Whom must I love as an extension of my very self?”

And Jesus tells his story about the outsider, the one who is not at all like the questioning Jewish lawyer; how the outsider is the neighbor, the one who shows compassion to another. Yes, on the surface, we’re all familiar with the story of the “Good Samaritan.” Perhaps too familiar, in fact, so familiar that we overlook some of the details. So, I have my own question for you, today. (You don’t think I’d forgotten about it, do you?)

My question is almost the same as the one I asked three weeks ago when I spoke about public opinion polls and the question: “Who am I? Who do people say I am?” Today’s question is this: in the story of the “Good Samaritan,” who are you? What role do you play in today’s gospel reading? There are a lot of people in today’s reading for you to choose from.

First of all, there’s the man who asked the questions: “What must I do inherit eternal life? Who is my neighbor?” I suppose that I, myself, am much like this guy. I do seem to ask a lot of questions, even when I know the answer; or perhaps, especially when I think I know the answer. Usually, I do it when I’m trying to teach something; when I’m trying to help someone learn something. After all, Jesus did the same thing in today’s story. He answered a question with another question, in the expectation that the lawyer already knew the correct answer and merely needed to say it. How many of you are like me, and the lawyer, asking questions about things we already know the answer to? How many of us ask the questions: “What must I do to be with God?” and: “Who is my neighbor?” when we already know the answers?

There are other roles, other players, in today’s reading; others for consideration. How about the robbers? How many of us abuse others, take away their possessions and leave them half-dead? No, probably none of us are actual muggers who prowl FM 1960 or Louetta as the robbers did on the road between Jerusalem and Jericho. But, unfortunately, there are some who do abuse others. There are those who abuse a child or a spouse or a friend; perhaps an acquaintance at work or at school. Not necessarily with physical abuse but, more likely, with emotional or spiritual abuse. Those who rob others of their dignity as human beings. Who leave them half-dead along the road we travel.

There is also the role of the victim. The one who was abused and left half-dead by the robbers. How many of us feel that this is the role we play, the role assigned to us by others or, perhaps, by ourselves? How many of us wait, half-dead, along the highway of life, waiting, hoping, praying for someone to see us and come to our rescue? How many wait for someone else to help us?

And how about the priest and the Levite who passed by the injured man? How many play this role in their own lives? These two who dedicated their professional lives to God and God’s people; they were able to pass by an injured man. Bible scholars tell us that they probably tried to “self-justify” their actions, thinking that the man was not merely injured, but was dead. If he were dead, they would become ritually unclean if they touched him and then they would not be able to worship in the temple in Jerusalem nor even be part of their own communities. And so they hurried on, believing they had done the right thing, that this is what their God expected of them.

How many of us ignore our responsibilities to others with our own self-justification that we are doing the right thing? We’re already too busy, too involved in our own professions; in what our jobs call us to do that we cannot find time to help someone else in distress. Our actions for others will cause us greater inconvenience. Besides, what good can we actually do? Let someone else bury the dead; we need to get on with our lives.

Then there is the “Good Samaritan.” Most of us hope that we play this role in life. That we’re willing to help others no matter what their backgrounds might be. Our care for them does not depend on race, religion, social status nor gender preference. We help others even if it delays our own journey and does not fit in with what we planned for today. Yes, like the good Samaritan, we care for others. And also like the good Samaritan, only on a temporary basis. After all, there are things I must do. I need to continue my own journey. And so, I’m willing to give from my other resources to pay someone else to continue what I do not have time to give. Just as the good Samaritan gave to the innkeeper two silver coins, there are those of us who give money to charities to continue this work. Some may even tithe and give ten percent of their income to support such good works. Bible scholars, however, point out that the two silver coins amounted to two day’s wages. On an annual basis, there are probably not many of us who contribute forty percent of our income to charitable works.

Finally, there is the innkeeper. He, – or she, since women back then could also be innkeepers – the innkeeper is the one who did the actual on-going work of caring for the injured man. Once the Samaritan left the inn, it was the responsibility of the innkeeper to look out for the welfare of the injured one without any guarantee that the Samaritan would, in fact, ever return with any re-payment. Could this Jewish innkeeper on the road between Jerusalem and Jericho really believe that this foreign tourist would keep his word?

How many of us continue to do the right thing, to care for those left in our charge without any guarantee that we will be recompensed? How many fathers and mothers care for the welfare of their children, without expectation that they, themselves, will be cared for in their own old age? How many spouses provide for one another without benefit of pre-nuptial agreements? How many volunteer their time to help others in whatever way they can? I trust that many do. Because, you see, for me, the main hero of the story we heard today is not the Samaritan but rather the forgotten innkeeper, the one who cared daily and directly for the injured person perhaps, in part, because this is what was expected of someone with this calling.

Yet the religious professionals did not completely live up to their calling. On the other hand, the innkeeper trusted the word of a sworn enemy, the foreign Samaritan. The innkeeper was willing to continue showing compassion and mercy, without any real guarantee that there would ever be a pay-back. Yes, perhaps, this is a story about a “Good Innkeeper” as much as it is about a “Good Samaritan.” In the long run, Jesus did not specify who was the neighbor to the robbers’ victim. He merely accepted the answer: “… the one who treated him with mercy.” And Jesus added his final instruction: “Go and do likewise.”

Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time; July 11, 2004
Dt 30:10-14; Col 1:15-20; Lk 10:25-37

Well, you don’t need to respond out loud or raise your hand to answer today’s question. It’s a very simple one: How many of you stayed up all night to read “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows?” And if you did, please don’t tell me after Mass, how it ends. I still haven’t got my copy. Yes, this is the weekend when many of us find out what happens to Harry Potter and to Voldemort. For some, it’s been a ten-year wait. But for a lot of other people, they could care less. In fact, for some, the whole Harry Potter fad seems to be anti-Christian and they’ve avoided or resented the stories of his magical world.

However, I for one see, a lot of Christianity in the stories. After all, the major power in Harry’s world is the power of “sacrificial love.” And for me, this is also the focus of Christianity, the sacrificial love of the Father who sends his Son to us for our salvation. In Harry’s world, the greatest evil is represented by Voldemort, a name which could mean “Turning towards death.” Voldemort, who seeks and dispenses evil by means of his own fractured soul. But today’s homily is not about Harry Potter. Instead, I’d like to reflect on the biblical readings we heard. Readings which focus on “hospitality” and on “choice.”

Hospitality. Openness to others. The warmth, comfort, even an opportunity, for healing we give to others. In particular to the stranger who comes to our door. Hospitality was a vital part of the ancient culture of a nomadic people. Hospitality was a way of life among those who wandered the deserts of the Holy Land, either as herders of goats or sheep or as traders bringing goods from distant places. Hospitality was essential for these people in order for them to survive.

Our first reading tells of the hospitality of Abraham and Sarah to three strangers who approached their tent. Abraham, the father of the Israelites and of the Arabic nomads who later followed the prophesies of Muhammad. When the three strangers approached his tent, pitched next to a lonely tree, he could have hidden himself or prepared to defend his wife. Instead he rushed out to greet them and offered them his hospitality. Water with which they could wash off the dust of their travel. And food and drink to strengthen them on their journey. In return, they promised Abraham and his elderly wife the hope of a son.

And then we have today’s gospel reading in which Jesus and his disciples enter a village where they are shown hospitality by two sisters: Mary and Martha. We heard how Martha, following the culture of her time, offered the guests the usual hospitality of water for washing and food and drink to fortify them. We also heard of an unthinkable event. An extraordinary event.

We heard how a woman, the sister named Mary, sat down with the men to listen to what Jesus had to say. Two thousand years later, it’s difficult for most of us to realize the shock and dismay such a simple action would cause. A woman sitting down in a private home with male companions and listening to a wandering teacher was unthinkable. It might be acceptable for a woman to join with her husband or her family in an open field to listen to him; but it simply was totally unacceptable for this to occur in her own home. She was rightly chastised by her sister, Martha, for not participating in offering their hospitality to the visitors.

But she was not chastised, she was not criticized, by Jesus for this apparent failing. Instead, he seems pleased with her presence, with her listening to him. He tells Martha not to be concerned about the many obligations she perceived; but rather to allow Mary to continue to listen to him. Perhaps he implied that Martha, herself, should join them. Should give up the obligations she thought she had to fulfill, in accord with their customs and culture,

Today when we hear this story, many believe we might conclude that each one of us should become both Mary and Martha. That we must balance our need to do the work required of us and to listen to the teachings of Christ. After all, much of Catholic teaching is based upon the observation that we do not belong to a so-called “either/or” religion, but rather we are part of a “both/and” way of life.

In the first place, we believe our God is both “all just” and “all forgiving” – that He is not “either” a God of Justice, sometimes “or” a God of Mercy, sometimes, but rather our God is a God of both Justice and Mercy all the time, even if we, as humans, cannot understand exactly “how” this can be true.

We believe that his Son, the one we call Jesus the Christ, is “both human and divine,” not “either one or the other.” We do not believe he is divine one moment and human the next.

We believe that Mary, his mother, is “both a mother and a virgin.” Yet, in human thinking, the two terms are mutually exclusive. A woman is either a “mother” or a “virgin,” never both. Yet we believe that Mary is.

We believe that humanity is both mortal and immortal; that each one of us consists of a mortal body and an immortal soul. We, ourselves, are “both/and” rather than “either/or.”

And so we may rightfully agree that we are called to be “both Mary and Martha” – that we are called to be “of this world” and “not of this world.” As far as it goes, this is true. We are, indeed, both “of this world” and “not of this world.” We are to work for the coming of the kingdom at some future time and, at the same moment, to realize that the kingdom, the reign of God, exists now, at this very moment.

And so, perhaps, each one of us is, indeed, called to be both Mary and Martha. However, if we stop here, there may be a missing part in such an interpretation of today’s gospel reading. Or if not a “missing” part, perhaps an “incomplete” part. This can happen if we ignore, or skip lightly over, the response of Jesus to Martha’s annoyance with Mary. Jesus said: “Mary has chosen the better part …”

“Chosen.” Yes, Mary could rightfully have followed the cultural dictate of hospitality, of serving the guests in her home. However, she “chose” to go beyond merely following her culture. She chose to listen directly to Jesus the Christ. And we are called to do the same.

There are times when our culture, our usual way of thinking and of acting, must be put aside so that we, too, can listen directly to the words of Jesus the Christ. Our society may call for war and retribution when Jesus calls us towards peace and reconciliation. And yes, there is, as scripture tells us elsewhere: “there is a time for war, a time for tearing down.” But there is “also a time for peace, for building up.”

Our society may tell us that certain actions are not acceptable and must be punished. Yet Jesus may well urge us to welcome the alien, the lost, the homeless among us.

Today’s readings confirm that each of us has a choice. We can continue to do merely what our culture has said we should do, what is expected of us to do, even what might be necessary to do. We also can choose to set aside cultural imperatives and listen directly to Jesus the Christ, who speaks to each one of us and is delighted when we sit at his feet listening to him.

Indeed, sacrificial love is still demanded of us.
● The Love … to turn aside from our own self-interests and give our lives for the life of others.
● The Love … to avoid fracturing our own souls.
● The Love … to be both hospitable to others and to listen to the voice of our Lord who says: “There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her.”

Yes, we have been given the gift of free will, the gift to choose the “culture of life” or the “culture of death.” And perhaps, this is, indeed, the only “either/or” choice we have. Either to ignore Christ or to follow Him. We cannot do both. May each of us choose the “better part” – knowing that it will not be taken from us.

16th Sunday in Ordinary Time; July 22, 2007
Gn 18:1-10a; Col 1:24-28; Lk 10:38-42

Today’s question is another personal one – one for you to think about for a moment; one that calls upon your memory. My question is this: What event in your life is one that you wanted to last? It could also have been a major turning point in your life. It could have been brief in reality or it could have gone on for years. But it’s one you wanted to preserve.

For some it might be a very romantic event. The time you were dating a very special person. The time of your wedding and honeymoon. It could be the birth of your child, a time of joy. It might be a special trip or vacation. Four days in Disney-world. An island cruise. A trip to Mexico. Or perhaps, a few days in Colorado or even in Galveston or San Antonio. It could even be your first really-good job, a time when you were respected and appreciated for what you were doing. A time that held all you thought you really wanted out of life.

Each one of us, if we think about it, can recall a time when everything seemed to be perfect; when our life was completely “all-together.” Each one of us had, for a brief moment, our own Camelot. If only we could have preserved it. Put it under glass. Protected it, so that it would still be with us, every moment of our lives.

Saint Peter was like that. We heard all about his feelings in our gospel reading for today. We also heard his own recounting of that glorious experience. He wrote about it in what is called “the Second Letter of Peter.” A passage was read from this letter as our Second Reading for today.

The events we recall in our own lives are probably not as dramatic as the one Peter, James and John witnessed there on the mountain. After all, we seldom hear, directly, the spoken word of God. They did. For Peter wrote: “… we were eyewitnesses of [Jesus’] sovereign majesty. He received glory and praise from God the Father when that unique declaration came to him out of the majestic splendor: ‘This is my beloved Son on whom my favor rests.’ We ourselves heard this said from heaven while we were in his company on the holy mountain.”

It was there, where Jesus and his friends had retreated to pray, that Moses, the lawgiver, the founder of Israel, and Elijah, the prophet, the restorer of Israel, met with him. On Mount Sinai, Moses had received the Law, the Ten Commandments from the Lord God. On Mount Horeb, Elijah had seen the Lord God, himself, not in storm, earthquake or fire, but in a gentle, whispering breeze. And now on this holy Mount Tabor, they spoke with Jesus about his own “Exodus,” his own “passage” which would occur in Jerusalem.

And what was Peter’s immediate reaction? He said: “Master, how good it is for us to be here. Let us set up three booths, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” In effect, what he was suggesting was: let us preserve the memory of this great event. Let us erect monuments so that it will be visible to us and others for the rest of our lives.

There are many of us who are like Peter. We want to preserve in some physical way the major event in our life. We wish we could freeze-frame it with a push of a button on our video recorder. There are also some who do not merely remember the past, but rather, try to take the past with them into the present. There are classic stories of the high-school football player who still lives out the faded glory of that winning touchdown.

There are not-so-classic stories of others who try to say that the past is not really over; that today is still the same as yesterday. There are those who have erected booths upon their mountaintops to preserve a magnificent event. And over the years, the simple booth became a temple and then a fortress to keep out all new changes, all new thoughts and ideas.

But Jesus did not want to have booths erected for his particular encounter with the past. In the transfiguration stories found in the Gospels of Mark and of Matthew, Jesus tells Peter and the others not to speak of this event until the Son of Man has been raised from the dead. Here, in Luke’s account, it reads: “the disciples kept quiet, telling nothing of what they had seen at the time to anyone.” They had just heard the voice of God say: “This is my Son, my Chosen one. My Anointed one. The Christ. Listen to him.” And they were to tell no one of this event.

As I said, Jesus did not want them to perpetuate his encounter with the past, his meeting with Moses and Elijah. Rather he spoke to them of his future, his suffering, his death and his resurrection. It was these events he wanted them to remember and to celebrate. And so, they did. And so do we.

Each Sunday we gather together here at Eucharist to remember and to celebrate. And to enter into tomorrow. For this is the focus spoken to us by Jesus the Christ. As great as the events of the past might be, as necessary as they are to making each one of us the person who exists right now, it is even more necessary that we move onwards. We must come down from our mountaintop and re-enter the world of suffering, of death, but death coupled with resurrection and joy.

Mountaintop experiences give us strength and conviction for our journey; but they are not the journey, itself. There is more to life than living in the past. Having heard the voice of the Lord God spoken from the mists and clouds that surround our mountaintops, we now must listen to the word of God made flesh, the word of God who is transformed into the body and blood we eat and drink at this celebration. The word of God who tells us to go forth and be Eucharist for others. We are asked not to preserve the past in physical structures. We are not to live on the glory of our past accomplishments. Rather we are to join in the new Exodus, the new journey. We must come down from the mountaintop and continue our journey into the kingdom of God.

Transfiguration of the Lord: August 6, 1995
Dan 7:9-10, 13-14; 2 Pt 1:15-19; Lk 9:28-36

Today’s question is a two-parter. However, both are easy. The first one is: How many of you are parents? (Good.) The second one is: how many of you are children of parents? Well, if you answered “yes” to the first question, you may have an easier time following my homily for today. And if you didn’t respond with a “yes” to the second one, you might want to talk with a reporter for the “Enquirer” or another one of those tabloid newspapers. But for the rest of you, the focus for today’s reflection is on parental love: the love of a parent for a child. I really believe you need to be a parent before you can truly feel how a parent loves a child.

That certainly is the way it was for me. Like a lot of people, I never understood where my father was coming from until I became a father, myself. I doubt if my two sons really understood me, until they had their own children. At least, I hope they understand me a little bit better now. So what’s it like to be a parent? What do we want for our kids?

First of all: we simply want the “best” for them. Is there a parent who wants less than the “best” for the child? We would do practically anything to have them healthy and happy. In this country, the vast majority of parents tend to give their children not only what the kids “need”, but also what they “want”. Our modern advertising system recognizes this fact. We stock our cupboards with things they will eat, and we hope are good for them. We may complain that they stand too long with the refrigerator door open but at last what they finally take out is something we believe they should have.

We provide not only the “essentials” of life but often we respond to their “desires” as well. At the same time, we parents try to teach our children not to think that they can have everything they ask for. If we believe that a positive response to a request can be harmful or misused, as loving and concerned parents, we say things like: “no, you can’t have a hand-gun. No, you can’t go out driving at midnight.”

We listen constantly to their demands of: “Dad, can I have …” and “Mom, I just have to have …” However, even if we know what they want, what they think they need – or they will just up and die – even when we know what they will say, we still want to hear them ask for it. Perhaps for no better reason than to have our kids confirm to themselves, out loud, that this is really what they believe they need. For sometimes, it is only when we speak the words, that we truly know what these words mean and what we really want.

We parents try to give them what we think is best for them and we try to get them to understand just why it is the best for them, no matter how persistent they are in asking for something else. Persistence is one way to describe it. Other terms include “pleading” and “nagging.” They think they are breaking us down and finally getting their own way. They try to bargain with us. It’s a process we heard about in our readings for today.

In our first reading we heard how Abraham went “one-on-one” with God. Now here’s a question for you: do you think that Abraham changed God’s mind about how many innocent people were needed to save Sodom? Or do you think that God knew all along and wanted Abraham to know just how merciful he, himself, would be, given the chance? Was God willing right from the start, to save the entire city for the sake of the few innocent people that might live there, but he wanted Abraham to realize just how merciful the Lord God could be, if only Abraham showed his own mercy.

We are often told that this is a story of persistence and how persistence pays off. The same is true for the story we heard in today’s gospel reading. In that story the man was able to obtain bread from his sleepy friend because of his persistence in banging on the door. Yet, I wonder what would have happened if the man had gone to a stranger and not to the house of an established friend? Instead of receiving the food, would he have gotten a pot of water poured on his head? Is it not true that persistence with those who love us, has different results than persistence with those who have no regard for us?

At the beginning of today’s gospel reading, we found Jesus deep in prayer with God. He was relating to God in a very special way. His friends, who no doubt had often prayed to God as every good Jew prayed to God, they wanted to know what they should say to have a deeper relationship with their God. In response, Jesus taught them a new prayer, new words to express the relationship they could have with their God.

He began his prayer by saying: “Father”. He began by telling us that we should call our God by a name rich in ancient meanings – meanings which for many today, do not hold the same connotations. Many of us have not experienced the relationship offered by a loving father, a Daddy. Others find it offensive to refer to God only as “father” and say we should be willing to begin by saying: “our mother”. In some cultures, all of the attributes we once associated with the word, “father,” are found in the word “grandfather” and so for them, there may be a desire to begin our prayer by saying: “our grandfather”.

But in the long run, no matter what word we would prefer to use, Jesus reminds us that our God is a personal being, one who relates to us as a loving parent relates to a child. This is what I have been attempting to have us who are parents, who are fathers or mothers, who are biological or spiritual mothers or fathers – to have us remember. Just as we love our own children, so our God loves us. Just as we want the best for our children, our God wants the best for us.

And so, when we pray the words Jesus taught us, we pray to You, Our Father, the One who is above us yet who touches us with love as the sky touches the earth, present but unseen, who is with us no matter where we are. We know that You want only the best for us and that You, who can do everything, will do everything possible to help us; that each and every day, You will provide the strength, the sustenance, the food we need to survive this day.

We know that You want to help us and You want us to help others; that You want to heal us and You want us to heal others. We know that You will protect us from harm and help us to do all we can to avoid the harm we may bring upon ourselves by what we do or fail to do.

And yet our prayer does not end there. In today’s gospel, we are reminded that we need to be persistent. That we have friends who will help when we ask them for help. We are reminded that just as we don’t expect our own children to just sit back and be passive all their lives, we, ourselves, are to be active in accomplishing what needs to be done.

A few minutes ago, I asked if you are either a parent or the child of a parent. But here is an even greater question for you to consider: do you really believe that God is your own parent? That the power who created the sun and the stars is your father? That the one who gives life to all plants and animals is your mother? That the one who gives you, yourself, life and is your parent also gives life and love to the person sitting in front of you or beside you?

And if you can truly say that God relates to you and to everyone else as your mutual grandfather, your common grandmother; your own father, mother, parent; your guardian who nurtures you and wants only the best for you and for everyone who lives on this planet, if you can say “yes” to this question, then you are ready for the next one: can you change the mind of God? Or is it our task to change ourselves so that we can become what our parent knows we have the capability of becoming: true brothers and sisters; sons and daughters; children of the living God?

Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time; July 26, 1998
Gn 18;20-32; Col 2:12-14; Lk 11: 1-13:

Today’s question is one I don’t expect you’ll be able to answer directly. It’s one you may need to think about, meditate about; maybe, even pray about. My question is this: What is the difference between an “icon” and an “idol?”

If you’re under the age of twenty-five, the first thought you might have is that an “icon” is the little image on your computer screen you click on in order to launch a new program. And an “idol” is someone like Lance Armstrong. Or part of the name of a reality entertainment program. Our lives have been filled with many “idols.” Usually they’re drawn from the entertainment or sports world. On the other hand, “icons” are few and far between. Movie and music stars are more in evidence than Mother Theresa types.

Yes, the Mother Theresa image actually represents, more closely, what I believe is the true meaning of “icon.” Both icons and idols are images: models of behavior, signs of what – or who – we honor; what – or who – we choose to follow. An icon is an image which draws us upwards; towards what is good and noble. An idol is an image which propels us downwards: towards what is evil and base.

In today’s Second Reading, Saint Paul spoke of “the greed that is idolatry.” He also spoke of putting on the new self, which is to be the image, the icon, of its creator. The image for us to follow is either that of the idol of greed or the icon of Christ.
● The idol of greed which says: “I have everything I need, but I want to get even more from others.”
● The icon of Christ who says: “I have everything I need, and I want to share it with others.”

Few of us here, today, would admit to being greedy or of desiring to bow down to an idol of greed. When we think about the image of such an idol, we – who have been well-trained with the images of Walt Disney – we usually picture one of two types of greed. On the one side, there is the overweight king, dressed in royal robes sitting on piles of gold, with precious gems running between his fingers. On the other side, there is the skinny miser, dressed in ragged clothes, counting out his coins beside a flickering candle. Neither picture represents me; therefore, I cannot be called “greedy.” Can I?

But what is the reality of greed? After all, surely it’s acceptable for me to want a good life and be entitled to an even better one. What’s wrong with wanting to get a little more than I now have? Is it “greedy” for me, if I’m older, to desire security and a happy, old age. One in which I’m not dependent on MediCare or other government handouts. A life where I do not need to depend on the kindness of relatives and friends, a life where I am self-reliant?

Is it “greedy” for me, if I’m younger, to desire owning the latest electronic gadgets? Am I not entitled, if I can afford it or, if my credit card is not yet maxed out, to buy a cell phone that takes photos as well as voice mail and text messages? What about an I-pod? Is it an “icon” or an “idol” for the modern age?

However, the question of “icon” or “idol” is not really about any particular thing I might want to buy. Rather, the basic question is: are my desires, the images I follow in my life, “Icons” or “idols?”

Perhaps a hint of an answer comes from answers to another set of questions – questions about the result of the image. Does the image I follow make me a better person? One who is sensitive to the needs of others. One who is willing to help others? One who is “other-centered?” Or — does the image I follow make me a “self-centered” person? One who demands that the rest of the world revolves around me? A universe where I am the sun and everyone else a mere planet or maybe even “planetoids?” Does the universe of which I am a part bear any resemblance to reality or does it consist of mere vapors and mists?

For this, after all, is what the poet known as Qoheleth or Ecclesiastes spoke about in our first reading, when he used the term “vanity.” Vanity. Vapors, mists, emptiness. We labor throughout our lives but cannot take anything with us. Instead, we must leave it for others who did not work for it. Our efforts become as smoke blown by the wind. A mere vanity of vanities.

Jesus spoke, in a similar manner, to his friends to whom he told a parable about a rich man who planned for more. We are reminded that we may attempt to construct more storehouses for our belongings; all those purchases we believe are essential now and in the distant future when, in reality, we can take no stored-up treasures with us when we stand before God other than the non-physical riches which do matter to God: our actions.

Our actions
● when we helped others,
● when we cared for others,
● when we loved our neighbor.

The choice is ours to make. We can follow the image which is merely an idol tempting us downwards: an idol of smoke and vapor, a hollow, empty idol. Or each one of us can, in fact, become an image for others. An image of faith, hope and charity for others. Each one of us is called to be a Christian. Each one of us is called to become an icon of Christ.

Eighteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time; August 1, 2004
Eccl 1:2; 2: 21-23; Col 3:1-5, 9-11; Lk 12:13-21