Author: patcamerino

My question for today is straightforward: Have you heard any good jokes about Samaritans recently? How about the one where the two Babylonian guys kidnaped this Samaritan girl? They sent her back to her father in Shechem with a ransom note. And her dad sent her back to the Babylonians with the money. Some of you didn’t think my joke was very funny. What if I changed it to some other character types? Maybe an Aggie¹ joke, or one about two Polish guys? What if the Samaritan girl had blond hair? Would that make it funnier? Or if you prefer, you can pick out your own outcast as the focus for your joke.

Each one of us may have a favorite outcast to pick on. Each one of us has our own brand of prejudice and bigotry which can be expressed in jokes and name calling. But we certainly don’t mean to hurt anyone. Right? After all, “sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.” Isn’t that what we’re taught when we’re young? Isn’t that what I was supposed to remember when I was growing up?

If that’s true, why does it still hurt when I recall a statement I kept hearing all the time I was growing up, all the time I was a teenager. When I would introduce myself to someone as Pat Camerino, the frequent response was, “Camerino? Gee, you don’t look Italian.” I, finally, learned to shrug it off with the lame, teenage camelback, “Well neither does Wish Bone Dressing.²”

Why is it that one of the earliest stories I remember my mother telling me is how the KKK boys almost tossed her out the window in school because she was a Polish Catholic. Perhaps, this is one reason why I don’t find too many so-called “Polock” jokes very funny. Or why I’m not amused by Mafia references. This may also be why I get upright when I hear politicians talking about immigrants and the problems they cause “real” Americans. And what about you? Who is your favorite stereotype for jokes?

Some two-thousand years ago for the Israelites, it would have been the Samaritans, and probably women. Two thousand years ago, people already knew about the power of words. About how words could lead to the division of peoples. Even a thousand years before then, they were aware of this power. When at Meribah and Massah, they grumbled against God, himself. When they yelled curses at Moses for leading them out into a waterless desert. What jokes and put-downs do you think they had about Moses back then? Bill Clinton is certainly no Moses leading us to the Promised Land, but he probably has a good idea of how Moses felt there in the desert standing before that rock, just before the water flowed.

Flowing water. Today’s message is about flowing water. About living water. About the water of life. But have you ever thought how water and words are so much alike? Both words and water can bring life or death. Too much water and we have floods and destruction. Too little water, and every thing withers away in dust bowls and droughts, leaving dry tinder to be ignited and destroyed by fire. Words can bring either destruction or healing. They can bring truth or falsehood.

Sitting there by the well so long ago, Jesus spoke only truth to the Samaritan woman who came to draw water to quench her thirst. He spoke of her past life in matter-of-fact terms. He did not condemn her, but only reminded her of what she had done to separate herself from the community, why she had to come to the well at high noon when no one else would be around, no one who would speak words of ridicule.

Jesus did not ridicule her. Rather, he spoke to her of living water, a potential fountain within her that would slake her thirst forever. And upon hearing this revelation she became his first missionary. She went running off to the townspeople who had rejected her, to tell them of the wondrous news that the Messiah had arrived in their midst. They listened to her, the outcast, and although they, too, were Samaritan outcasts they went to hear for themselves the words of Jesus. Healing words. Words indicating unity was possible.

He spoke to his followers how those who sow and those who reap would have the same harvest of joy. Those who began the planting of seeds and those who gathered the golden wheat would join together. The two ends of the spectrum of life, those at the start and those at the end would partake of the same banquet.

Those Samaritans from the town of Shechem where able to hear his words and know “this is the Savior of the world.” No longer were they outcasts. Instead, they recognized the truth which we have also heard today from St Paul: “… that God proves his love for us: that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”

Yes, Jesus the Christ suffered, died and rose again for us sinners, for all of us who are outcasts. Each one of us who is someone else’s joke. For all of us “nerds” who believe bread and wine become his Body and Blood. For all of us fools for Christ, who have felt the flowing, life-giving, water of baptism and have welcomed the graces they bring. For all of us who don’t tell good jokes about Samaritans but rather live out the life of the one who is called “the good Samaritan.” For all of us who come to the well and take away his words of eternal life.

^{Third Sunday of Lent; March 10, 1996
Ex 17:3-7; Rom 5:1-2, 5-8; Jn 4:5-42}

1. _{Aggies, of course, are those who attend, or have ever attended, Texas A&M University at College Station. Although very bright, they are made the butt of derogatory jokes, especially by students and alumni of the University of Texas at Austin. One of my sons is an Aggie.}
2. _{At the time, Italian Wish Bone Dressing had an ad stating it didn’t “look Italian.”}

Today’s question is for those of you who watch TV. My question is this: How many of you watch Lost on TV? (Good … apparently a few of you have TV tastes like mine.) And secondly, how many of you understand all of the many plot lines and time shifts and have guessed how everything is going to come together in the end? It seems to me today’s Gospel Reading is much like an episode of Lost. There’s a great deal of complexity in the story.

In today’s gospel, events are happening on many different levels. The story of the woman at the well appears to have both symbolic and theological implications. It also has a central theme relevant not only to the early Christians who first heard and responded to this story but a theme which is relevant to us, today, as we reflect on what we’ve heard.

Today’s gospel story tells us about a woman’s personal encounter with Jesus the Christ and how, following such an interaction, the woman felt she must spread the news to others so they, too, might encounter him directly. The implication is that we, also, must meet Christ in a personal interaction and must spread the word of this encounter so others will want to meet him as well. Having said this, perhaps I should now just sit down, rather than elaborate on this conclusion. After all, what is really left to say other then: we need to meet Christ and to tell others of our meeting so they, too, can meet him. This is, indeed, the center of what it means to be a Christian.

However, there is something else we need to realize about our meeting with him. Much of the time we believe we must go in search of Jesus in order to encounter him. However, we should also realize there are times when we do not need to search for him. Rather, he seeks us. It is at such times we must be open to him.

Remember: the Samaritan woman did not go to the well to meet Jesus. She went there to draw water. Water that would quench her thirst. She went there at high noon, when she knew others from the town would not be there, since everyone else would usually appear at the well early in the morning, before the heat of the day had arrived. Apparently, she was an outsider, one with five consecutive husbands, one who was looked down upon by the community.

Yet, when she arrived at the well, she found someone waiting for her. Jesus was there, alone. He met her while she was doing her routine, daily tasks of living. He met her when she, too, was alone, when she seemed to be an outcast, separated from the other members of her community. He met her with her own, unspoken needs and he initiated a dialog, a conversation, with her, even though she did not expect one. In fact, she thought it would be extremely unlikely for a Jewish man to address a Samaritan woman.

However, she was open to the dialogue. She asked her own questions. She listened to what he had to say and was amazed by what he revealed to her about herself. And in the process, she acknowledged he was the Messiah, the one who came to save her and her people. Her people who viewed her as an outcast. Her people whom she now felt compelled to tell of her meeting with him, there at the well. And because of her newly found life, the other Samaritans, who may have been skeptical of this woman with her many husbands, (these Samaritans) went to encounter Jesus and to begin their own new lives of belief in him.

Perhaps, the same encounter can happen for us. Perhaps this season of Lent offers each of us an opportunity to allow Jesus the Christ to meet with us as we go about our daily routines in silent living, in silent longing, in searching for water to quench our thirst. Could this be the time for each of us to be open to him as he finds us sitting at a quiet wellspring in our life?

Is this the time for us to meet him in daily prayer, in a daily personal encounter where we are alone with him? It is then that we can listen to him tell us who we really are and not who the world thinks we are? Is this the time for us to meet him in a new reconciliation, individually or sacramentally? It is then that we can recognize we are no longer outcasts, separated from others, from God, and from ourselves. Is this the time for us to meet him more frequently in a Eucharistic celebration? It is then that, partaking of his body and blood, we can become messengers who draw others to his presence.

At the beginning of our lives as Christians, we were bathed in the living waters of baptism and first encountered our Trinitarian God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Each year at the outset of this penitential season of Lent, we are reminded we are human, we are capable of being sinners and equally able of being redeemed.

Here as we approach the middle of this Lenten Season, here as we approach the high noon of our forty days, sitting alone by a well in the desert, and here as we await the Vigil of Easter with its renewed waters of life, it is here and now that we can begin our encounter with the one who confirms the truth of whom we really are and the reality of whom we can become. And rising from this encounter, we can rush to tell others of the marvelous news: here is the Messiah.

Yes, unlike the TV adventures of Lost where the concluding scenes may result in still unanswered questions, we can respond as did those Samaritans some two thousand years ago. We, too, can say: “… we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this is truly the savior of the world.”

^{Third Sunday of Lent; March 15, 2009
Ex17:3-7; Rom 5:1-2, 5-8; Jn 4:5-42}

The question I have for you today may be one you’re reluctant to answer, even if it is a simple one. The question is this: Have you ever watched Geraldo? Or perhaps Donahue or Opah? Or any of the other investigative talk-shows? Well, if you have, you’d be right at home with today’s Gospel reading. Can’t you just see them on an afternoon TV program? Here’s the guy some people say was blind at birth. Folks claim he was cured by a miracle worker. Sitting next to him are his mom and dad, who don’t look too happy about being there. Next to them is a friend of the family, a woman who knew the blind kid but isn’t really sure whether this guy is that same kid. And there are a couple of Pharisees, just to add some spice to the talk among the guests on today’s show.

I could go on with a story about the interview and the questions from the audience but, instead, I’d ask you to reflect on another question, the question which is the focus for today’s homily. The question is this: What do you need to do see in order to believe? After all, in our so-called modern age, a lot of people say, “seeing is believing.”

Let’s begin our reflection with sinners. Sinners are always a good topic, in a lot of churches and among a lot of people who attend church services. Sinners. How can you tell when someone is a sinner? Two thousand years ago, it was easy. All you had to do was look for someone who had leprosy, or who was crippled. Someone who was deaf or blind. Anyone who had a disability which cut them off from the rest of the community. Surely, they must be that way as a punishment from God, who condemned them as sinners.

Yes, back in those unenlightened days, the visible sign of separation, of being different, was seen as being the result of some bad action which separated the person from God. After all, this is one definition of sin, something which separates us from God. Since blindness separates a person from the rest of the community, it must mean the person had sinned.

But sometimes back then, it wasn’t always clear-cut. What did it mean if you were born with a disability? Since you, yourself, couldn’t have done something to displease God, well, it must have been something your parents did that angered him. Aren’t we lucky our attitudes have changed over two thousand years? We now know people are not punished by God with genetic diseases because their parents are sinners. We know God does not inflict blindness, or cripple us, because we have angered him by our actions. And who, in 1993, would believe a person who is HIV-positive is that way as God’s punishment? Or a child born with pediatric AIDS is made to suffer because God wants to punish the parents for their sins? Who, at the beginning of the second millennium, would believe illness is a sign of God’s displeasure with us and of God’s punishment for us¹? Who, today, believes if you are happy and healthy, it is because God is rewarding you for your good actions? And if you are poor and homeless, it is because God wants you to suffer for the evil you have done?

Two thousand years ago, the disciples of Jesus had different ideas. They were able to ask whether afflictions are the result of personal sin or sin committed by their ancestors. And what was Jesus’ response? Neither one. Rather, sin, or separation from God, was merely an opportunity for God’s healing, for God’s forgiveness. An opportunity for the person to be reunited with the community from which the separation had occurred. For Jesus, it would appear a reunion with God, and with others, is more important than trying to figure out whose fault it is.

Reunion with God. Reconciliation. Forgiveness of sin. Salvation. These are more important than dwelling upon past transgressions. And so it was that he encountered the man born blind and cured him. The condition separating him from the community was taken away. Now, there was an opportunity for the man’s return and participation in the life of the community. But what happened? Was there rejoicing with the man’s return? Were his friends and parents overwhelmed with the miracle? Did they welcome him with open arms? Were the Pharisees, who sought perfection, pleased with the perfection of the man whose sight was restored?

No way! Rather than rejoicing about the miracle, they began to question him about the whys and wherefores. “Who cured you? How were you cured?” they asked. And “what motivated the man who healed you? Was he a sinner, too? What is he hiding? How can he take away the external signs of your sin? Who does he think he is? God?”

Oh yes, there were a lot of questions to be asked. After all, didn’t I say this would make a great show on Geraldo? But has anyone in the audience really looked at what was going on? What did they see? First of all, they saw Jesus take some dirt and mix it with his spit. Then he smeared the mud on the man’s eyes. Next, he told the man to go and wash it off. And the man did! He went to the pool and washed it off and was able to see.

But why did the man go? Why did the man cooperate with Jesus? In fact, why did Jesus even ask for the cooperation? Why didn’t he just heal the man straight-out? Could it be somewhere in this story told by John, there is a message for us, today?

The man-born-blind did not know who Jesus was, yet he cooperated with him. He followed this stranger’s advice and washed his eyes with water from the Pool of Siloam. He was cured with Christ’s initiation and his own follow-through. Perhaps, the message we hear in today’s Gospel reading has something to do with our need for both God’s gift of healing and our cooperation with that gift. After all, the man-born-blind did not ask to be healed. Jesus initiated the encounter, but the man-born-blind, without fulling recognizing the one who touched him, did what was asked of him.

With that action, there began a new belief. A belief subject to questioning by others. A belief that was not dependent upon either the witness provided by his parents or by the friends of a lifetime. He, himself, knew he was once blind. He acknowledged he had been separated from his community. He was blind. But now he was able to see. Now, he had the capacity to be reunited with his community, if only they would allow it. If they would accept his healing and permit him to return.

Of the many questions he was asked that day, there is one set of questions which is more important than all of the others. Do you recall him, standing there before Jesus at the end of today’s reading? Jesus, knowing the man was in trouble, had sought him out and asked this question, “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” And the man-born-blind answered with his own question: “Who is he, that I may believe in him?” And the direct response he received, “You have seen him. He is speaking to you now.”

Is it not the case that he would not have been able to see Jesus the Christ if he had not washed the mud from his own eyes? If he had not cooperated with the stranger and followed his instructions? Was this not the sin of the Pharisees? They did not see they were separated from God by their actions. They had eyes but could not see the Christ standing there in their midst. They said they had faith in God, but did not seem to practice what they preached. And so, they remained blind. They remained separated from God.

But the man-born-blind admitted his blindness. He acknowledged his separation from others. He co-operated with Jesus. He was able to see. At first, he said he saw a prophet. One who speaks for God. This is what the woman at the well, whom we heard about last week, said when she first encountered Jesus. But when her eyes had been opened, she was able to see he was the Messiah, the Anointed of God. And the townspeople last week, they listened to her. But it was only after they, themselves, had encountered Jesus personally, it was only, then, they were able to say he was the Messiah. And today the man-born-blind finally is able to call this stranger, “Lord” once he had truly seen him, encountered him.

From these Gospel readings of the season of Lent, it would appear we are each called to experience the risen Lord in our own ways. Each one of us must have a personal encounter with him. We come to believe in him on our own, rather than because of what others tell us about him.

And how do we encounter him? Perhaps, in the people we meet each day. Perhaps, in the events of our daily lives. Perhaps, in the miracles which surround us. Miracles of sunshine and springtime. Miracles of rain and of thunderstorms. We can often see these physical manifestations and yet fail to see the divine in them. We say, “we see,” but we remain sightless.

Perhaps, it’s a case of failing to follow up on what is being asked of us. Perhaps, we have encountered Christ and still stumble in our darkness because we have not cooperated with his healing powers. Consider this: if you or I were the man-born-blind and appeared on Geraldo, what would be the most important question someone in the audience might ask? Could it be the question, “Do you still have mud in your eyes?”

^{Fourth Sunday of Lent; March 21, 1993
1 Sam 16:1b-7, 10-13a; Eph 5:8-14; Jn 9:1-41}

1. Unfortunately, this was still the attitude of many Christians, particularly “fundamentalists,” back in 1993. It is still prevalent decades later.

Today’s question is about questions. In fact, it’s one I, myself, have often been asked: Why do I begin my homilies with a question? You may have your own answers. But the real answer is: because I’m not good at telling jokes. You see, right at the outset, I’d like to say something that would get your attention, get you involved in what I am saying. Some homilists tell jokes. Others begin with a story. I use questions.

I use questions because we human beings seem to be designed to question almost everything. We are always asking, “Who did this? How did this happen? Why did this happen?” The Israelites living in Jerusalem some two-thousand years ago asked the same questions. Who is this person who cured a man who was born blind? How did he do it? Why did he do it on a Sabbath when work such as making clay is forbidden by God? And yet, they did not accept the answers given by the relatives and friends of the man born blind, nor even the repeated answers of the man, himself.

They saw a blind beggar. Jesus saw the inner person who could be healed to proclaim the wonders of God. However, even when the man was able to see, many continued to observe only the blind beggar. They refused to see him as “un-blind.” For them, the blind beggar still existed. They continued to believe people see only with their eyes and not with their hearts. Many failed to realize that seeing is a matter of faith, rather than of sight. Many failed to acknowledge that each one of us sees what we believe we will see and are taught through our experiences to behold the world around us. The crowds failed to realize that seeing with the heart is a matter of faith, and faith is knowing things, experiencing events, in ways beyond our direct observation of them.

There is a current movie, At First Sight, which dramatizes our need to learn about what we see in order to understand what we see. This is neither a new concept nor an unimportant one. It’s essential even in our modern world of science where it is said a researcher usually finds only that which the investigator is searching for. New, different results are often not seen because they are outside current theory. It is only with more seeing, more experiencing that the new results are allowed to modify existing theory.

In our first reading for today, we were reminded God sees things differently. God sees what is inside the person rather than only the surface. When God sent the prophet Samuel to anoint one of the sons of Jesse as the king to replace Saul, Samuel was sure God would choose the eldest son, who was tall and kingly in appearance. It was then that God reminded Samuel the Lord looks into the heart and not at the outward appearance. Having been reminded of this, perhaps, the prophet may have been expecting a small, homely boy to be brought forward when Jesse sent for David, his youngest son. But instead, Samuel saw “… a ruddy … youth, handsome to behold.” Nevertheless, the Lord instructed Samuel to anoint David as the next king of Israel.

This rush to judge a person only on one’s outward appearance was also true on that day in Jerusalem some six centuries after the anointing of David, when the crowds in the city knew the man born blind had this condition because of the unforgiven sins of his parents. It was their view, back then, that all misfortunes were the result of sins. Since a newborn child could not have sinned, any congenital abnormality must be the result of the sins of the parents.

The crowd had to learn all of us are born blind. For most of us, it is a temporary blindness. For some this condition may last a lifetime. In this condition we are blind in faith. Although we can see with our eyes, we do not see with our hearts. But we are able to see with our hearts when God removes our blindness. Faith, itself, is a gift of God given to each one of us to remove our blindness of heart.

Yes, many of us realize faith is a gift of God, just as grace is a gift of God given freely to each one of us. However, what we sometimes fail to remember is the gift of faith requires our active participation in order for it to become completely effective.

Jesus touched the man born blind. He anointed his eyes with the mixture of his own saliva and the dirt of the earth from which we came. His touch, itself, could have cured the man of his affliction but Jesus had a request. The man was to wash in the pool of Siloam. He had to make his way through the crowded streets of Jerusalem to the pool whose name means “the sent one.”

“The sent one.” A name used often in the Gospel of John for Jesus, himself. “The one sent by God.” The man born blind was sent by God to purify himself; to wash away the external mud so he could see not only with his eyes but with his heart.

Images of water and of purification are important in John’s Gospel. Not only do we have this event of the blind man and the pool of Siloam, but we begin with John’s story of the wedding feast of Cana where Jesus turned water into wine. Last week, we heard how Jesus offered the Samaritan woman “living water.” And later, during the Passion Week readings, we will hear John’s statement that when the soldier’s lance pierced the side of the crucified Jesus, blood and water poured forth. Our baptism rite makes full use of our purification by the sign of flowing, living water. The Pool of Siloam becomes a metaphor for our own baptismal pool. The pool of Siloam also becomes a metaphor for Lent, itself, a time for the washing of our souls, a time for our own purification.

Lent is a time to take responsibility for our own actions and inactions. It is a time to recognize our individual faith does not come from who we were, who our parents were, what our genetics supposedly dictate, but rather from how we respond to those challenges, how we participate with God’s gift of faith, God’s gift of internal sight.

The man born blind, once his blindness had been taken away, could recognize the stranger called Jesus, who had placed the mud on his eyes and given him the instruction to wash in the Pool of Siloam, was not a mere stranger passing by, but a prophet who spoke for God. A prophet who became a teacher with disciples. A teacher who was sent by God. Who was not only sent by God, but was the awaited “Son of Man.” Then, at last, the un-blinded faith of this man prompted him to call Jesus, “Lord!” And to worship him.

Each one of us is called to make our own journey of faith, to recognize the stranger who touches us is the Lord of all creation. However, unless we continue to cooperate in the growth of our faith, we, like the Pharisees, may claim to have sight but, in fact, we remain blind. However, once we undertake this journey, we like the man who is no longer blind, we, too, may be cast out from our former community, from the modern world which sees only the surface, materialistic commodities surrounding us and not the inner qualities of our humanity. Each one of us is sent by God to wash in the Pool of Siloam. Each one of us needs to see with the eyes of faith, the eyes of faith given to us by God, but which may have been covered, not with the anointing mud of Jesus the Christ, but rather with the dirt and slime of the world around us.

Now, during the remaining days of Lent, now is the time to wash away this mud so our own brightness can show forth. Now is the time to recall the words we heard from St Paul today: “Brothers and sisters: you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light, for light produces every kind of goodness and righteousness and truth.” Jesus told his disciples, “While I am in the world, I am the light of the world.” Now that he no longer walks the streets of Jerusalem, he has left us to be his light as, together, we continue our journey with him and the Holy Spirit of the living God.

^{Fourth Sunday of Lent; March 14, 1999
1 Sam 16:1b, 6-7, 10-13a; Eph 5:8-14; Jn 9:1-41}

Well, here we are again, in the middle of Lent and the time for those long-gospel readings. Last Sunday, it was “The Woman at the Well,” and today it’s “The Man Born Blind.” Next week, those with good memories know it will be “The Raising of Lazarus,” and then, the really long Gospel, “The Passion Story,” itself, we’ll hear on Palm Sunday. But right now, many of you might be wondering what’s my question going to be for today? What strange question will I have about today’s long-gospel story? I’m always surprised by the number of people who ask me before Mass, “Are you preaching today?” and if so, what’s my question going to be. It seems a lot of people want to get a head-start on their answer. Which is fine, by me.

The whole purpose of my asking a so-called “rhetorical question” at the beginning of my homily is to get you involved with the readings for the day. It allows you the chance to settle in, to get prepared for what’s coming. Questions are not always asked to get information, you know. Sometimes when you ask a question, you already know the answer. What you want is confirmation you’re correct. The disciples of Jesus were like that in today’s Gospel story. As they passed by the man born blind, they asked Jesus a question, and they were sure they knew the answer to it. They asked Jesus, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

Their question already contained their answer, or so they thought. Those disciples were positive the man had been born blind because either he, himself, had sinned or his parents had. Of course, they realized the man, himself, was probably not the guilty party. It would have been unlikely he could have committed some great sin against God before he was born, and everyone knew he had been born blind. So, it must have been his parents who had sinned against God. After all, that’s why people were afflicted with things like blindness or lameness or even leprosy. It was always because they had done something really bad, and God was now punishing them.

That’s how it always worked. You did something wrong, and God would zap either you or one of your relatives. Usually, it was the kids who were punished because of the sins of their parents. At least that’s what they believed back then. But Jesus said: no, “neither he nor his parents sinned.” Rather, he was blind in order that he might be healed, and, in this healing, the power of God would be revealed. It was then that Jesus mixed his own spit with the dirt of the ground and anointed the eyes of the man born blind. He then sent the man to a pool to wash the mud from his eyes, while Jesus, himself, disappeared into the crowd. But more questions were asked. First by the neighbors, and then by the Pharisees.

And once again, the ones who asked the questions were sure of the answers they were seeking. They wanted confirmation of their preconceived ideas. The neighbors and those who knew the man were positive he was now someone else! And when he persisted in his answer that he had been blind and now could see, they took him off to the Pharisees to get him to change his answer.

The Pharisees did not like his answer, either. They did not want to believe this man had been cured by someone sent by God, not when they knew this so-called healer had broken the Sabbath. It wasn’t that he had cured someone on the Sabbath, but rather, because he had “worked” on the Sabbath. He had made a mud paste on the day when no such work should be done. The Pharisees believed anyone who would do such a thing could not be sent by God. So, they asked the man’s parents what had happened.
And since the parents did not want to get into trouble, they urged the Pharisees to question the man again. And they did. And he answered them the same way.

He told them the truth, but it was a truth they did not want to hear. What they wanted, what they desired, was for the man to lie. They wanted him to say he had never been blind. And when he refused to say it, they wanted him to agree the man who cured him was a sinner, and that he, himself, must also be a sinner.

To keep in harmony with the community, everyone urged the man to change his story, to change his beliefs. But he refused to lie. He refused to say what everyone expected him to say. He refused to remain blind to the facts. And the others, those who knew him, those who supposedly had been his friends and neighbors, and those who held the respect of the community-establishment, the Pharisees, themselves, they said they knew the truth, that they were not blind.

However, Jesus recognized that, while these people maintained they knew the truth, they were, In reality, not open to seeing the truth when it was set before them. And what about us? Do we see the truth and speak the truth we see and know? Do we speak the truth, even when those around us want us to lie? Do we say what must be said, even when others do not want to hear it?

Not only during this time of Lent, during this time of the long gospels, but each day of the year, we, too, are given the same opportunity as the one given to the man born blind. Although we may have been living in darkness for a long time, perhaps, all of our lives, ever since our birth, we can, nevertheless, encounter Jesus the Christ who opens our eyes to the truth, to the light, itself.

Then, we too, can proclaim this truth. We do not need to go along with those around us, or those above us, with those who want us to persist in our life of lies, our life of darkness, with those who want us to agree with their form of truth, their expectations of what the correct answer should be. Instead, we, too, can recall the words of St Paul to the Ephesians: “You were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light, for light produces every kind of goodness and righteousness and truth. Awake, o sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ will give you light.” Amen.

^{Fourth Sunday of Lent; March 10, 2002
1 Sam 16:1b, 6-7, 10-13a; Eph 5:8-14; Jn 9:1-41}

Have you ever wished you were somewhere else? Have you ever wondered how something will turn out? You hope it will turn out well, but you’re not really sure. There’s a mixture of excitement, of hesitancy, of fear, and of hope. I have to admit these are some of my feelings right now, as I begin my first homily at Christ the Good Shepherd.

For those of you who have not yet been able to put the right name with the new face¹ my name is Pat. Pat Camerino. Although I’ve been a teacher and an administrator much of my life, and have given my share of talks and lectures, standing here is not quite the same thing. So, all I can do, right now, is ask you to sit back for the next few minutes and reflect with me on what the Gospel message might be trying to tell us.

It’s a great message. It’s a message about belief and how different people come to that belief. There are many people in today’s Gospel who come to a belief, an individual belief. I’d like to share with you some thoughts on each of them. How each one responds to the message of God’s Kingdom. Each of these people has a different response. Each of us, too, has a different response. Perhaps, we can see a reflection of our own response in how the characters in today’s Gospel respond in their own beliefs.

Let’s look at each of them, at Jesus, at Martha, at Mary, at Lazarus, and at the people who are present with them at the tomb. Each of us has a little bit of Martha and Mary in us. Each of us is Lazarus. And yes, each of us has a bit of Jesus in us, too.²

Let’s look, first, at Jesus, the Jesus who has just heard his friend is sick, who knows in his heart his friend is so ill that he will surely die. How does he respond? How would you respond? Imagine, if you will, you have just heard your best friend is at the point of death, has, perhaps, even now, died while you were not there. Consider Jesus and his love for Lazarus.³

Can you see them, talking late into the night at the house of Lazarus and Mary and Martha? Can you hear Jesus, telling the three of them of his latest journeys, the suffering he has seen? He speaks of hope, of his Father’s Kingdom. Lazarus sits there near him. Mary, sitting there at his feet, listens enraptured by his words, his stories. While Martha, dear Martha, bustles around, cleaning up the dirty dishes, putting things away before she, too, can relax for the evening.

But now, that’s all over. Jesus has heard Lazarus is ill. He knows, in his heart of hearts, Lazarus is dead. He wonders: should he have been there? But it’s too late now to wonder about the “what-if’s.” Too late to say what might have been done. And so, he does nothing. He waits even more. He delays going to Bethany and on to the destiny awaiting him in Jerusalem.

Some might justify his delay. He need not go to Bethany at all. Not now. Not now that Lazarus is dead. If he goes to Bethany, he too, might die there. It’s dangerous to go. Those who are against him might kill him. There are many reasons for him to stay away, to do nothing. How many times have we attempted to justify our own inactions for reasons which are less valid? Yet Jesus knows he must go. He grieves. He is reluctant. And yet he has a belief, a belief he can do something, something for the glory of God. Not something for himself. In fact, he knows just how dangerous it is for him to go to Bethany. But it must be done. His belief is strong. He sets out with his companions. A slow, torturous walk to Bethany. He knows what awaits him there. It will not be pleasant. But he goes.

Then there is Martha. Dear, practical Martha. She hears that her friend is coming. If only he had been here when they really needed him. But there is still hope. Maybe he can, at least, bring words of consolation. Maybe he can tell her what this all means. Why Lazarus had to die. How many times have we asked that question? How often have we wanted to ask God: why has this happened? Why did this trouble need to befall me? What does it all mean? Why? Why?

Martha needs to have an answer. She rushes to meet Jesus. And when she does, what does she say? “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would never have died.” Yet, in the back of her mind, Martha has another thought, maybe you can still do something. And what does Jesus respond? “I am the Resurrection and the life: whoever believes in me, though they should die, will come to life; and whoever is alive and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?”

Dear practical Martha, the one who listened to Jesus while at a distance, who heard this teaching while she remained busy at other tasks. She has heard enough. She has learned enough, so that she was able to say: “Yes, Lord, I have come to believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God: the One who is to come into the world.” She has responded to Jesus from her knowledge, her overheard belief that he is the Messiah. And Jesus accepts her answer. Yet, he waits.

Now let us turn to her sister, Mary. What does Mary do when she hears her friend and teacher has arrived? She, too, rushes to meet him. There on that dusty road, when she runs up to him, she falls at his feet and weeps. She beseeches him, not with her words but with her tears. She pours out not what is in her mind, but what is in her heart. Seeing her tears and feeling her belief in him, Jesus, too, weeps.

It is now complete. He knows what must be done, even if, in the long run, his action will be used against him. They go to the tomb, the place where his dear friend lies dead. When they arrive, he asks that the stone be rolled back. Once again, practical Martha speaks. She says Lazarus has been there too long, his body has, in the heat of the Judean sun, already begun to decay. Her intellectual belief has begun to waver.

Jesus knows this. He tries to reassure her and the crowds which have now gathered. He says: “Father, I thank you for having heard me. I know that you always hear me but I have said this for the sake of the crowd, that they may believe that you sent me.” How many times have we needed this reassurance? I know I’ve needed it. There are times when I, too, have been like Martha. I have said with my mind, my intellect: “I do believe.” I believe you are the Son of God. He has accepted the words which come from my lips.

There are times, perhaps, too few times, when I know in my heart he is the Son of God. I have told him with my tears: “I do believe.” He has accepted this answer, too. (With his own tears.) Yes, belief is a matter of what is in my head. Yet, it is also a matter of what is in my heart.

We are now over halfway through Lent. When Lent started, it was with my head that I said I wanted this to be a “good” Lent. I wanted to eliminate the fakes and the shootouts in my journey. I wanted to walk with him during these special weeks, so when he arose on Easter Sunday, I, too, could rise with him. But as the days passed, my intellectual commitment has waned. This has not been the best of all possible Lents. Yet, there is still hope. He is still waiting there on that dusty road. Waiting for me, and for you, for all of us.

My belief has been like that of practical Martha, a true commitment, but somewhat incomplete. There is still a need for the Mary in me to run to seek the Lord. There is a need for my heart, as well as my head, to say: “I do believe.” When this happens, what is the result I hope for? Today’s Gospel reading has the answer. When the stone was rolled back and the once dead man appeared, Jesus told the astonished people, “Untie him; and let him go free.” This is what remains, the help of the people. We each need the help of others to finally set us free.

We have heard the call of Jesus, “Come out!” Although our belief is like that of Martha who speaks from her mind, or of Mary who cries out from her heart, we still need to step forth from the tomb. However, we need the help of others to unwrap the things which bind us. At the same time, we also need to help others. For if I am not the one who was dead, then I am one of the crowd. I am called both to step forth from my own tomb, and to help others step forth from their tombs.

As Lent draws rapidly to a close, it is up to me to strengthen my belief, both in my commitments of my mind and in my heart. It is up to me to put aside my reluctance to journey to Bethany, and beyond to Jerusalem. There I can find the tomb which has imprisoned me and the empty tomb from which my Lord has risen.

In a few moments⁴, we will be asked: “Do you believe?” We will be asked to respond, “We do believe.” Let us begin our journey now to Bethany. Let us truly be able to say, “We do believe.” We believe with our mind; we believe with our heart. In this belief we, too, can step forth from our tombs and live.

^{5th Sunday of Lent
Ez 37:12-14; Rom 8:8-11; Jn 11:1-45}
_{April 8, 1984 (first homily ever!)
April 2, 1995 (revised for a scrutiny reading during Cycle C)
April 6, 2003 (revised for a scrutiny reading during Cycle B)}

1. ^{_{Five of us from Christ the Good Shepherd were ordained as deacons on the same date, February 25, 1984. They included Barry Beckman, John Charneski, Bob DeGrave, and Al O’Brien. Two other deacons had been previously ordained from the parish: Steve LaBonte and Glen Cuiper. Perhaps, as with the original seven deacons and the Greek widows, the congregation had difficulty in getting use to all of us.}}
2. ^{_{For later revisions the opening paragraphs were replaced with ones with the “usual” question, as follows: “Today’s question is for Bible Scholars. It’s also a very simple one. (And if you know the answer you can say it out loud.) What is the shortest verse in the Bible? If you need a hint, you heard it in today’s Gospel reading. “‘Jesus wept.’ “But today’s Gospel reading contains more than the shortest verse in the Bible. Today’s reading leads us to reflections on belief … how different people respond with their belief. “There are many people in today’s reading who had concerns about belief in Jesus as the Messiah, the Chosen One of God. At the beginning of today’s reading, Thomas, the Twin, makes a brief appearance. Doubting Thomas who will not be there when Jesus appears to the other disciples for the first time after his Resurrection. In today’s reading, however, Thomas is the one who says that the disciples should go with Jesus to the neighborhood of Jerusalem, even if the journey means death for all of them. “However, today’s reflection is not on Thomas and his belief; but rather it is on Martha and Mary, on their brother and their crowd of friends, and upon the belief of Jesus, himself.” The two paragraphs about Thomas were omitted in the revision of 2003. They detract from the focus of the story about Lazarus, Martha and Mary. As the years passed, I tended to delete such passages, if for no other reason than to take pity on my listeners and shorted the homily as much as possible.}}
3. _{^{Not infrequently I have a psychological speech impediment when I need to pronounce the name, “Lazarus.” In the revisions, to avoid this problem, the unspoken name was usually replaced with the term: “his friend” or circumlocutions such as “the brother of Martha and Mary.”}}
4. ^{_{During the period of the “Scrutinies” associated with the RCIA program during Cycle A, the usual Nicene creed is replaced with a dialogue in which creedal questions are asked and affirmations are given. This concluding paragraph was omitted when the liturgy did not include the dialogue creed.}}

My question for today is straightforward. It’s this: How many of you know what CPR is? Right. Cardio-Pulmonary Resuscitation. How many of you know how to perform CPR? Great. It’s good to have you around! Even if we cannot perform CPR, most of us have seen it being done on television in programs involving medical emergencies. Today’s gospel, according to scripture scholars, also involves CPR. But not with the chest compressions and breathing techniques we usually associate with resuscitation. Instead, we heard of a more miraculous return to life. We heard how Jesus merely spoke the words, “Lazarus, come out” in order to restore his dearest friend to life. Words which contained the Pneuma, the breath of life, itself.

Although we sometimes think of this event as the “resurrection” of this man from the dead, students of the bible emphasize this was, instead, a resuscitation and not a resurrection. They point out that his friend, after all, died again. He is not with us here some two thousand years later. He was resuscitated, not resurrected.

It is our belief, however, that one other man has, in fact, been resurrected, Jesus the Christ, whose Resurrection we celebrate in a special way two weeks from now. However, we, in fact, celebrate this event each day, and in particular, each Sunday, here at Mass.

We also acknowledge the Resurrected Body of Christ differs from the revived body of his friend. Yes, there are similarities. After his Resurrection, Jesus showed his disciples the wounds made by the Roman soldiers at his crucifixion. He asked for food there in the upper room when he returned to them. He ate fish with them on the beach, on the early morning he met with them by the Sea of Galilee. The resurrected body of Jesus was every bit as physical, as real, as the revived body of the brother of Mary and Martha when he stepped from his tomb.

Yet, the glorified appearance of the body of Jesus was such that Mary Magdalene did not recognize him when he first appeared to her after he rose from his own tomb. Two of his followers knew him only in his breaking of the bread with them. Yes, there are differences, it seems, between a resuscitated body and a resurrected body. There is a difference between a temporary return to life and life everlasting. And it is this life everlasting which has been promised to each of us.

This promise was made to us, in part, through the words we heard in today’s gospel reading when Jesus said, in response to Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life; whoever believes in me, even if he dies, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

Each one of us professes our own belief not only in the Resurrection of Jesus the Christ but in our own anticipated resurrection as well. Each time we profess our creed, we speak of the resurrection of the body, our own body. Yet, for many of us, there is, I think, a tendency to accept the Resurrection of Christ and still doubt our own resurrection will occur. We may be like those amazed onlookers who stood with Mary and Martha there at the tomb of their brother, not knowing what to expect when they heard those words, “Lazarus, come out.”

Perhaps, it was for this reason, to help them believe, that he had been resuscitated, and one day would, also, be resurrected. At the same time, Jesus instructed them, “Untie him and let him go.” He called for the active participation of the onlookers in the return of his friend from the dead. Perhaps, in a similar way, Jesus calls each of us to an active participation in our own future resurrection and in the resurrection of others. Perhaps, he calls each of us to learn “CPR” and to actively participate in his particular form of “CPR.” For you see, in the kind of “CPR” he urges us to learn, these letters do not stand for “Cardio-Pulmonary Resuscitation.” Instead, they stand for “Change, Prayer and Resurrection.”

CHANGE. Each day of our present lives is a day for change. Change occurs not only during Lent but should be part of our daily living. And yes, Lent is a special time to practice “change,” to look in a special way at what should be changed. To change how we allocate our most precious resource, time. To allocate more time for God, for family, for friends. To change abusive behaviors that detract from our relationships with others. Behaviors involving excess drinking, eating, abusing drugs, gambling, viewing pornography, swearing, lying, cheating, stealing.

Yes, each of us knows what we should change in our lives. And although we can, and should, begin to change during any season of the year, the remaining two weeks of Lent provide us with an added incentive to change our lives, an additional opportunity to change our hearts. And how do we begin and accomplish such change? We need to use the second part of Christ’s CPR plan. We need to engage in Prayer.

PRAYER. Speaking and listening with God, with Father, Son and Holy Spirit. We need to practice our communication with our Trinitarian God. In today’s gospel, we heard how Jesus communicated with his Father, with Abba, when he said, “Father, I thank you for hearing me. I know that you always hear me; but because of the crowd here I have said this, that they may believe that you sent me.”

We, too, must recognize the Father does hear us. We, too, must speak and listen to the Father in ways which allow others to come to the belief that they, too, can speak to him, that he listens to them, and, in turn, he speaks to them. It is with and through Prayer each of us is empowered to change our own hearts and help others to change their own lives.

Change. Prayer. Resurrection. CPR. It is with our Change in becoming closer to God, to others, and to ourselves and it is with our Prayer with Father, Son and Holy Spirit, that we can look forward to our own Resurrection, to life everlasting.

St Paul certainly agreed with this truth when he wrote to the Romans the words we heard in today’s Second Reading, “If the Spirit of the one who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, the one who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also, through his Spirit dwelling in you.”

As for us, we have only one of two choices in the matter. On the one hand we can believe Jesus is a liar, that he is, and has been, a deceiver. Or on the other hand, we can believe he spoke the truth when he said to Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life; whoever believes in me, even if he dies, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.” Jesus then asked Martha the same question he now asks each one of us, “Do you believe this?”

^{5th Sunday of Lent; March 13, 2005; Revised: March 9, 2008; March 29, 2009
Ezek 37:12-14; Rom 8:8-11; Jn 11:1-45}

How many of you like sequels? Yes, that’s my question for you. Do you enjoy seeing a sequel to a movie you didn’t want to end in the first place? How many of you are fans of the Lord of the Rings and are anxiously awaiting the Hobbit movie? Although I’m not sure if it will be a “sequel” or what we now call a “prequel.” At any rate, Hollywood certainly recognizes the money-generating potential of ongoing storytelling. Otherwise, how would you account for such productions as the Rambo series or, heaven up us, the multiple versions of the Halloween franchise?

Books were once like that. Have you ever disliked coming to the end of a book? You really wanted the plot to continue and not have an ending. And, perhaps, the author would oblige with another story about the same characters. In fact, another question for today might be: How do you know when anything really ends?

With a book, you turn the page and the next one is blank. That’s a sure sign the story has ended. With luck, a new one might lie in the future. With old movies, really old movies, the words “The End” would appear on the screen. I guess back then, viewers weren’t very sophisticated and would just keep sitting there in the dark until the houselights came on. But now, the film, as they say, “fades to black” and the credits indicate it’s time to leave.

Which leads to the real question for today: What happens to let us know that a real life has ended? Is it a case of “fading to black,” or turning to the next event and finding the page is blank? Today’s scriptural readings are about “endings.” Real life endings.

In our first reading from the Book of the Prophet Ezekiel, we heard about what the Israelites believed was the end of their nation. They had been held for many years as captives in Babylon. They thought the Lord God may have abandoned them. But then Ezekiel reminds them their God had not left them. Ezekiel uses the metaphor of dried bones to encourage the Israelites to see that their God, who could open graves and restore life to dried bones, their God would keep his promise and lead them back to Jerusalem. The words of the Prophet rang in their ears, “On my people! I will put my spirit in you that you may live, and I will settle you upon your land; thus you shall know that I am the Lord. I have promised, and I will do it, says the Lord.” Their story had not ended. They, as the Chosen People of God, would continue to praise him in a restored Jerusalem. This was not the end; it would be a continuation of what God had initiated many years ago.

In our Gospel Reading for today, we heard how two sisters, Mary and Martha, had thought the end had come for their brother, Lazarus. He had died. He was buried three or four days ago. The two women had hoped Jesus, who loved their brother, would have come to save him from death. They had informed him of their brother’s illness, but Jesus had not arrived in time to prevent the death. Yes, their perception was that their brother’s life had ended. However, this was not the perception of Jesus.

In his grief-filled meeting with Martha, the woman who may not have listened to his own stories as closely as had her sister, Mary, who sat at his feet while Martha busied herself with household chores – to Martha he now proclaimed, “I am the resurrection and the life; whoever believes in me, even if he dies, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.” If we listen closely to these words, we hear Jesus say death is not the end of life but rather a continuation of life, itself. Some might have misheard his words and thought he said death would be followed by a “new life,” that the old life is set aside by death. But this is not what he said. Rather he said, “… everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

A new life does not begin with death. The New Life in Jesus began when one became his disciple, his follower, when one began to believe in him and his teaching that the Kingdom of God, the reign of God, begins “now,” it exists “now,” at this very moment. The Kingdom of God does not begin at some future time.

And this is the remarkable fact of his preaching. We do not wait until death to begin a new life with him. We have his new life right now. It is a human perception that with death, something has ended, that the old life has ended. It is a divine perception that with death, something continues.

It is not that there is now “life after death,” but rather, life in the Spirit continues after we cease to breathe. Our true life does not end, rather, our true life continues. As human beings we are prone to ask the question: how can this be? How does it occur? How can life continue after the death of our bodies?

In physical terms we perceive that breath stops. Shortly afterwards, decay continues more rapidly than before. As practical Martha observed, “Lord, by now there will be a stench; he has been dead for four days.” Actually, physical decay, biologically, begins at birth, if not at conception. Cells grow, cells die, cells are replaced. This decaying continues throughout growth and development, but the replacement is more rapid than the decay. Until at biological death, when the decay becomes more rapid.

Nevertheless, the soul created by God at the moment of our conception continues to exist. This is the soul which has been enriched through the grace given by the sacraments, beginning with our baptism, and nourished throughout our lives by other sacraments such as Eucharist. This Spiritual life can mature or it can languish depending upon our own actions and cooperation with the Holy Spirit. Yes, the physical body can grow while the spiritual life within stagnates. The choice is ours.

Saint Paul addresses this question in today’s second reading. He says the flesh, the worldly part of our humanity, is not what really matters. Rather, it is the Spirit of God who dwells within that merits our concern. Saint Paul wrote to the Romans these words, “But you are not in the flesh; on the contrary, you are in the spirit, if only the Spirit of God dwells in you. … If the Spirit of the one who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, the One who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also, through his Spirit dwelling in you.”

So, where does this leave us here, today? A day two weeks before we celebrate Easter, the day of the commemoration of the Resurrection of Jesus the Christ. Although we formally celebrate His Resurrection every Easter, we actually celebrate it at every Mass at which we participate. Easter need not be an annual event. In fact, it is a daily event. An event that shows life does not end with our death. An event that celebrates the continuation of our life with Christ, so long as we choose to follow him and to be part of his life.

Today and every day we have a choice. We can turn the page of our life and see a blank page. We can believe that our end has come. When we look around and see the turmoil in the world today, this may become the easier choice. We may still be breathing but we are not really alive.

Or we can turn the page of our troubles and see a new chapter, even a new sequel. One that continues our story, until we come, at last, to the moment some might perceive to be the end of the story, but really is a grand continuation of the most magnificent sequel every composed, the never-ending sequel of our life with God for the rest of eternity.

^{5th Sunday of Lent; April 10, 2011
Ezek 37:12-14; Rom 8:8-11; Jn 11:1-45}

Today we celebrate Passion Sunday or Palm Sunday with a very special liturgy¹. For one thing, we have two Gospel readings today, one at the beginning of Mass and another one at the usual time. Secondly, you’ll also be able to enjoy two homilies from me this morning. But I promise you, both of them will be as short as possible.

Now I have a question for you. You didn’t think you were going to get away without a question, did you? My question is this: When does Lent end? Some old-timers might say, “noon on Holy Saturday, the day before Easter.” For many of us growing up as Catholic kids, that was when fasting ended. You could start to eat meat for Saturday lunch. However, “noon on Holy Saturday” is not the right answer.

Lent officially ends this Thursday, Holy Thursday, when the great Triduum begins. Triduum is an old Latin word which means “three days.” Three days which are so important they make up their own part of the liturgical year. These are the three days when each one of us is invited to share in the celebrations which mark our beginnings as a Christian community.

First, there’s Thursday evening at 8 o’clock. On Holy Thursday, we celebrate the evening Mass of the Lord’s Supper. It’s the only Mass allowed on this day, no matter how large the church. In a very special way, this liturgy celebrates the institution of the Eucharist. The service includes the Gospel of John and how Jesus washed the feet of the disciples and instructed them to do the same. And so we do. Those who attend this Thursday service are not forced in any way to participate in this part of our celebration of the Eucharist. However, if you accept the invitation to participate, it’s suggested you wear shoes and socks that are easily removable². The service concludes with a special procession in which all of the remaining hosts consecrated at this Mass are carried into the chapel.

Friday, of course, is Good Friday. For a lot of us, we have the day off from work. It’s part of a long weekend. And what do you do on a long weekend? Work around the house? Catch up on all those important things you couldn’t get to for the last month? Maybe do some last-minute Easter shopping so you’ll look good on Sunday? Well, we have an alternative for you. It’s called “Stations of the Cross.” The service begins at 2:30 in the afternoon of Good Friday. But there’s no prohibition about coming early to pray on your own or staying later.

Then there is our Good Friday evening service which begins at 8:00 p.m. There is no Mass on Good Friday. It’s the only day of the year when Mass is not allowed to be celebrated. Instead, we are invited to focus on the Veneration of the Cross. We are given an opportunity to meditate on the suffering our Redeemer undertook for our sins. For those who wish, communion will also be distributed, using the bread consecrated on Thursday evening.

Then comes Holy Saturday. At noon there will be a blessing of bread or other food which you might have for your Easter meal. But the main celebration is Easter Vigil which begins at 7:30 p.m. This liturgy is the major celebration of the Christian Church. It includes many symbols and rites, from the blessing of the new fire and the baptismal waters to welcoming the Light of Christ, in song and multiple scripture readings. Our catechumens will be baptized at this celebration and they and our other candidates will be confirmed and will receive their First Communion.

Then, of course, there is Easter Sunday. And now I have a warning for you. So, if the people next to you are napping, now is the time to wake them up. The warning is this: next Saturday morning at 2 a.m. we change from standard time to daylight savings time. Our first Easter Mass, our Sunrise Mass, will begin at 6:30 a.m. Daylight Savings Time, which would be 5:30 a.m. Standard Time. Our sunrise service is outside, so, if you plan to attend, please bring lawn chairs or blankets to sit on, and probably wear a jacket.

On Easter Sunday we will have Masses both here and at the Jewish Community Center next door. They have just completed their new worship space and we’re looking forward to using it³. The times are in the Sunday bulletin for services here at Good Shepherd and at the Jewish Community Center. And if you forget the times for the Triduum services, you’ll find them in the bulletin, too.

Holy week is about to begin. We, indeed, hope it is a truly blessed time for each one of you. As we begin our liturgy for this Palm Sunday, you are invited to gather in the hallway to be part of our special procession. And in the days ahead I would encourage you to be part of our celebrations and really pack this holy place on Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Please join with us now for our procession. Today’s Eucharistic celebration is about to begin.

---

Well, you’ve now heard the so-called “long Gospel,” which is read every Palm Sunday. This year’s account was taken from the “Passion According to Mark.” You heard it but did you really listen to it? Have you been changed? Or when it began, did you tune it out as a re-run? Since you’ve heard it all before, did you start thinking about what important things you need to do this afternoon? The places you have to be. The tasks you have to accomplish.

On the other hand, if you really listened to it, did you really feel it? Were you changed? Did you feel the anguish of a mother who sees her son brutally beaten, with thorns pressed into the flesh of his forehead, hanging there, naked and bleeding, the people spitting at him and calling him names? If you are a parent, how would you feel, holding your child’s lifeless body in your arms?

Did you feel the terror of seeing a friend put on trial and not defended by anyone, even by you, when you had promised this man you would die for him? Can you weep tears of shame at your own cowardness?
Imagine yourself as a Roman soldier who captures this man whom the authorities say is a danger to the state and to civil well-being. A soldier who strips this man of his dignity, who beats him, mocks him, who hammers nails into his bleeding hands and then, in a blinding flash of lightening, suddenly realizes what he has done and cries out: “Clearly, this man was the son of God.” Can you join with this Roman soldier in his declaration? Or are you one of the crowd, who, one moment sings out, “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” and then, so soon afterwards, screams out, “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

Did you listen to a mere re-run or to part of the “greatest story ever told?” Did you listen? Did you feel? Were you changed?

Almost forty days ago, I was the homilist for the First Sunday of Lent and asked you questions about temptations and testing. At the beginning of today’s liturgy, I asked you another question: When does Lent end? For some, the question may be: when is Lent going to start? When is my time of preparation for Easter Resurrection really to begin?

It is still not too late. Today we begin Holy Week. The great three days are still ahead of us. On Friday evening we will hear another “long Gospel,” the one according to John, who as a teen-age boy, loved and idolized this man called Jesus the Christ. Who rested his head on Jesus’ breast at the Last Supper and who stood there weeping with his friend’s mother, there at the foot of the cross, who stood there with his own, new mother, looking up at his friend and brother, as he died before his very eyes. When you, again, hear his story, what will you feel?

And if for some valid reason, you cannot stand here on Friday before his cross, I urge you to take out your Bible sometime that day and read any of the four accounts of the Passion of our Lord as recorded by any one of the Gospel writers. Put yourself back in time. Read and feel the suffering of this Servant of God, this Son of God. The season of Lent begins with the words of Jesus the Christ: “Repent. Change your lives. The Reign of God is at hand.” There is still time for each one of us to listen to these words and to prepare ourselves to be, truly, Easter people.

^{Passion Sunday; March 18, 1994
Mt 21:1-11; Is 50:4-7; Phil 2:6-11; Mt 26:14 – 27:66}

1. Today’s liturgy began with the “exhortation for Holy Week,” i.e. an outline of the services and an encouragement for the people to participate in the events of the Triduum. This presentation preceded the reading of the entrance Gospel and the procession of the palms. It was followed by a homily for Passion Sunday.
2. All members of the congregation are invited to participate in the foot-washing. They come forward individually or in family groups. “Stations” matching the ones usually assigned for Communion are established with chairs, basins, towels and pitchers of warm water. The pitchers are refilled by volunteers who also empty the basins as they become filled. Usually over 95 percent of those in attendance at the Holy Thursday service actively participate.
3. The congregation of Jewish Community North (JCN), a synagogue built on property adjacent to Christ the Good Shepherd, used our church building for its own Saturday evening Sabbath services during the period during which their own facilities were being constructed. From 1994 until 2005, when the new General Instructions for the Roman Missal were implemented excluding Catholic services in non-Christian worship spaces, the JCN reciprocated by offering its worship space for two Masses on Easter Sunday, when there was a surplus of worshiping Catholics. For some twenty-five years previously the congregation from JCN joined with others from the local Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian and United Church of Christ congregations for a combined inter-faith service on the morning of Thanksgiving Day. This service was held at CGS, since our structure had the largest of the sanctuaries among the participating communities

Have you ever seen a UFO? Have you ever talked with someone who has had an “Encounter of the Third Kind,” someone who has met “Starman”¹? If you, yourself, have had such an experience, the chances are you’ve been quiet about it, knowing other people might not believe you. We do live in a skeptical age where “seeing is believing.” On the surface, it would seem this should be the theme of today’s gospel story: “seeing is believing.” However, I think today’s readings ask a deeper question: What sign do I need in order to know that God loves me?

This is not a new question. The disciples of Jesus asked the same question some two-thousand years ago. And Jesus gave them an answer. He said God loves them like a father does. He taught his followers to call God, Abba, Daddy. And for a while, it worked. They accepted his answer. They had found God’s love through Jesus. They had found a purpose in their life by following him.

But now he has left them. They huddle in fear behind locked doors. They feel deserted, even, perhaps, betrayed. Jesus has left them. They think God has left them as well. Even today, when a loved one dies, we feel deserted and betrayed. We feel fearful about our future and being left alone. Being alone is one of our greatest fears. Being totally alone, abandoned.

I can feel that way about God. I need to feel God’s love for me. I need to feel his acceptance, his warmth. I need to know he loves me. And sometimes, just like the disciples, I sit behind the locked door of my heart and huddle in fear that he has left me, he no longer loves me. Yet, the stone rolled in front of a tomb could not imprison Jesus. A mere locked door could not keep him out. Even a locked heart might be open to his coming. And when he appears, what happens?

Twenty centuries ago, he appeared to his closest friends. They heard his voice as he said, “Shalom.” They saw him. They saw his hands and his side. They felt his breath. And what did he give them? He gave them his peace. He gave them the Holy Spirit. And what did he ask of them? To forgive one another their sins. To unbind all those who were trapped in their sins. To set one another free. To share the peace he brought to them. These are the same gifts he brings to us, and the same requests he makes of each one of us.

But what about Thomas? How much are we like Thomas? Thomas wanted the reassurance of touch. For him, it wasn’t enough merely to be told about Jesus. In fact, he implied it wouldn’t be sufficient for him to merely see Jesus. Eyes could be fooled by an apparition, by a ghost. Thomas demanded he be able to touch Jesus before he would believe that Jesus was truly there.

We, too, are like Thomas much of the time. We want to feel the presence of Jesus. We want his hugs and touch. And when they are missing in the way we want to experience them, we ask ourselves a devastating question: why? We fear we do not merit the love of God, the love of Jesus. Could Thomas have been asking himself the same questions when he heard the excited reports of his friends? In his mind, could Thomas have asked, “Why did Jesus not wait until I was present? What have I done to anger him so that he did not come to me? After all, did I not once say I would die for him? Doesn’t Jesus love me?” Perhaps Thomas was making the same mistake we all make: thinking it is through my own merits, through what I have done, that Jesus comes to me and shows God’s love for me.

Thomas did not earn the right to see Jesus. Rather, Jesus came freely, in the way he wanted to come. I do not earn a sign of Jesus’ presence. Nothing I can do can conjure up our Lord. He comes freely when he wants to. He gives me signs of his presence and of his love in unexpected ways.

For most of my life I’ve sought God through my head, through my intellect, without really experiencing him, without really touching him or having him touch me. But about six years ago I had one of my first real encounters with the Lord. It occurred during my first, silent retreat at Grand Coteau. However, the things that happened, the signs I saw, weren’t all that earthshaking when you think about them rationally. In fact they’re downright simple. Like the time I had gone out to the fields to pray.

Grand Coteau covers some five hundred acres north of Lafayette, Louisiana. There are fields and pastures and wooded areas to roam through. This one afternoon I had wandered down an old lane with huge live oaks along it and climbed over several gates until I came to a secluded pasture. I had a blanket and my Bible with me. I spread out the blanket and started to pray one of the scripture passages. But the prayer period didn’t go very well. I found it difficult to pray. All of a sudden, the sky began to cloud over. It looked like a storm was coming up. I knew I had to get back to the Retreat House. I suddenly felt lost. I knew intellectually that the House was in a certain direction, and probably less than a mile away. But I felt absolutely trapped. There was a barbed wire fence and thorn bushes around the pasture. I knew I couldn’t crawl over them.

I don’t know if you’ve ever had a panic attack, but I had one just then, and it was no fun. I didn’t know what to do when I heard a voice in my head ask, “Do you trust me? Do you, really, trust me? Or is this all an intellectual game you’ve been playing?” I finally agreed that I did really trust. And then the voice in my head said, “Follow me.”

I saw a small yellow butterfly and began to follow it. It led me across the field directly to a hole in the fence! Once I was through the hedge, I could see the Retreat Center in the distance. I firmly believe there are many signs in this world, but for me, personally, little yellow butterflies have a special meaning about trust in God and knowing that God loves me.

In order to know something in our world of 1987, we try to measure it. In order to be scientific, we use all sorts of fancy ways to measure things. We are caught up in science and technology as our 20th century way of knowing. In the process, we have eliminated a sense of Mystery. But even more sadly, we have taken respectable words like “belief” or “faith” and made them into second-rate ways of knowing.

To believe means “to know something very deeply.” To know it so well you don’t need to measure it with yardsticks or scales or fancy technology. What do we mean when we say to someone, “I know you love me?” How do we measure that kind of knowing?

Jesus asks each of us the same kinds of questions. Do you know, do you believe, I love you? Do you know, do you believe, God has sent me to bring salvation to you? Do you know, do you believe, you have life in my name?

In response, do I need measurements of his love, or can I say: I know deeply, I believe you love me, without needing to measure that love? You have given me simple signs of your love, of your presence. They are all around me. It’s not a question of what measurements, or even of what signs, do I demand to know God loves me, but, rather, what sign is I to others that God loves all of us?

In the upper room, Jesus gave his beloved followers his peace, his Holy Spirit, and he sent them forth to bring reconciliation to others. To be signs for others of his love. We heard in our first readings how they carried out this commission he gave them.

A few years ago, there was a new book written about the sacraments. You’ll recall how the sacraments are referred to as signs. Well, this book talked about these sacramental signs and other signs as well. The title of the book was Doors to the Sacred.²

Perhaps, today’s Gospel story has two points for our reflection. First: we need not huddle, alone, behind a locked door. Instead, it is through us that others can pass on their way toward God, for we are all “doors to the sacred.” And second: each of us, at times, lacks trust in the Lord. In our lack of trust, we doubt that God loves us. It’s in moments like this when we each need to find and follow our own butterfly, and to say, as did Thomas, “I believe, my Lord and my God.”

^{Second Sunday of Easter; April 26, 1987
Acts 2:42-47; 1 Pt 1:3-9; Jn 20:19-31}

1. _{^{Encounter of the Third Kind and Starman were 1987 science fiction films of friendly aliens from space visiting the earth.}}
2. _{^{Joseph Martos, Doors to the Sacred, Doubleday & Company, Garden City, New York, 1981}}