Category: Homilies

Today’s question is not for you to answer just for today’s homily. Rather, it’s a question you can keep asking yourselves over the years to come. Actually, it’s not my question. It’s a question Jesus addressed to his followers two thousand years ago. It’s a question he directs to us, each and every day of our lives. There in a boat, on a storm-tossed sea, he inquired: “Do you not yet have faith?” During the tempests occurring in our own lives, he continues to ask: “Do you not yet have faith?”

Faith. What is faith? In the next few weeks, the Gospel readings will continue to ask this question. We will be hearing, once more, a series of stories found in Mark’s Gospel about faith – or a lack of faith. Mark’s Gospel, itself, addresses many issues centered on the faith of the people. In the passages immediately before the account we heard in today’s reading, Jesus tried to teach his followers about faith – as he spoke in parables about the sower and the seeds sown and about a mustard seed, the smallest of all seeds. However, it seems merely talking to them about faith, was not the best way for his followers to really know the meaning of faith.

Just what is faith? Probably many things. Each meaning depends upon so many related words and thoughts.
● Words such as: fidelity … commitment, dedication, loyalty.
● Words such as: trust … confidence, reliability, truthfulness.
● Even words such as: mercy, justice and forgiveness.
● And perhaps, of greatest importance, the words: love, compassion, and charity

Yes, there are many words to express the meaning of faith. So many that we can become lost in a morass of words and lose all sense of what faith is really all about. Jesus had that problem. He spoke in parables about faith and still needed to ask those who had listened to him: “Why are you terrified? Do you not yet have faith?”

Perhaps today’s reading is to show us that, although we can hear about faith, about trust, the only way to truly understand faith and trust is to experience them firsthand. It is said we are born with a sense of faith, a sense of trust, a sense that we can rely on others – especially upon our parents – rely upon them to provide, to protect, and to nourish us. However, these attitudes – these “beatitudes,” if you will – must be reinforced throughout our lives. Without such reinforcement, without a daily experience of fidelity, truthfulness, mercy and forgiveness, without a lived experience of trust and of faith, we can lose these gifts of God, these virtues instilled in us at birth.

Today, in our secular world, it is not difficult to lose them. Today, there are many among us who lack faith and trust in one another and in our economic and governance systems. Many would even attribute our decline as a nation to such losses of faith and trust. Others maintain we will remain in this position until we, once more, re-establish our civic trust in one another and in our leadership systems.

On the other hand, our secular world, also, gives us a day to recall those virtues, those qualities which make a man truly a “man”– for this is the original meaning of the word: “virtue.” The word “virtue,” itself, is derived from the Latin word for “man,” the word “vir.” But this word did not mean just any man. The word “vir” was restricted to those who exhibited the qualities of being a true gentleman, the qualities exhibited by the head of the household, the pater familis, the father of the household.

And so it is, that this weekend has been set aside by our secular culture in this country to honor fathers. But it is more than a day to celebrate merely being a male capable of producing offspring. Rather, it is a day to celebrate and acknowledge those virtues which are shown forth by all of us in our attempts to model for our children what it is to be a true person.

Today is the day to remind us that for a child to retain the God-given gifts of faith, fidelity and trust, our children need to experience faith, fidelity and trust
… in the parents who exhibit these qualities,
… in the families where these qualities are the center of family life,
… and, especially, in the fathers among us.

When a husband and wife enter into matrimony, as so many do during this month of June, they pledge one another their faith, fidelity and trust. They exchange these vows and are expected to live by them for the rest of their lives. They agree to share their love with one another through their children.

And when events conspire against them, they agree to forgive one another and to reconcile with those who have been hurt in the processes of daily living. This, indeed, is what is meant by faith. It is the trust one has that no matter what happens, each person will continue to be there for one another. To offer to one another
● their commitment, dedication, loyalty and confidence,
● their reliability and truthfulness in what they say and do.
● their mercy when errors occur and a just punishment when the error is significant
● and, finally, to offer one another their forgiveness, compassion and love.

Yes, the storms of life suddenly, without expectation, will arise. The winds and waves of disaster may attempt to sink us. It is then we realize there is, indeed, another person present in our boat with us. Although he may appear to be sleeping and to be unconcerned about our shared welfare, he is, indeed, fully awake and intimately aware of our needs.

He is the one we can continue to trust to be present with us. He does not need to ask: “Do you not yet have faith?” He already knows the answer.
● Yes, we have faith. We have trust. We recognize your commitment and dedication to our welfare, as we acknowledge and experience that same faith and trust in your Father, in our Father.
● And through our mutual faith and trust, we will help those who love us, and those whom we love, to experience those virtues which He has given us.
In this way, each one of us: male or female, husband, wife or child, can celebrate each and every day as Father’s Day – as we say: “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. Amen“

^{12th Sunday in Ordinary; June 21, 2009 (Fathers’ Day)
Job 38:1, 8-11; 2 Cor 5:14-17; Mk 4:35-41}

Recently, I asked a homily question directed to the women. Well, today’s question is addressed to all of you who are at least twenty-eight years old. It’s also a two-part question? The question is this: have you ever been to a high school reunion? And secondly, did you enjoy it? Now you might be wondering why I limited my question to those over the age of twenty-eight. Sure, younger people might go back to a high school gathering, but it’s not the same as it is when you’ve been out for at least ten years. The five-year reunion is nothing. Things haven’t really changed all that much for you or for your high school friends. However, after ten years, the changes are a little more obvious. The men may still claim they wear the same size jeans, but their belt line is beginning to shift southward. The women look in the mirror and wonder: perhaps, if they hadn’t laughed so much, maybe those strange lines wouldn’t be there.

Since summer, and especially this Fourth of July weekend, is the time for picnics and reunions, I thought I might caution you: gathering with friends and relatives you haven’t seen for many years can be hazardous to your ego. As for me, I never did go to my tenth high school reunion. Nevertheless, I must admit I had a great time at the twenty-fifth and fortieth ones! By then, everyone else looked so much older than the image I saw when I look in my own mirror. I was now able to relax and remember only the good things that happened to us during those high school days.

Perhaps, it would have been different if Jesus had been able to wait longer before he went back to Nazareth, back to his hometown and the people he once knew and who thought they knew him. However, today’s gospel reading really isn’t about reunions and going home for visits. Rather, it’s about faith, about faith and miracles, about faith and change.

For the last several weeks, our readings taken from the Gospel of Mark have been about faith. There was the story about faith and the mustard seed. Then there was the one about faith and Jesus calming the storm at sea. Last week, we heard stories about how her faith cured the woman with a hemorrhage and how faith and trust were part of the return of the daughter of Jairus.

In today’s gospel, Mark tells how the residents of Nazareth treated its hometown boy when he returned to them. At first, they were amazed at what he said there in the synagogue. There is an impression, however, that they were not as amazed by what he said so much as they were amazed that he was saying it. After all, they remembered the gang of kids he ran around with when he had lived there in Nazareth. It seems his kinsmen, James, Joses, Judas and Simon, might have been into as much mischief as any other group of teenage boys. His family certainly didn’t live in the biggest house in town. Like his old man and everyone else, he had to work for a living. Where did he have the time to study the scriptures and lead you to believe he spoke with the authority of the Lord God, himself?

Surely, those tales of what he did in other towns, could not be true. If they were, why had he not done anything like that when he was growing up here in Nazareth? They thought, with what we Nazarenes know about this Jesus bar Joseph and his younger days, how can we believe anything said about him now?

And here we have the real question for today. With what we remember about our own past, how can we believe anything good about today? In the gospel reading, Jesus spoke about how a Prophet could do little among his own kindred and in his own house, among those who remember the past and its shortcomings.

For a moment, maybe we might return not to Nazareth, but to our own high school reunion or other homecomings. There at the high school reunion, folks are amazed at the physical changes. But they soon accept the outer differences. What they find more difficult to accept are the inner changes. And most difficult of all, the apparent successes of the one who has gone off and now returns.
● How can the high school dweeb now be the C.E.O. of a large company?
● How can the high school fatso now be an accomplished performer?
● How can the kid at the bottom of the class now have a successful career?
● How can the guy who was the major girl-chaser now have a wonderful marriage and such a happy family?
What has happened to us, the ones who stayed behind, the ones who remained in place, the ones who did not change?

In case you’re wondering if I’m saying you have to leave home in order to be a success in life, let me be very clear. No. You don’t have to leave your hometown to become successful. And no, success is not measured by becoming a C.E.O. or an accomplished performer. Success is not measured in terms of a accomplished career. It is not even measured in terms of a wonderful marriage and a happy family. Single people and those who have less than successful occupations can certainly possess the one element lacking in those citizens of Nazareth, and have a successful life.

And what was this lack? According to Jesus, it was a lack of faith. Without their faith, he could do little to overcome their difficulties and be successful in life, itself. Faith, it seems, is necessary for miracles to occur. And where do we need this faith? We need it within ourselves. Within me as an individual. I need faith based upon the present, not upon the past.

The past binds each one of us. Not only with respect to others, as was the case with the Nazarenes and Jesus, but also with respect to ourselves. The past can imprison me, can confine me so I believe change is not possible, miracles cannot happen within me. But with faith, small healings and cures can begin within me. I can have a successful life.

You see, faith is not limited by a geographic home town called Nazareth, or Houston, or Spring, Texas. Faith is not limited by coming from a small town in Ohio or Michigan or from any other place in the world. But faith can be limited by the small town within each one of us. It can be limited by walls we refuse to break, by gates we don’t want to pass through. Faith can be limited by what each one of us holds about past hurts and shortcomings.

Once again, we need to recall that faith is to see with more than our eyes, to hear with more than our ears, to touch with more than our fingertips. When we see, hear and touch with our hearts, it is then we have reached our reunion with the Father, Son and Spirit. It is then we have successfully returned to our true hometown, the City of God.

^{Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time; July 3, 1994
Ezek 2:2-5; 2 Cor 12:7-10; Mk 6:1-6}

Today’s question is a summertime question. And since it is summertime, it’s a very easy one. The question is this: how many of you enjoy going barefoot in the summertime? Do you like to wander around the house and the yard without your shoes on? Wandering around like that can be very relaxing for some people. They don’t even wait for summer. Here in Houston, they do it all year ‘round. They come home from work and change into comfortable clothes. They take off their hot, tight shoes, wiggle their toes and spend the rest of the evening shoeless.

But there are other people who believe it’s dangerous to walk around without shoes. Outside, you might encounter fire ants. Inside, you might step on a needle. I’ve done that. I once had a dropped sewing needle break off in my heel when I stepped on it. It was years before I was, once again, comfortable going barefoot around the house.

Today’s readings talk a lot about feet. The feet of disciples. It’s important for disciples to have good feet. They need to do a lot of walking. They need to follow in the footsteps of the master, the teacher. That’s what being a disciple is all about. If you are merely a student, someone who studies what the master teaches, you can sit at his feet and just listen to what he has to say. You can memorize his words. But if you are going to be a disciple, you need to stand up and follow him. You need to walk with him and see, on an hour-by-hour basis, just exactly what he does. How he does it. You need take part in the discipline of the master.

Yes, “disciple” and “discipline” are directly related. A disciple follows a discipline, a way of life, a way of living. You must walk with the teacher no matter where he goes or where he might send you. To put into practice what you have seen him do. To be an extension of the master. To act in his place. In modern terms, a disciple must “walk the talk.”

The prophets were such disciples. They walked with the Lord and tried to put into practice what he asked of them, even if it was in a foreign land. The prophet Amos was like that. We heard about him in our first reading. Amos didn’t start out as a prophet. He trimmed trees for a living and was a part-time shepherd. He lived in the southern kingdom of Judea. But one day, the Lord God sent him up north to the kingdom of Israel to preach in Bethel, a religious center of the northern kingdom. If you wonder about the kind of reception he got, imagine a farmer from Spring, Texas going up to Austin to tell them how to be politicians. The priests up in Bethel told Amos to go back home. He didn’t. But that’s another story.

Instead, let’s go back to our gospel story from Mark, where Jesus sends out his disciples to new lands. It’s a story about discipleship. And about hospitality. About giving. And about receiving. There had been many who had listened to what Jesus had to say, what he had to teach. But from all those who were his students, he chose Twelve to be his disciples. Twelve who would live the kind of life he, himself, lived. It was these Twelve he sent out, two by two on their journeys.

And while on their journeys, they were to trust entirely in God. All that they accomplished would be through the power given to them by the Author of all life, the Author who gave them their “authority” over the evils they would encounter. These disciples had to rely on the hospitality of the people to whom they were being sent. Those whom Jesus sent out carried neither food nor money to buy food. They had no extra clothing to ward off the cold of night nor to change into when they were soaked by rain. They had the clothes on their back and a single pair of sandals to protect their feet as they traveled the back roads of Galilee. They carried only a walking stick, a staff, the universal sign of the traveler, the wanderer.

They were to depend upon the kindness of strangers whose homes they entered. They had to rely upon the hospitality, the openness of those they did not know to receive them. They were not to look for the best place in town to stay, but rather, to remain with the first ones who opened their homes to them and to their mission.

And what was their mission? Why were they being sent forth among strangers? First of all, to preach the need of repentance. This had been the basic message of their Master. The need for each person to change what he or she had been doing that was not in accord with God’s desires. Like the prophets before them, the disciples were to re-call the people back to the Kingdom of God.

And secondly, they were to expel demons, to anoint the sick, and to heal. They were not only to speak the Word of God, but they were also to accomplish the Word of God. By expelling demons, they named the evil they saw so that, once named, it could be driven out of the lives of those they met. By anointing the sick, they brought comfort and hope to those whose lives were being destroyed by the world around them.

And what if they were not received? What if no one listened to them? Jesus told them not to quit. Instead, they were to shake off the past, like shaking off the dust from their feet, and move on to the next village. What Jesus told his disciples, those who not merely listened to him but who put into practice what he taught, he tells to us. Don’t be concerned with your own welfare. Trust in the goodness and openness of others. Trust that God will be with you in what you do and say. Trust that others want to hear the Good News and will welcome it. And if the results are not what you had hoped or expected, don’t give up and quit. Shake off past failures and try anew.

Each one of us is to speak the Word of God, not only in what we say, but in what we do. We are to name the evils confronting the world today. We are to comfort and bring hope to the poor and homeless. We are to counsel those in need and to plant and to harvest for those who hunger. We are sent forth to undertake tasks for which we feel we are unqualified, but know we must do.

In the next few weeks, we will be hearing appeals for help in our R.E. program. A need for catechists, teaching aides, team leaders and team members. Later on, there will be calls for the contribution of our time and our talent as we are called to stewardship. In the coming weeks, there will be special ways in which we will be asked, as were the disciples, to go out to those we do not know, to speak God’s word, and to do God’s work.

But in the meantime, each day presents opportunities to be a disciple. To put into practice what we know needs to be done. Each day is a day in which we can give of our hospitality as we receive others into our lives. Each day is a day in which we can give of ourselves to those whom we meet as strangers but leave as friends. Moreover, we are to be present to our own family and friends who need our love and understanding when it might seem easier to give our help to total strangers than to those with whom we are estranged.

Perhaps, each day, in summer or in other seasons of the year, is a day to walk barefoot in our homes or to put on our sandals and walk as disciples who journey with Jesus the Christ. But no matter where we journey with him, each day is a day to recall the first words spoken by God to the prophet Moses: “Take off your sandals, for you walk on holy ground.”

^{Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time; July 13, 1997
Amos 7:12-15; Eph 1:3-14; Mk 6:7-13}

Well, here it is: the middle of the summer. Once again, it’s vacation time. So, today’s questions are about vacations. How many of you are making vacation plans to get away in the next few weeks? How many have already taken a vacation? And how many of you, who’ve already gone, need another vacation to recover from the first one? Every year we plan to have a real “vacation.” We hope to really get away from it all, to find some peace and quiet, to get some “vacant” time, some “blank” or “empty” time when we can really relax. But we don’t seem to succeed.

Today’s gospel reading tells us Jesus and his disciples didn’t have much luck either. They tried to get away for some well-earned R&R, but what did they find? More lost sheep! For the next few minutes, I’d like to consider some other lost, or at least, confused sheep. Not real sheep, but imaginary ones. Ones like the sheep we count late at night, in our heads. I would, also, like to consider some imaginary shepherds who drive our imaginary sheep.

What made me think about shepherds and sheep for today’s homily? It was, of course, today’s first reading from Jeremiah, which begins: “Woe to the shepherds who mislead and scatter the flock of my pastures.” Now, actually Jeremiah was talking about false prophets and false leaders who were trying to stir up a revolt in Judea and Israel against foreign domination. These were the so-called shepherds Jeremiah was criticizing. But, the ones I want to talk about are the false shepherds inside of me, inside of you.

To begin, let’s pretend my emotions, my feelings, are little, bleating sheep. I look down, into myself and see a fuzzy, little critter called “sense of humor.” And over there, in the middle of the pasture is a white, wooly fellow called “courage.” The one in between, chewing grass, is “patience.” And that big, black sheep over in the corner of the meadow is “anger.” Do you get the picture? Can you see your own sheep? What names do your sheep have?

Now what about the false shepherds? The ones who drive the sheep, who try to control my emotions, my feelings. They’re standing around too. I can see the shepherd whose name is “job problems.” Nearby is “financial trouble.” Then there is “family strife.” Close by, is the shepherd called “keeping busy.” My interior false shepherds have many names. There are many things which drive the sheep of my emotions. Only you can name the ones in your pasture.

I would invite you to close your eyes and name your own sheep and your own shepherds as I read, again, lines from Jeremiah. “Woe to the shepherds who mislead and scatter the flock of my pasture … You have not cared for [my sheep] … I myself will gather the remnant of my flock … and bring them back to their meadow.”

The question now becomes: how will the Lord God do this? To answer this, perhaps we need to take another look at the gospel reading for today. But first, it might be good to begin by recalling last Sunday’s gospel. Last Sunday, we heard how Jesus had sent out his disciples to teach in his name. And now, in today’s reading, his disciples have returned. They’re all excited about what they’ve been doing and are eager to tell him of their adventures. But what about Jesus? It seems he’s not nearly as excited with their results as they are. Instead of congratulating them on a job well-done, he says: “Come away by yourselves to a deserted place, [an out-of-the-way place,] and rest a while.”

And they do try to escape the people who have crowded around so tightly that the disciples can’t even eat. They try to escape from the problems of the world, but those problems follow them. It seems that when the disciples tried to take their vacation, their problems, the people they had been ministering to, not only followed them, they even got there ahead of them!

We, who are today’s followers of Jesus, try to escape from our problems, but somehow we can’t seem to. Our problems not only follow us, they sometimes precede us. It would seem that there’s little hope for us. But yet there is hope for us. For two reasons: first of all, there is Jesus’ gentle urging: “Come away [with me.]” He didn’t say: “Go off alone” but rather “Come.” You will be with me, and I will be with you. And secondly, he took pity on the scattered flock of confused sheep he found waiting for him. And what did he do when he found them?

He taught them. And what did he teach them? I believe today’s reading from Saint Paul reminds us of what he taught. On one level, Paul reminds us how we are all united together by Christ. He spoke of both pagan-born Christians who were once far off and of Jewish Christians who have been near. But on another level, there is both a pagan Christian and a Jewish Christian inside of each one of us. There are parts of me waiting to be united into one body, one whole person. There is part of me that is far off from the Lord. There is another part of me that is near to him.

Now, let’s return for a moment to that imaginary pasture inside of us. Some of our sheepish emotions and feelings are running off. “Patience” gets butted by “anger,” the shepherd called “financial trouble” chases the lamb called “prudence” away to hide behind a bush. The false shepherd “job problems” shears the wool off of “courage” and leaves him cold and shivering. The shepherd of “family strife” tweaks the tail of “harmony.”

Yet in all this chaos, this mad scramble, there is still one true Shepherd, one Good Shepherd who is mightier than all of the false shepherds inside of me. He leads forth all of the sheep of my internal pasture. He quiets and gentles them. All I need to do is come away with him. Even if our problems seem to follow us or precede us, he is there. When our sheep, our emotions, are scattered and confused, he, alone, can gather them back into one-fold, one warm, peaceful meadow. In him, our sheep can find their rest. With him, we do not take a so-called vacation. We do not need to become “vacant” or “empty.” With him, we find recreation or, if you will, a “re-creation.”

And so, as we enter the middle of our summer, a time to ponder our desire for recreation, our need for “re-creation,” our need to go off to greener pastures for a while, I’d leave you with three questions to ponder:
● What are the names of your own inner sheep?
● Who are the false shepherds who scatter them?
● And finally, are you ready to hear the voice of your one, true shepherd saying to you, “Come with me to an out-of-the-way place and rest a while”?

^{Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time; July 21, 1985, July 23, 2006 (revised)
Jer 23:1-6; Eph 2:13-18; Mk 6:30-34}

Today’s questions are for those of you who watch television. You may not want to admit it, but if you do, you can raise your hand to answer the first one. The question is: how many of you watch so-called “reality” shows on tv? Well, if you have, maybe you can think about my next question for today, which is: just what do we mean by “reality?” Does Survivor or any of the other programs that deal with “real” people – do they show us what “reality” is?

We once said “reality” could be summed up in that old phrase: “seeing is believing”. But now days, many aren’t as sure, not when we deal with “reality” shows and “virtual reality.” Well, ancient peoples, whether they were Hebrews or Romans or Greeks, also had questions about reality. But their answer was slightly different from ours. For them, reality was what actually existed even if they couldn’t see it. In our modern skepticism we ask: well, if you can’t see it, how do you know it exists? If you can’t weigh it, or touch it, or measure it in some way, how do you know it really exists?

The Greeks asked the same question, too. Their conclusion was there are signs which point toward what is real. The signs exist. They are able to be seen. These signs point towards a higher reality that cannot be seen. At least this was the conclusion philosophers reached.

But what about ordinary people like you and me? They saw things, just like we do. And sometimes in their seeing, their looking, they missed the reality. They mistook the signs as being what is real. That’s, of course, what today’s gospel is all about: mis-reading the “signs.” Which leads me to another question: what is the sign and what is the reality of the multiplication of the loaves and fishes? Is it a sign of the reality of God’s power? Or is it, perhaps, a sign of our trust in God and God’s trust in us?

Our reading for today actually began last Sunday when the people followed Jesus and his disciples to a deserted place. The people had pursued Jesus because of the signs he was performing. They saw him cure the sick. They saw this as the power of God. They, too, wanted to be cured of their physical ailments, healed in their twisted legs and blind eyes.

Jesus thought he and his companions might escape the demands of the crowds for a little while and crossed the Sea of Galilee in a fishing boat. But the crowds followed them along the seashore. They wanted more. More cures. More healings. At least, that’s what they thought they wanted. For them, the reality was what Jesus could do to heal their physical bodies.

But what about Jesus? What did he perceive their reality to be? He looked at them and knew they hungered. At first, we might think he saw their physical hunger. But what he really saw was their spiritual starvation. Have you ever thought about how this story begins? It’s such a familiar story, this multiplication of the five barley loaves and two dried fish, we sometimes fail to read between the lines. Just like the Hebrews, we see the bread and fish and fail to see the “signs” of the story.

First of all, was it the people who demanded to be fed? Did someone come running up to Jesus to tell him the crowds are turning ugly, if we don’t give them a free hand-out, they’re going to turn on us? I don’t see anything like that in the gospel John has given us. No – it was Jesus who saw the crowds and asked Philip, his disciple: “Where can we buy enough food for them to eat?” Jesus, himself, recognized the need of the people for nourishment even before they realized they were hungry. And although he proposed a worldly solution in his question – going out and buying food from the villages – John tells us Jesus knew this is not what he needed to do.

What about Philip? This disciple seemed to take Jesus at his word about buying food and pointed out something that Jesus, no doubt, already knew: they did not have enough money to do it. How many times have I been like Philip when Jesus asks me to do something? When my answer is: I don’t have enough time, enough talent, enough money to do what you want. And, so, with a variety of excuses, I never begin.

And then there is Andrew. What was his response? Well, Lord, it isn’t much, but there’s this kid with some bread and fish. And what did Jesus do? He took what was offered, as little as it might seem, and he blessed it and gave it to them. Have there been times when Jesus has asked me to do something and my response has been: Lord, it’s not much, but it’s a start. My fear is that most of the time I’m more like Philip than I am like Andrew.

We know how the story ends. Or at least we think we do. The disciples gather up the leftovers so that nothing would be wasted and found that they filled twelve baskets. It’s no wonder that, when the people saw what had happened, they were amazed. They had seen a new sign and thought they had seen a new reality. Immediately, they wanted to carry Jesus off and make him their king. What better person to have as a king than someone who could perform a miracle like that. You’d never have to work again, there would always be a free hand-out of food. But, Jesus seeing they had mis-read the sign, fled away from them to go to the mountain alone. No doubt to pray.

If the crowds had mis-read the sign they saw, is there a chance we, too, might mis-read it as well. Are we much better at reading signs than the Jewish crowds were? Some hear this story and take it at face value. Jesus overcame natural law and every time a piece of bread was torn off, or a piece of fish was taken, a new piece miraculously grew back to replace it. Many say it, indeed, happened that way. There was a physical miracle. However, for a moment, I’d like for us to reflect on another aspect of what Eucharist might be.

What I want to reflect about during the next few minutes does have to do with Eucharist. However, I won’t be talking about the reality of the Body and Blood of Christ under the appearance of bread and wine. During the next four weeks, there will be other opportunities to address this topic, as we listen to the continuation of John’s Gospel about the Bread of Life. Instead, let’s look more closely at another reality of this sign of the multiplication of the loaves, at another reality of what Eucharist is.

Some bible scholars point out that the Jews who came to hear Jesus were no fools. These scholars say no one in his right mind would go out for a day to hear this new prophet without taking along some food. Each person, or each family, had brought along a loaf of bread, some dried figs, or a piece of dried fish. And Jesus, also not being a fool, knew this. So, what did he have them do?

First of all, he did not tell them to line up for a hand-out. Instead, he asked them to recline. To lie down just as they would at home for a meal. After all it was an ancient custom among the Mediterranean people of that time to recline for a meal. It showed they were safe and among friends. No one would lie down among strangers, among enemies. To recline was a sign of fellowship. And so, they did.

And what happened next? According to some bible scholars, the people began to share their food with one another. These interpreters say the miracle Jesus performed was this: having heard him talk about God, about his Father, about how they should love one another, these people were now willing to share with one another the food they had. For these scholars, the miracle of the loaves and fishes is not a story about how Jesus miraculously made bread and fish reproduce itself, but rather how his love caused these people, these strangers, to see one another as friends and companions and share their own sustenance with one another. For some, then, the sign which is shown by this miracle is not the power of Jesus overcoming the natural laws of physical bread and fish but, perhaps, the greater miracle of how strangers, hearing of God’s love, can share with one another.

Yet, there is another related sign I’d like for us to reflect upon for a moment. And that is the sign of trust. If you believe the bread and fish were miraculously reproduced, consider the level of trust Jesus had in his Father to begin the task of feeding over five-thousand people. And if you believe the love shown by Jesus caused the people to share their meager food, consider the amount of trust Jesus had in God and in the people to bring about this sharing.

Trust in God is an ancient miracle. The Israelites trusted in God when Yahweh told them: I will be your God, and you will be my people. Jesus taught them a new trust: trust in Abba, our Father. He loves you as a parent. You are his children. Children are born to trust. Think for a moment just how trusting a child is: an infant trusts that a mother or father will provide food and warmth and a toddler trusts that a parent will not let go of a hand held for support.

But somewhere along the way, we learn not to trust. Teenagers don’t trust that parents really know what might be best for them. And parents don’t trust that their children, when left to their own devices, will continue to follow what their parents have taught. A spouse no longer trusts that the partner will remain faithful. A boss does not trust that an employee will perform the tasks which are assigned. One race or group of people does not trust the intentions of another. One nation does not trust the good will of another.

And so, it goes. We start as innocent, trusting individuals. We end up as divided political countries. What happened to us? Perhaps we need to go back to Philip and to Andrew. Philip who said: there is not enough, it is pointless to begin. And Andrew who said: it’s not much, but it’s a start. Maybe this is what trust is: the ability to make a start, even if you’re not sure how it will end. Trust recognizes the uncertainty of the future but does not stay frozen in either the past or the present. Each one of us is given the chance to be a sign of trust. A sign to the world that God does exist, that Abba loves each one of us.

I began by asking questions about reality, about what is real, about what is a sign of reality. I would conclude by asking whether each one of us is real. Am I a sign of God’s love? Do I trust God enough to begin to change my life? Do I trust God enough to share what I have with others? Am I Philip or am I Andrew?

^{Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time; July 24, 1988; revised July 27, 2003
2 Kg 4:42-44; Eph 4:1-6; Jn 6:1-15}

Today’s question is a biblical one – one based on the scriptures of the New Testament. My question is this: what major story is missing from the Gospel according to John? Yes, to answer today’s question you need to know something about all four gospels. But I think most of you can do it – can answer my question about which very familiar story you can find in the gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke, but you won’t find in the writings of John the Evangelist.

Actually, there are probably several answers you could give. But the one I’m looking for, the very greatest story not found in John’s Gospel, is: the scene at the Last Supper where Jesus blesses the bread and wine, saying – “This is my body – This is my blood – Take and eat, take and drink.”

John’s report of that final fellowship meal of Jesus and his followers omits what we consider to be the foundation for our Eucharist, our Thanksgiving, our commemoration of the presence of Christ in the consecrated bread we eat and the consecrated wine we drink at each celebration of our Mass. Instead of reporting this part of the Last Supper, John, in his gospel, has told us about other thanksgivings, other Eucharistic events. We heard about one of them in today’s gospel reading. We’ll hear more of them during the next four Sundays.

Every third year, when we normally read from the Gospel according to Mark, there’s a five-week period during the summer when we hear passages from the Gospel of John. Some might say that, because Mark’s gospel is so short, there’s a need to compensate by inserting readings from John. But this is probably not the real reason. For these five Sundays during the middle of summer, the Church encourages us to reflect on the Bread of Life, itself. John’s writings have such a focus. His gospel tells us about the Bread of Life, about Eucharist, in a way that deepens what we hear in the Last Supper readings of Matthew, Mark and Luke.

We heard the first of these passages in the story we listened to a few minutes ago, the story of the “Multiplication of the Loaves and Fishes”. This reading is about one of the major “signs” of Christ’s divinity John includes in his gospel. It’s a story we’ve heard many times before. How Jesus miraculously turned five loaves and two fish into enough to feed a large crowd of at least 5,000 men, and still have leftover fragments of bread sufficient to fill twelve wicker baskets. This story is said to remind us of the superabundance given to us by God, himself, whether it’s bread distributed in a deserted place or wine from the six water-jars at the wedding feast in Cana. But perhaps there’s more for us to reflect upon than a description of the superabundance of God. Perhaps we need to look more closely at the people we see in today’s story.

Have you ever thought about the young boy who brought with him the five barley loaves and two fish? In the first place, he could be considered to be a very bright boy, one prepared for emergencies. He probably recognized this event of listening to Jesus would be a day-long affair. At the opening of today’s reading we heard how the crowds followed Jesus because they had seen “the signs he was performing on the sick.” And so, the crowds followed him up on the mountain to listen to him and to hope Jesus might cure more of them. Perhaps the boy, sensing it was going to be a long day, brought along food for his supper. It’s probably equally true others had done the same. They brought along something to eat. But this boy was different from the others. This boy trusted completely in Jesus, and having heard him speak, was willing to share his meager supply with the others who were present. When Andrew, one of the disciples, went looking for a way to help out, it’s doubtful he forcibly took the boy’s food. I’d rather imagine the young man voluntarily gave it up, hoping Jesus would make use of it in some small way to feed the crowds.

And what did Jesus do? He asked the crowd to recline for a meal. He asked them to follow the custom of openness to the stranger, to break bread with a stranger. And then what did he do? Jesus took the loaves and gave thanks.

Gave thanks. The Greek verb for what he did is “eucharistein.” Eucharist. Thanksgiving. He took the modest gift offered by a young boy, blessed it and multiplied it so that this small offering fed over 5,000 people and still have a remaining surplus.

The boy had not said, “I have nothing to offer; what I have, I must keep for myself”. He had not said. “I have too little to make a difference.” Instead, he proclaimed: “I have a little gift, do with it whatever you want.” And Jesus blessed the gift, and it was more than enough.

So, my real question to you, this day, is: “What small gift do you have to offer to Christ for his use?” Do you have as much trust as that young boy – to believe Christ can bless your offering and make it more than sufficient for the use of others in need? Or do you believe that what you have, must be hidden away for your own use? Do you believe your gift would be too small to make a difference in the world?

And remember: your gifts are not found only in the money in your pocket or bank accounts.
● Your gifts include your ability to teach young and old about Christ, both by what you say and how you act.
● Your gifts include your time to minister to the cares of others: in your family, among your friends, with people you meet at work or in school.
● Your gifts include your efforts to assist others in soup kitchens, nursing homes, hospices and places where migrant workers or displaced teens gather.
● Your gifts include your talents to work for social justice and the cause of peace.

In the words of Saint Paul to the Ephesians, we are encouraged to use these gifts, “to preserve the unity of the spirit through the bond of peace [as being]: one body … one Spirit, … one hope, … one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is over all and though all and in all.”

Yes, our gifts may appear to be small and insignificant when we look at them and hold them tightly to ourselves. But these gifts, when blessed by Christ, can feed the hungry and clothe the naked. These gifts can be given and received as a Thanksgiving – as Eucharist – as the Body and Blood of Christ.

^{17th Sunday in Ordinary Time: July 26, 2009
2 Kg 4:42-44; Eph 4:1-6; Jn 6:1-15}

My question for today concerns food. You don’t need to respond out-loud, but only think about your answer for a moment. My question is this: what is your favorite “comfort food?” Yes, comfort food – the food you long for when you’re under stress, when you’ve had a really bad day. Food you crave when you’re lonely and from which you seek comfort. For some of you, the answer might be “ice cream.” That seemed to be the response of the “Golden Girls,” who can be seen in old re-runs. But for me, my comfort food is more substantial. Even though I do like ice cream from time to time, my comfort food is “meatloaf.” But not just any meatloaf. Mine is the meatloaf my wife makes from a recipe she’s developed some 50 years ago.

“Comfort food” has an important role in our lives. Of course, food, itself, has a very important role in our lives. We’ve all heard the old statement: “you are what you eat.” However, that doesn’t mean some of you are bowls of ice-cream – and I’m not a meatloaf, even if there may be a few of you who think I am.

I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you I’m beginning this reflection by reminding us about the importance of food in our lives – as both a source of comfort and a need for our nutrition and ultimate well-being. For the next several weeks our gospel readings from John the Evangelist will be about a particular food, the bread of life, the food of life which brings us comfort and provides for our own consolation and our well-being.

Over three thousand years ago, the Israelites, on their Exodus from Egypt to a new Holy Land, craved their own comfort food. For them, it apparently was leeks and onions, which would be far down on my list of comfort foods. Of course, back then the wandering Israelites would have settled for any food – claiming Moses had led them into a wilderness, where they were starving, a place far from the meat and bread they left behind in Egypt.

In today’s reading found in the Book of Exodus, we heard the response the Lord God made through Moses. He gave them quail for their meat and manna for their bread. Manna, a word that means: “what is this?” They soon learned what this manna was. Manna was a means of keeping them alive for a generation, for the forty years they were lost in their long journey from a land of bondage to a land of freedom. This manna, this bread from heaven, became their new “comfort food.”

A thousand years later, the one who they thought might be their new Moses, perhaps even their long-awaited Messiah, this preacher appeared before them and brought about a new miracle. He had just fed thousands of Hebrews, using only five donated barley loaves and two fish. It’s no wonder they wanted to make him their king, for surely, here was a man who could feed them daily. No longer would they need to work for their daily bread. All they needed to do was to follow him as he traveled from place to place.

But this Jesus, this new wonderworker, recognized this was not what the Lord God had called him to do. Rather, the Lord God had called him – to be. To be the bread of life, the new bread given daily as the food to sustain his people, to nourish his people beyond a mere forty years, but rather, every day of their lives, until the end of the world.

He spoke these words to those immediately present – those who were looking for the miracle of a free hand-out of food for which they did not need to labor. He instructed them they must turn away from the past, from a time when the Lord God gave them food in the desert. They must turn to the present when the Father gives them the bread which in turn – “gives life to the world.” He went on to say, “I am the bread of life, whoever comes to me will never hunger, and whoever believes in me will never thirst.”

Over the next several weeks we will be asked to ponder his response to those who follow him. We will learn how those who heard these words reacted, how some rejected them, and others accepted them. We, too, will be asked about our own rejection or our own acceptance of his body and blood under the appearance of bread and wine. We will be asked about our own acceptance of his being the food of life, itself.

For now, we are being asked if this can be our own comfort food – the food to consol us when we are stressed, when we are feeling deserted and lonely. We are to recall that we are, indeed, what we eat – that by partaking of this holy meal, we, ourselves, become holy. Is it possible we can consume his body and drink his blood and in doing so truly become the Body and Blood of Christ?

^{18th Sunday in Ordinary Time; August 5, 2012
Ex 16:2-4, 12-15; Eph 4:17, 10-24; Jn 6:24-35}

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

For some, it might be very romantic moments. 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 or a trip to Europe. Or, perhaps, a few days in Colorado, or even in Galveston or San Antonio. It could be your first really good job, a time when you were respected and appreciated for what you were doing. A time capturing all you really wanted out of life.

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

Saint Peter experienced such a glorious event. We heard his personal recounting of it in one of his own letters. A passage was read from this letter in our Second Reading for today. In our gospel reading, we, also, heard more about this experience and how he was probably reminded of a similar vision the Prophet Daniel once had about the appearance of the Son of man.

The events we recall in our own lives are 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 had been eyewitnesses of [Jesus’] majesty. For he received honor and glory from God the Father when that unique declaration came to him from the majestic glory, ‘This is my Son, my beloved, with whom I am well pleased.’ We ourselves heard this voice come from heaven while we were with him 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 a 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 journey to Jerusalem.

And what was Peter’s immediate reaction? He said: “Rabbi, it is good that we are here! Let us make three tents: 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 a tent, a tabernacle, a monument 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 Tivo. 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 the past is not really over. Today is still the same as yesterday. There are those who have erected tents upon their mountaintops to preserve a magnificent event.

And over the years, the simple tent, the tabernacle, 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 tents erected for his particular encounter with the past. The event reported in today’s Gospel according to Mark ends with the words: “As they were coming down from the mountain, [Jesus] charged them not to relate what they had seen to anyone, except when the Son of Man had risen from the dead.”

Yes, they had just heard the voice of God say: “This is my beloved Son. Listen to him.” And yet, 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 instruction spoken to us by Jesus the Christ. As great as the events of the past might be, as necessary as they are in making each one of us the person who exists right now, it is even more necessary 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 surrounding 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, 2006
Dan 7:9-10, 13-14; 2 Pt 1:15-19; Mk 9:2-10}

Today’s first question is more for teenagers than it may be for many of the adults gathered here today. That doesn’t mean grownups won’t know the answer, but somehow, they may be less attuned to the answer than younger people might be. My question is this: what is meant by “virtual reality?” No, I won’t ask if you can explain “virtual reality.” But do you have a feeling for what it is? Can you describe what it is?
One answer might be: virtual reality is a condition or experience where it seems real but really isn’t. You put on a special computerized-helmet and maybe some special computerized-gloves and it feels like you can really see things and touch things, but they aren’t really there.

Now for grownups, I’d ask a slightly different, second question. One you might be able to answer if you can remember some of your high school physics. What’s a “virtual image?” Do you re-call, it’s the image you see reflected through a lens when it makes an image on a screen which you hold up behind the lens. Remember when you had to figure out whether the image was going to be right-side-up or up-side-down and all that stuff about concave and convex lenses?

Ok, so now you have a feeling for a “virtual image.” So, what’s an “image?” What’s a “non-virtual image,” if you will? Well, it’s something that’s made to look like the real thing. It’s not the real thing, but you can touch it and feel it, like with a statue or picture.

Now with “virtual reality,” things become a little more complicated. You can see both virtual reality and what shall we call the other? “Real” reality? But, with those special computerized gloves, you can not only see virtual reality, but you can also touch virtual reality. So, what’s the difference between “virtual” reality and “real” reality?

In fact, what is “real reality,” anyway? Originally, it was something you could see and touch. If you could knock on wood and feel and touch it, why it must be real. It’s solid to the touch. But then modern science came along with new concepts for energy and matter. Now we know wood isn’t really very solid after all.

Wood and everything else are made up of molecules. And what about the molecules? Why they’re made up of atoms, of course. Any kid now a-days knows that. And what about the atoms? When I was in high school, we all learned atoms were made up of a solid nucleus and those electrons whizzing around them. But then by college, the nucleus wasn’t quite as solid. It had protons and neutrons and a lot of space in between them. And the electrons were no longer like little planets revolving around a miniature sun. Now they were electron “shells” completely surrounding the nucleus at different levels.

But soon, if you weren’t careful, those electrons became merely mathematical expressions of the probability of where an electron might be – if you didn’t look at it. Because the equations said if you look at one, it no longer exists where you look. And those nice, somewhat solid protons and neutrons now broke down into “quarks” and things called “charm” and “beauty” – mainly because those physicists didn’t know what they really were, but they had to call them something.

So now we know “reality” isn’t very solid after all. Matter is made up of energy that just seems to be solid to us. And maybe “real” reality isn’t much more “real” than virtual reality is. Are you confused? Well, you’re not alone. The ancient Israelites asked the same question: what is reality? And their answer seems strange to us. Just as two-thousand years from now, our descendants may find our 21st century physics to be rather quaint.

For the Israelites, reality was what they made of it. Last week, Father Frank spoke about the Jewish view of “remembering.” Of how in the act of remembering, the reality of the past became the reality of the present. The Hebrews remembered the words and actions of Moses from that first Passover and the beginning of their Exodus from Egypt to the promised land and each year brought all of those remembrances into the present moment.

Father Frank spoke of how the early Christians remembered the words and actions of Jesus at the last meal he had shared with his followers. How these early Christians linked these words and actions with those words we heard proclaimed a few moments ago: “I myself am the living bread come down from heaven. If anyone eats this bread he shall live forever; the bread I will give is my flesh, for the life of the world.”

We, also, recall how those companions of Jesus who journeyed with him to Emmaus recognized him in the breaking of the bread. The breaking of the bread was a reality for those early Christians in the first twelve centuries following the death and resurrection of Jesus. In this action of the breaking of the bread – and the sharing of the bread – Jesus was again present to them in a very real way. They “re-membered,” they put together, again, his instructions, as recorded in the Gospel of Matthew: “‘take this and eat it … this is my body’ then he took a cup, gave thanks, and gave it to them. ‘All of you must drink from it’ he said, ‘for this is my blood, the blood of the covenant, to be poured out in behalf of many for the forgiveness of sins.’”

This was the reality of Christians until the time of Thomas Aquinas in the 13th century when intellectuals began to ask new questions about nature and reality. The answer given by Aquinas and the scholastics, the scholars, was that reality could be explained by so-called “things” that were made up of an “inner reality,” called substance and an “outer reality” called appearance. They, also, became more interested in the concept of change as it relates to substance and appearance. “How do you change lead into gold?” was a popular question, for obvious reasons. Or how are bread and wine changed into the body and blood of Christ?

The simple folk had an easy answer: they heard the Latin words: “hoc est corpus meus” said by the priest over the bread. And if you say it fast enough the words that mean “this is my body” … Hoc est corpus meus … become “hocus pocus.” Just say the magic words and you can change anything you want to change.

But the scholars, the scholastics, like Aquinas, had a different answer. They said the inner reality, the substance of the bread and wine changed into the body and blood of Christ, whereas the outer reality, the appearances, remained those of bread and wine. And so was born the concept called “transubstantiation” – the changing of the substance of bread and wine into the substance of Christ while retaining the appearance of bread and wine. It was an attempt to explain, in human terms, the unexplainable, divine mystery first encountered in the remembering of those early Christians.

And what about today? How do we attempt to explain the real presence, the reality of Jesus with us today? Today in our liturgy, our public act of Eucharist, of Thanksgiving, how do we experience Jesus, once more, in the “breaking of the bread?”

The documents of the Second Vatican Council held in the sixties speak of several ways in which Jesus is present to us in this gathering. First of all, he is present in a special, real way in the nature of the gathering, itself – for we are the Body of Christ.

Secondly, the documents of Vatican II remind us Jesus is present in the proclaimed words of scripture. Hearing the words spoken by the reader is as important as receiving Christ in the form of bread and wine. This is why here at Christ the Good Shepherd we don’t use missalettes for you to read along with those who proclaim the Holy Scriptures. We could afford buying them, but we take seriously the Vatican II teaching that Christ is present in the spoken, proclaimed words of scripture.

Thirdly, the documents of Vatican II remind us Jesus is present in a special way in the presider of this assembly. He is present in Father Frank who acts in persona Christi – in the person of Christ – when he prays over the bread and wine with the words: “Let your Spirit come upon these gifts to make them holy, so that they may become for us the Body and Blood of our Lord, Jesus Christ.” And so it is, by the power of the Holy Spirt, that in some way, a way we cannot be explain with mere human words, that the real presence of Jesus the Christ comes among us under the appearance of bread and wine.

And while we realize this presence is especially found under the form of consecrated bread and wine, we must also remember his real presence can also be found in the presider, in the proclaimed word of God, and in the gathered assembly. It is, also, for this reason, we encourage our ministers here at Christ the Good Shepherd to do certain things. We ask our readers not to elevate the lectionary at the end of the readings – which would suggest the book, itself, is the Word of God. And rather than saying: “This is the Word of God,” which again focuses on the thing, this book, but rather to say: “The Word of God” to focus on the spoken proclamation as the presence of Jesus the Christ.

And finally, we also encourage ministers of the bread and of the cup to look directly at each of you when distributing the body and blood of Jesus which, by the way, are found in both the consecrated host and in the consecrated wine and not the body in only the bread, and the blood only in the wine. We encourage our ministers to look directly into your eyes as they speak the words “Body of Christ” or “Blood of Christ” to remind you: it is not only the bread or the wine which contain the Body and Blood of Christ, but you, yourself, contain the real presence of Jesus the Christ. We are members of the Body of Christ. The real presence of Jesus exists in us as we go forth into the world. Each of us has a soul that bears the image and likeness of God. We are the image, the virtual image, of God … who is the reality of our virtual world.

^{Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time; August 10, 1997
1 Kings 19:4-8; Ephesians 4:30-5.2; John 6:41-51}

Introduction before Mass: _¹

For the past three weeks we have had a few brief comments about our Eucharistic liturgy before we have begun the mass. Deacon Steve focused on our Eucharist as reconciliation. Father Paul spoke about the sacrifice of the mass. Today’s focus is on the Eucharist as a meal.

In our first Reading, from the Book of Proverbs, we will hear how Wisdom invites us to a banquet. You may recall wisdom in the Old Testament is personified as a woman. The Greek word for Wisdom is “Sophia.” Some of the early church fathers equated wisdom or Sophia with the Holy Spirit. And so, at the outset of today’s mass, we are reminded how the Holy Spirit calls us together to join in a meal of celebration.

In our second reading from the Letter of Paul to the Ephesians, we are further reminded our celebration should be the result of being filled by the Lord, and not by too much wine. Since the early Eucharistic gatherings of Christians were actually part of a fellowship meal, his warnings were not taken lightly by the Ephesians.

Finally, in the gospel reading, which continues the last supper message reported by John, we hear Jesus emphasize how he, himself, is the living bread come down from heaven, and those who eat this bread will have life eternal.

I think most of us easily associate the mass with a meal. Most of us have been taught this from our early childhood. Perhaps, what we may have forgotten, however, is that there is a connection between the meals we eat in our home and the liturgy we celebrate in church. The meals we share at home can prepare us for the sharing which occurs here. At the same time, the preparation for sharing our meal at home and for sharing our Eucharistic meal here are, also, very similar. Both begin with prayer.

There is probably one prayer, in addition to the “Our Father,” which all “cradle” Catholics carry in our bloodstreams. It’s the one that goes: “Bless us 0h Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

Today we would like to help you broaden your preparation for sharing your meals and, thus, your preparation for sharing of Eucharist. As you leave the church today, each family can pick up a copy of this little book, Table Prayer Book, which has some alternatives to “Bless us 0 Lord, and these thy gifts …”

If we really believe sharing Eucharist is like sharing a meal, then it’s also appropriate for us to know the people we are about to share with. And so I invite you to introduce yourself to those sitting around you as we get ready to begin today’s liturgy.

Homily:

Before mass began, I said our focus for today would be on the Eucharist as a meal. Perhaps I should have given you a question so you could have had a head-start on today’s reflection. But I decided you could wait. Most of us already know a lot about meals and eating and about food. In some way or another, we all have an obsession about eating: either eating too much or too little. I assure you, my question is not: “How many of you are on a diet?” I’m also not going to ask: “How many of us should be on a diet?”

So, what is my question? It’s a very basic one and perhaps, in a way, it is related to dieting. The question is: “Why do we eat?” As I said, we all seem to have an interest in eating. It’s reflected by the fact there may be more homes in this country in which you can find at least one cookbook, and not find a Bible. Our interest in eating is, also, reflected in our grocery stores and supermarkets, our restaurant businesses and the fast-food places lining our highways. There is a vast complex of industries interested in that basic question: Why do we eat?

For some, the answer is simple. I eat because I’m hungry. We all recognize the basic need for nourishment. We need food for life and for growth. Some of us have a different kind of hunger. Some have a hunger for relationships. Their emptiness is loneliness. They eat in order to fill up that loneliness. Others eat in order to pass the time. Snacking is the thing to do while watching television. Some of us eat because it’s the right time of day. We eat breakfast, lunch and dinner, because it’s the time of day for eating breakfast, lunch and dinner.

There are, also, those who enjoy sharing a meal which they have lovingly prepared, or which has been loving prepared for them. They enjoy the pleasure of sharing the food and of sharing the conversation which goes along with it, of being part of a warm, comforting experience. Yet not all meals are signs of love and unity. For many families, coming together for a meal is the only time when everyone is in the same place at the same time. The meal becomes an occasion for family arguments and confrontations or for deadly silence.

As a result, some try to avoid such gatherings or make them as short as possible. To shorten the length of our mealtimes, some have become fast-food consumers. First, there was the New York automat. Then a McDonald’s in every town. Now each home has a microwave. Tomorrow, how many of us will be happy with a George Jetson, concentrated meal-in-a-pill? There are times, however, when George Jetson will never win out. There are times when meals become celebrations of special events. There will, I hope, always be weddings and anniversaries. Birthday parties. And of course, holidays.

Much of what I’ve been saying about eating and about meals is summed up by a movie called Avalon. It wasn’t a huge commercial success, but it’s well worth renting for home-viewing. Avalon is about an immigrant from Europe in the early 1900’s. The story is told by his grandson. The movie is really about family storytelling and about family gatherings. Each Thanksgiving, the entire clan gathers for turkey, even though none of them are very sure just why they eat turkey. But it is a major part of the celebration. Until one year, when the turkey is cut before one of the uncles arrives. Every year he is late, but they always waited for him. This year they didn’t, and when he arrives after the turkey is carved, he leaves in a huff and there is a huge rupture in the clan.

Any of us who have suffered as the result of a stupid family argument, can fully appreciate the event. The movie then goes on with some interesting scenes. The family meals no longer are the center for the clan gatherings. Now their meetings become more business-like. The dining room goes empty as people now huddle in front of the new, tiny black and white TV, eating their food, while Milton Burle, ”Uncle Miltie,” does all the talking. If you are interested in stories about families, I’d recommend seeing Avalon.

But now, what do all of these reflections about eating have to do with today’s gospel readings and about our theme of Eucharist as a meal? In order to understand what we heard in today’s gospel reading and how it relates to the Eucharist as a meal, we need to recall the question which initiated Jesus’ response we heard today.

Remember how Jesus had just multiplied the loaves and fishes and then crossed the Sea of Tiberius to get away from the crowds. But they followed him and asked him “What further signs are you going to perform for us to see?” In other words, when is the next hand-out going to be, and is it going to be even better than the last one? And what does Jesus say in response? It was something like: “You want bread which can be given as a sign to you always. But what you really need is faith without signs.”

Much of the entire Gospel of John is devoted to signs and faith. The story of the miracle, or sign, at Cana begins the writings of John. And a final story is about Thomas and our need to believe without seeing. The conclusion of John’s Gospel account has the verses: “Jesus performed many other signs as well – signs not recorded here – in the presence of his disciples. But these have been recorded to help you believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, so that through this faith you may have life in his name.”

In today’s gospel, Jesus speaks about the major sign in his ministry. He says he, himself, is the living bread. He speaks in terms of eating his flesh and drinking his blood. These words startled and puzzled his listeners as much as they startle and puzzle us. Those who questioned him had asked for the greatest of all signs. And he answered them directly. He was the greatest of all signs. There is nothing more real than human flesh. As for blood, it was the sign of the life force, itself. The mystical reality which gives life to inanimate objects. Remove the blood and there is no life.

What Jesus was trying to tell his listeners is that he, himself, is the absolute reality. He, himself, is the life force. He, himself, must be totally accepted by them, totally taken in and consumed by them. If they did this, they would possess “eternal life.” He was saying that for them, and for us, to gain “eternal life,” we must actively participate in his life, his reality, his life force. We must be with him actively, not passively, in his flesh and in his blood.

Christ is not a Norman Rockwell painting of a Thanksgiving Dinner. We cannot eat a picture. Instead, we must get greasy fingers and have gravy on our chin. The Eucharistic sign is bread which is broken. It is the action of breaking. Of sharing. Of eating.

Eucharist is not the object of the host on the altar so much as the action of all of us coming together and partaking of the one body. We are to take and drink of the cup, not merely look at the color or smell the bouquet like a connoisseur. We are to eat and drink for the joy of being one with Christ and with each other. We eat and drink. Not for intoxication, but rather for inspiration. Not for the poison of a magic potion which says, “drink me”, but rather for the elixir of life which says, “live in me”. We eat for many reasons: but how often do we eat for eternal life?

I began by asking the basic question: “Why do you eat?” There is, of course, the parallel question: “Why do you come to the meal of the Lord?” Do you come because you are hungry? Do you come because you are lonely and need to be filled? Do you come because it is the right time for a snack, the right day of the week, or the right hour of the day for a quick energizer? Do you come seeking a shared unity?

In your search for food, do you want to go to a fancy restaurant with impeccable service where you can eat in isolation and listen to some comforting music? Do you prefer to go to a fast-food service station where you can be fed quickly and relatively cheaply, where the menu is always the same and you don’t need to make choices or be challenged? Perhaps, in your search for nourishment, you would like to go to a local, small-town diner where talk from table to table is as important as the food you order, a place where communication is high but on-going commitments are few. Then again, one can also return home, and share a meal with close family and friends in a place where one shares a life as well as a meal.

So why do you come to Eucharist? Is this community of Christ the Good Shepherd to be a fine restaurant? A fast-food dispenser? A local diner? Or a home? And the meal you eat – does it offer you life eternal?

^{Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time; August 18, 1991
Prv 9:1-6; Eph 5:15-20; Jn 6:51-58}

1. Today’s liturgy, part of a series on John’s “Bread of Life” gospels, included an introduction before the Mass begins, as well as the homily following the usual readings.