Category: Homilies

Today’s question is about scripture, about the New Testament in particular and the Jewish writings as well. My question is this: in what language was the New Testament written? Of course, the answer is: Greek. And I have a second question: in the time of Christ, what language was used, routinely, for the writings of the Hebrew testament?

Maybe that sounds like a trick question. The “Hebrew” testament should be written in “Hebrew,” shouldn’t it? Or maybe “Aramaic,” an early form of Hebrew. But I said “routinely” … commonly, and the answer is also: Greek. The ancient Jewish texts were translated by Jewish scholars into Greek some 150 to 200 years before the time of Christ. It’s possible the scrolls Jesus read in the synagogue in Nazareth where written in Greek.

At that time, Greek, not Latin, was the common language spoken by those who used other, native languages, much as English is used today throughout the world as the language of commerce and trade. Latin wasn’t commonly used throughout the Roman Empire until several hundred years after the time of Christ. It was about 384 AD when St Jerome translated the Greek bible into Latin, into what became known as the “Vulgate” or common language version.

So the Jews of the time of Jesus were familiar with the Greek version of the story we heard about Abram or Abraham, found in the Book of Genesis. In this reading we heard how the Lord God initiated a Covenant with Abram, who later became know as Abraham. It was the Lord God who made two promises to Abram.
● The first promise was that Abraham’s descendants would be as numerous as the stars in the sky. Since Abraham was at least in his 80’s and had no children, this was a difficult promise for him to believe.
● The second promise was that the Lord God would give Abraham and his descendants all of the land between the Nile and the Euphrates rivers. In return Abraham and his descendants would love the Lord God as their only God.

To seal this covenant, this special relationship between the Lord God and Abraham, the two of them performed an ancient ritual. Abraham split apart a young cow, a young goat and a young ram. And the Lord God in the form of a smoking fire pot and a flaming torch passed between the split pieces, which is the literal meaning of the word “covenant.”

And so this special relationship, this covenant, was initiated by God and was accepted by Abraham and his descendants. The only problem was that there were two sets of descendants.
● Those from Ishmael, the first-born son of Abraham and the slave woman, Hagar, and
● Those from his second son, Isaac, with Sarah, his free-born wife.

The offspring of the first-born, Ishmael, are today’s Arabs. Those of the second-born, Isaac, are the Jews of today. And so both groups believe that the land between the Nile and the Euphrates rivers was given to them by the Lord God through the covenant made by God with their common father, Abraham.

That’s the problem with a covenant. Once it is initiated by the Lord God, it cannot be broken. Each time the Israelites wandered away from the path on which they had started with Abraham, each time they were going astray, the Lord God sent a prophet to them: one who spoke on behalf of the Lord God, to call them back to the path, to their relationship with one another.
● A prophet like Moses, who led them from slavery to freedom in their Exodus from Egypt to the land of Canaan.
● Or a prophet like Elijah, who spoke to the Israelites when they thought of turning away from the Lord God to follow false gods, the Baals. It was this Moses and this Elijah we read about in today’s gospel:
● Moses, the one who heard the commandments of the Lord God and conveyed this renewed covenant to the Israelites in the desert
● And Elijah, the major prophet of the desert who was taken up to heaven in a fiery chariot until he would re-appear at the beginning of the new age of the Messiah.

They stood with Jesus there on the mountain where they discussed the new Exodus, the new journey, the new Passover to occur in Jerusalem. Exactly what they discussed about the Passion of Christ, about his suffering, is not given in today’s reading. But we do know that the Lord God, himself, acknowledged what they said, when the voice from heaven proclaimed: “This is my chosen Son; listen to him.”

And so began the final renewal of the covenant initiated by the Lord God. This new covenant made through Jesus the Christ. This new covenant confirmed through the Pascal Mystery: the life, the suffering, the death and the resurrection of Jesus the Christ, the Messiah, the Anointed One, the Chosen One.

At each and every mass, we hear the words spoken by Jesus some two thousand years ago, when the celebrant elevates the chalice and says: “Take this, all of you, and drink from it: this is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of me.”

The covenant initiated by God with Abraham, renewed with Moses, has been brought to fulfillment through Jesus the Christ. The covenant for the chosen people of God has now been expanded to include “all” – everyone. Everyone has been saved and forgiven by the blood of Christ, now and forever. The Exodus, the journey begun by Abraham when he went from the Ur of the Chaldeans to Canaan, the Exodus led by Moses from Egypt to that same Holy Land, is ending with the Exodus, the journey to Jerusalem made by Jesus the Christ.

But it has not yet been completed. Not quite. All of us are still on that journey. Saint Paul in his letter to the citizens of Philippi reminded them, and us, that: “… our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we also await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ. He will change our lowly body to conform with his glorified body “

Yes, Peter, John and James saw the Transfiguration of Christ, the glory of the Son of God that would result from the New Covenant made in his blood. But we, too, must change; must conform ourselves to his body and blood. In the days ahead of us, in the weeks of this Lent, in all the time left to each of us, we are to conform ourselves to Christ. We are to set aside our hatreds, our prejudices: all those things that prevent us from forgiving, accepting and loving all others. We are to practice the ancient acts of prayer, fasting and almsgiving.
● We are to take time to be with God.
● We are to put aside the distractions of this secular world.
● We are to help those less fortunate.
● We are to join him on his journey in and toward the Kingdom.

It is not essential whether we hear about him in ancient Aramaic or Hebrew; in ancient Greek or Latin; or in modern English or Spanish, so long as we recall the words spoken on the mountain: “This is my chosen son; listen to him.”

Second Sunday of Lent; March 7, 2004
Gn 15:5-12, 17-18; Phil 3:17-4:1; Lk 8:28b-36

Well, yesterday was St Patrick’s Day and tomorrow the Italians have their turn with St Joseph’s Day, so you might expect I have a question about leprechauns or shamrocks or a St Joseph’s table; but I don’t. Instead, I have a question about Lent. After all, this is the Third Sunday of Lent. In only three more weeks we’ll be at Palm Sunday and the beginning of Holy Week. And so, I have a mid-Lent question for you. My question is this: “Are you bored with Lent?”

Are you bored with not eating between meals? You thought you might lose a little weight in the process; but you haven’t. Or are you bored with going without desserts or alcohol? You thought maybe you should suffer a little bit during Lent; but when the opportunity was presented, you gave in. Or maybe you tried to give up a bad habit: like smoking, or cussing; but you really don’t feel any better and you’re bored with the effort it takes. Or maybe you have tried to form a good habit: like being part of our Disciples in Mission Program; but it doesn’t seem as if you’re making much progress in becoming part of the group and you’re bored with doing the preparation each week.

You’ve even tried praying every day; but somehow, the holy feeling you were hoping for; well, it just isn’t there. And so Lent has become boring. Or perhaps it’s not Lent you’re bored with. Perhaps, it’s life, in general! Are you bored with life?

One day is very much like the one before it and no doubt, much like the one tomorrow. You get up in the morning and you feel as if you never really went to bed. It will be the same old stuff at work, today. The same old boring meals. Preparing them; eating them; cleaning up afterwards.

You think back on the good old days: days of your youth, when things were more exciting; when you felt more alive. Except. Except the teenager sitting beside you is just as bored. It’s the same old classes. The same old gossip of who is seeing who, or who has broken up with who. Nothing really new; no really good stuff. Everything is – b-o-r-e-i-n-g.

On the other hand, a lot of business is based on us being bored. Advertisers know how bored we are, and they tell us: all we need to do is buy something new. A new, different kind of car, maybe a truck. Something that will add new “zing” to our life. Maybe a new breakfast cereal or a new, improved laundry product that will add brightness to all the pretty and delicate things we wear. Things we wear. Maybe I should go out and buy some new clothes. After all, Easter is coming. And everyone buys new clothes for Easter. Maybe some shopping will get me out of my boredom.

Or maybe it’s not that I’m bored with Lent or bored with life. Maybe, just maybe, I’m bored with God! What I really want is a “burning bush experience.” Like the one Moses had; the one we heard about in our first reading. With that kind of experience, I would never be bored again. If only I could see God, like Moses did; hear the voice of God, like Moses did. If only I knew what God wanted of me, like Moses did. Then I would not be bored with life; let alone, Lent.

Yes, that’s what I really want out of Lent but haven’t gotten. I’ve wanted a burning bush experience of God and I haven’t had one. Here it is: the Third Sunday of Lent and nothing has changed; nothing has happened. And so, like a good secular Catholic, I tell myself: well, maybe I haven’t worked at it hard enough.

After all, if I’m bored with life, I’m told to try something new; buy something new; start something new. If I don’t want to be bored, I have to start a new project. So maybe I won’t be bored with Lent or bored with God, if I start a new religious-type project. Maybe I should do more for other people. Maybe I should start helping to build houses for the homeless? Or maybe help out in soup kitchens down in the poor sections of Houston?

Maybe I should pray harder. Maybe I should tell God more often how much I love him and rely upon him.
● Maybe then – I’ll start to feel good.
● Maybe then – I’ll start to feel that God is in my life.
● Maybe then – I’ll find God.
● Maybe then – I’ll find that burning bush.
● Maybe if I search harder, do more, I can find it like Moses did.

But there is only one problem with that. Moses wasn’t searching for any burning bush. Rather, the burning bush was searching for Moses. All Moses had to do was see it there before him. After all, Moses was doing what he had been doing every day of his life for the last forty years. He was wandering in the desert, tending not his own flock but taking care of the sheep owned by his father-in-law. It was then he saw something different, something that broke into his boredom of hot days and cold nights in the desert.

When he saw that strange sight, he could have walked away. But being bored there in the desert, he approached the burning bush to see what was going on. He did not expect to encounter the God of Abraham, of Isaac, of Jacob. Certainly, he did not expect to meet, face-to-face, with anyone called: “I am who am.”

Moses wasn’t searching for God. Instead, he found the burning bush that God placed in front of him. And maybe, just maybe, there is a “burning bush” right now in front of me. Maybe the Lord God is waiting right now for me to approach the holy ground on which he waits; but I am too pre-occupied with my daily boredom, the routine tending of my flock, of my daily responsibilities, to really notice my own burning bush.

So what should I do? Perhaps I need to think less about a burning bush and more about a poor fig tree. In today’s gospel, Jesus told his friends a parable about a fig tree. He spoke of an impatient man who wanted to uproot a fig tree that merely took up space in his garden; a tree that produced no fruit; that was apparently good for nothing. A boring, little fig tree. But then his gardener, the one who cared for and loved the trees and vines and plants that grew in the garden, his gardener advised him that perhaps a bit of nurturing would help. Nurturing, continuing to provide the essentials of life and waiting. With nurturing, the little fig tree might blossom and bear fruit.

Maybe, I need to be like both the gardener and the tree he tends. Maybe I need to nurture and allow myself to be nurtured. But how do I do that?

Do that? Perhaps by doing less; by searching less; and relaxing more. Maybe I need to learn how to float, to float with God. Do you remember learning to float? Most people learn to float when they’re kids. But I didn’t grow up near any lakes or oceans. Back then there weren’t neighborhood swimming pools. So, I was in my twenties before I learned how to float.

When you’re an adult and learning how to do it, you think you need to be an “active” floater; that you need to do something to keep from sinking. But what you really need to do is – relax. Relax and let the water carry you. The more you struggle, the more you sink. Yes, there are slight movements of the hands and feet; but nothing major. The less you do, the better you float.

Floating is creative boredom. It is doing nothing active but allowing the water to comfort you; allowing yourself to become one with the water around you. Praying is like that. Praying is floating with God. It’s not what I say; but rather, it’s being quiet and just listening – listening to the silence – until God speaks, speaks from the burning bush.

Praying is becoming fully aware of life …
● It is seeing: really seeing the blossoming trees or the birds in flight across a cloudless sky.
● It is feeling: feeling the morning fog.
● It is touching: touching the hand of a friend; or the lips of a loved one touching you. ● It is hearing: hearing the sounds of bells on the wind or the giggles of children.
● It is smelling: taking in the aroma of incense during a Lenten mass.

And in the process, becoming part of the burning bush that God places before me. The burning bush I do not search for. The one he gives me. A burning bush that once was a boring, little fig tree but with nurturing; with loving care given by me, by others, and by God, grows beyond the cross to become the tree of everlasting life.

Third Sunday of Lent; March 18, 2001
Ex 3:1-8a, 13-15; 1 Cor 10:1-6, 10-12; Lk 13:1-9

Today’s question is another easy one. How many of you enjoy watching reruns? How many of you have seen the same episode of “Law and Order” or one of the various “CSI” productions more than once? Mainly when you couldn’t find anything else of interest on the usual channels.

When we watch a rerun, we often know how it’s going to end, especially after the first few minutes – while we’re trying to remember the plotline. And when we do recall the next scene, it allows us to focus on other things we might have missed the first time around. That’s the advantage of reruns. They allow us to focus on elements we might have missed during our first exposure.

For almost every one of us, today’s gospel reading is a rerun. I doubt if there are any here today who have not heard the parable of the Prodigal Son at least once before in your life. For many of us, it’s considerably more than once. And so, when we hear the opening lines, we know exactly how it’s going to end. Many of us could probably tell the story, almost verbatim, to someone else. We know that it’s a parable about reconciliation, about a reunion of a father and a wandering son. About returning home. Actually, all three readings for today have the same theme: reconciliation, reunion, returning home.

In our first reading from the Book of Joshua we heard how the Israelites finally reached Canaan, following their Exodus from Egypt. Having completed their last Passover of the Exodus, they now ate of the yield of the Promised Land and no longer depended on manna from heaven. They had returned home to begin a new life.

Paul in his letter to the Corinthians also spoke of a new life, a new creation in which God has reconciled us to himself through Christ and given us the ministry of reconciliation. It is through Christ that we are reconciled with God, that we are reunited to him, that we have returned home to him.

And then there is, of course, the parable Jesus addressed to the Pharisees and scribes, those who complained about Jesus being reconciled with sinners with whom he dined. Jesus who dared to reconcile himself with tax collectors who gathered money on behalf of the perceived enemy, the Roman Empire.

Jesus spoke about the young man who recognized the errors of his ways and desired to return home. A young man who had demanded his share of his inheritance from his still-living father. And now, in a time of disastrous results, he wanted to return to the life he once had, even if it meant that he must now work as a servant and not enjoy his former place as the favorite, younger son.

This young man is not unlike many of us today. Is there not one of us who wishes, to some extent or another, to return to a place of comfort which we lost through our own errors, our own failures? Have I not wished from time to time, that real life could be like a computer game in which, when I have failed to accomplish what I set out to do, I could hit the re-boot button and start again without any penalties?

However, in Jesus’ parable, the young man did not desire to re-start his life. He did not want to begin where he had left off before everything went bad. He merely wanted to be forgiven. He was willing to accept any conditions necessary in order to be reunited with his family.

And then there is his father, the one who knew immediately that his returning son was repentant, that he was, indeed, sorry for his actions, for his errors that had led to his failures. The father, who rushed out to meet the returning son. The father who desired to celebrate his son’s return. The father who wanted to have a tremendous banquet to celebrate their reconciliation, their reunion.

And then there is the elder brother, the one who had no desire for reconciliation. The one who wanted a continuing revenge for the perceived injuries to his own pride. The one who had always, without any hesitation, been loved by their father. Yet he remained the resentful brother, who like the Pharisees, was jealous of the interaction of the always-loving father with those who, having been lost, desired to change and to return home.

When we hear this story, there are those among us who become the younger son. Those who recognize that through our own demands and actions we have injured ourselves and others. Those who are estranged from themselves, from their co-workers, from their friends or from their family. Those who are contrite about what they have done or failed to do in their own relationships; and now seek reconciliation within themselves, or with others, or with God.

There may also be among us those who, having been hurt by someone we once loved, now seek only a continuation of the hurt. There are those who, like the elder brother … and the scribes and Pharisees … desire revenge rather than reunion. There are those in our society who seek continuing abandonment of those who have offended us by supposedly squandering the resources generously allotted to them.

Here in the middle of the journey we call Lent, each of us knows what time and talents we, ourselves, have squandered; what treasures we have mis-spent. We know which gifts God, our Father, has given us. Gifts we, ourselves, have lost or wasted. We know what broken relationships need to be mended. Here in the middle of this journey of Lent, we are, once more, given the opportunity to recall how we have become estranged from our own selves, from others, and from God. How we now desire to make amends. How we are contrite, sorry for what we have allowed to happen. How we desire reconciliation.

It is through Christ that we, in the words of Paul, have been given “the ministry of reconciliation” and entrusted with the “message of reconciliation.” A feast of reunion, of reconciliation, awaits each one of us. An Easter banquet awaits each of us. But first, we need to begin our homeward journey. Now is the time to stop watching reruns of our own lives and race towards a reunion, a reconciliation with our own self, with others, and with God, our forgiving Father.

Fourth Sunday of Lent; March 18, 2007
Jos 5:9a, 10-12; 2 Cor 5:17-21; Lk 15:103, 11-32

I have a celestial question for you. How many of you have seen Halley’s comet? How many believe it’s really out there? As you might guess, today’s reflection Is not about comets; but it is about seeing and believing. However, it’s not a matter of seeing and then believing. Rather it’s a question of: what do I believe without seeing? Or more specifically, what do I believe about an empty tomb and the man it once held.

Last Sunday, Easter Sunday, the gospel reading was about that empty tomb. Now, currently, it’s a week later, but our gospel reading for today begins on the evening of Easter Sunday when the disciples were gathered together, frightened, confused, excited. You might close your eyes and imagine what it was like back then.

Can you feel the tension in the air? Some of the women said they saw Jesus this morning. Yet maybe, they didn’t see him. It’s true the tomb is empty. Anyone can see that. But where is his body? Who could have taken it? What about that story Cleopas told us: how Jesus met the two of them on the way to Emmaus, but they didn’t recognize him until he had broken bread with them. How would you react if suddenly in the midst of this confusion, Jesus stood there and said: “Shalom, peace be with you”?

But you weren’t there: and neither was I. And neither was Thomas. That is really what our reflection is to be about today: what does Thomas have to tell me about who I am and, more importantly, who I am called to be? What can I learn from Thomas about courage and about belief? Usually Thomas is referred to as “doubting” Thomas, a name with a very negative image. Yet, I see Thomas in a more positive light. In fact, there are times when I wish I were more like Thomas. Why do I say that? Well, let’s take a closer look at him.

In the first place, Thomas could not be forced into believing. He could not be told by others what to think! Thomas stood up for his own beliefs. It took courage for him to stand up to the other disciples and not accept what they had told him. After all, they had been friends for many months now. They had seen the master perform many wonders. Wouldn’t it have been easier for Thomas to agree that the Lord was risen? Surely, Thomas should have accepted what his friends told him. After all, don’t I accept whatever my friends tell me!

Unlike Thomas, how many times am I afraid to say what I really believe for fear of not being accepted, for fear of being rejected? How many times do I allow things to happen I know are wrong, because I lack the courage to speak out? How often am I afraid to express my opinion, because it is not the same as what my friends say? How often do I even fail to make a decision, because I don’t want to annoy others? Even in small things. Karen asks me whether I want to go to a Mexican or a Chinese restaurant and I say “I don’t care. Whatever you want is fine.”

How easy it is to remain silent when I hear people putting someone down in a joke, because of their race or sex or age. How easy It is not to say anything about how something should be done until after it’s done and then become annoyed because it wasn’t done my way. Yes, there are many times I wish I were more like Thomas who had the courage to tell his closest friends: “I cannot accept what you are saying just because it is you who say it.”

There is another time when Thomas also showed his courage. The very first time we hear him speak in John’s gospel. And it was on a similar occasion. He was with Jesus and the other disciples when they heard the devastating news that Lazarus was sick unto death. Before they left for Bethany to go to Mary and Martha and Lazarus, there had been a heated discussion about the meaning of the journey. The other disciples didn’t want Jesus to go near Jerusalem for fear the Jews would kill him. But finally, Jesus told them that Lazarus was dead and that he must go back for their
sakes so that the disciples, themselves, would believe in him.

It was at that moment that “… Thomas said to his fellow disciples, let us go along, to die with him.” It’s this response that makes me think that Thomas had the courage of his convictions at all times. It’s also this story about Lazarus that prepares us for what happens in today’s gospel reading when Thomas finally did see Jesus. And that is the most Important part of today’ s story. Thomas has much to tell us about belief as well as about courage.

Thomas, along with the other disciples, had already seen someone raised from the dead. Thomas had seen Jesus call Lazarus from the tomb. For Thomas, there should have been no difficulty in accepting that Jesus, too, had returned from the dead. Yet, Thomas did hold back. Somehow, he seemed to sense that if Jesus had returned, it was not quite like what had happened to Lazarus. Thomas had seen the nails being driven into those hands and the lance piercing the side of his friend. He said he wanted to probe those holes with his own finger, with his own hand. Now, he was being given the opportunity to do just that, to poke his own finger into the holes, to thrust his hand into the hole made by the lance. But he did not! Instead, when he saw Jesus he cried out: “My Lord and my God.”

The story we heard today is not about a doubting Thomas, but rather about a believing Thomas. We do not know what the other disciples said or what they believed when they saw the risen Jesus, but we do know exactly what Thomas said and what he believed. This was no re-animated corpse returned from a tomb. This man was not like Lazarus. For Thomas, the person he experienced could be described only as “My Lord and my God.”

Perhaps it was at that moment that Thomas remembered what his friend had told him during the last meal they had shared. You see, there are three times when Thomas speaks in John’s gospel. One of those times occurred during the last supper. Jesus had just told them: “In my father’s house there are many dwelling places … I am indeed going to prepare a place for you, and then I shall come back to take you with me, that were I am you also may be. You know the way that leads where I go.” “Lord”, said Thomas, “We do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” Jesus told him: “I am the way. And the truth. And the life. No one comes to the Father but through me. If you really knew me, you would know my Father also. From this point on you know him: you have seen him.”

Could it be that upon seeing Jesus in that room, Thomas remembered his words and was able to cry out in his total belief: “My Lord and my God.” For me, Thomas is not the doubter but the true believer. Yet, he is more than that. Thomas is always called “the twin”. This raises the question: who is his twin? Who is the other part of Thomas? I believe each of us is the twin. I am his twin. You are his twin. Perhaps each of us needs to be more like our twin. Perhaps, like Thomas, I need to remember how I have experienced his presence. For while it is true that I have not seen him with my eyes, I have experienced him in my life, in those around me, and in my self.

Like Thomas, I continue to seek. To ask questions. And also like Thomas, I need to recognize I must go beyond the facts, beyond the holes I want to probe so I can reach the signs, themselves. I must see beyond the appearance of bread and wine to reach his body and blood. I must see beyond the rags of the poor and the wounds of the suffering to reach the Christ within each person.

I have not seen Halley’s comet: yet I accept that it is there. I will not be able to see it the next time it comes: yet, I accept that it will return. If I can accept all this on the word of others and of my own understanding of nature, is it not also possible for me to accept the words of others and my understanding of God? Within my heart, can I not see the empty tomb and know that he is, risen. That he is with me now? Questions about comets are less important than a final question: What does it take for us to cry out with Thomas, the believer: “My Lord and my God!”?

Second Sunday of Easter; April 6, 1986
Acts 5:12-16; Rev 1:9-11, 12-13, 17-19; Jn 20:19-31

Have you ever walked up a set of stairs backwards? Most of you would probably claim that you haven’t. I admit, it would be a strange sight. There are other things we try to do backwards in our lives that are almost as strange. This reflection is about one of them: we so often try to find joy, by walking backwards. We try climbing to greater heights by looking backwards. This is why I wanted you to think for a moment about trying to climb a flight of stairs backwards. The focus for today’s reflection is about the correct way to walk up those stairs; how to reach the joy which awaits us at the top of the stairs.

A week ago we celebrated the joy of Easter, the joy of the risen Christ. The question is: Do you still feel that joy? For some, it may be another question: Have I ever truly felt the joy of Easter? For many of us this is the season of new beginnings. Spring is associated with birth, with new buds and flowers. With happiness. But for others, we look around us and all we can really say is “April fool!” We can be caught up not by the joy of blue skies and pink azaleas but rather by fears and doubts.

Fears and doubts are all around us. When you think about our national economy, are you concerned about how safe your money is in your bank? If you leave your house, are you afraid some teenagers will come into your home looking for easy items to carry off so they can support their drug addiction? At the same time, are you really all that comfortable when you think of the next air trip you must take? Will it be sky-jacked by terrorists? Will there be a bomb in the cargo compartment? Will the wings fall off even if there are no terrorist attempts? Our modern life is filled with fears and doubts. It can be difficult, indeed, to retain any level of joy about anything, let alone a joy about the risen Christ.

Some two thousand years ago, in a large city in the Middle East, a group of peasants were huddled together. These fishermen, tax collectors and reformed women of the streets were gathered behind locked doors. They did not worry about money in the bank. They were not concerned about having their meager possessions stolen. Their friend and companion had been killed by the authorities. Every sound in the street below made them uneasy. Like many people in Latin America or in Africa or the Middle East of today, these men and women feared for their own lives; that they would be the next ones to be taken out, given a mock trial, and put to death.

We know the story so well. We have heard it so often. How, suddenly, Jesus stood in their midst. Can we really imagine the madness, the turmoil of that meeting? How would you react if a loved one who had died, suddenly entered your dining room late at night? I don’t think your first response would be joy. Mine would be outright fear. Is it no wonder that the first words Jesus spoke were: “Peace be with you.” Jesus, who knew his friends so well, gave immediate comfort to them. It is then, with his peace upon them and in him, that they could set aside their fears and now rejoice. Their fear became peace. Their peace became their joy. And that is the way to climb the stair. One needs to begin with peace. Only then can anyone find joy.

It sounds so easy, doesn’t it: from peace comes joy. Yet it is so difficult to do. It calls for further reflection. It calls for Thomas and the second week. Again you know the story. You heard it once more, only a few minutes ago: how Thomas was not there when Jesus first appeared to the other disciples. How he doubted what they had to tell him about the appearance of their master. How Thomas wanted direct physical proof of the risen Jesus.

The story goes on. “A week later, the disciples were once more in the room, and this time Thomas was with them. Despite the locked doors, Jesus came and stood before them.” I ask you, did you notice that the doors were locked the second time Jesus came to them? We sometimes like to think that once Jesus appeared and had breathed upon them, the disciples became fearless. But it didn’t work out that way. They were still in fear. The doors were still locked. The joy of last week had dissipated. They were right back where they were before he had come to them.

Perhaps we can take heart from this observation. We may have been caught up in the joy of Easter last week. We hoped that this joy would continue to be with us. Now a week after Easter, all that remains are stale jelly beans and a few broken bits of a chocolate bunny. The true joy of meeting the risen Christ has melted away. It would seem that the disciples may have suffered the same post-Easter reaction. When Jesus left them, they began to leave him, again.

And so we return to Thomas. To a friend of Jesus. A friend who needed proof. When Jesus did appear, when Thomas did see him, Thomas did not need to touch his hands and his side. Merely upon seeing him, Thomas’s immediate response was: “My Lord and my God.” His belief led to peace and his peace became joy. That is the way to climb the stairs.

Like Thomas, we need to work on our doubts and our fears. When I am joyous it is easy for me to have no doubts and fears. What I struggle to remember is that post-resurrection joy can be very fleeting. The joy of Christ’s salvation comes from my peace; and my peace comes from my faith in his goodness. His resurrection joy is not a magical gift he bestows. The gifts he gives are rather the gifts of faith, of trust, of hope. From these come his peace; and from his peace, comes the joy of Easter.

His followers learned that trust and hope, faith and belief are essential. The conclusion of today’s reading and that of John’s gospel from which this reading is taken says: “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 order to believe, humans have always demanded signs and wonders. Our first reading from the Acts of the Apostles begins by saying: “Through the hands of the apostles, many signs and wonders occurred among the people.” It goes on: “The people carried the sick into the streets and laid them on cots and mattresses, so that when Peter passed by, at least his shadow might fall on one or another of them.”

Yet, these same people still had their fears. This same reading tells how the disciples gathered now in public at the place in the temple called “Solomon’s portico”. Yet, it goes on to say: “no one else dared to join them, despite the fact that the people held them in great esteem.” Even signs and wonders do not eradicate fear. The people came for cures but were still afraid to appear in public with the followers of the risen Christ. Once more it would seem that only trust drives out fear. That belief leads to peace. And from this peace, comes joy. It is not, however, signs and wonders which lead us to trust and to believe. Rather it is the help of others. I began by asking if you have ever climbed a set of stairs backwards. Your first response probably was that you would never do anything as silly as that. Yet many of us have tried to do just that: walk up a flight of stairs backwards – while holding onto a bulky piece of furniture, with a friend down below, holding onto the other end.

When I have done that, I trust that the friend will not let go of the furniture. That I will be guided carefully by my friend. I trust my friend will help me and not cause me to move too fast or too slow. Often, however, I don’t climb backwards with my load. Instead, I turn around so I can see where I am going. Even then, if I should turn around and carry my load behind me, I trust that my friend who helps me carry my load is still with me. I continue to trust, to believe in my friend even when I can’t see him. I know he’s still there, with me; helping me to reach the top of the stairs. Somehow, as you climb your own stairs to reach the joy that awaits you, you believe your friend is right there with you, every step of the way.

Second Sunday of Easter; April 2, 1989
Acts 5:12-16; Rev 1:9-11, 12-13, 17-19; Jn 20:19-31

For today’s question I’d invite you to complete a well-known saying. At least I think it’s well-known. The saying I’d like you to complete begins like this: “It ain’t over until … ‘’ or if you prefer the full version: “The opera ain’t over until …”

That’s right. “…until the fat lady sings.” “It ain’t over until the fat lady sings.” Have you ever wondered where that saying comes from? I was sure it had something to do with Kate Smith, who always ended her programs by singing “God Bless America.” (How many of you remember Kate Smith?) Or maybe it had something to do with the idea that every opera seems to end with a rotund soprano singing a song, while undergoing a long death scene.

Well, to be sure, I asked our daughter, who is a reference librarian at the San Antonio public library. She knew the answer even without checking; but she found a written reference anyway, in a book entitled: “Nice Guys Finish Seventh.” The saying about the “fat lady” is usually attributed to Dick Motta, a basketball coach who used it in the late seventies about the Washington Bullets. But he got it from Dan Cook, a San Antonio sportscaster, which is why our daughter knew who should be credited with the expression.

However, when she did her research, she found the original saying goes back to the early fifties and central Louisiana where it was said: “Church ain’t out ‘till the fat lady sings.” Now fortunately, things are a little bit different here at Christ the Good Shepherd. But the basic question is still valid: if not about church and operas, it’s still valid about life in general.

How do you know when a major event is over? Or getting around to today’s gospel reading: how do you know when Easter is over? And what happens now? Peter had this problem. How do you know when everything that really matters in life is now over? Completed. Finished. And then what?

For Peter, he thought that everything was over on that cold night when he stood warming his hands at the bonfire in the courtyard of the high priest. It was then that he had denied knowing his friend, and his Lord, not once, but three times. He had denied his friend and left him to die on the cross. He had run away. Surely, for Peter, everything had ended. There could be nothing worse. But there was.

It happened when Mary Magdalene came running back with the news that the tomb where they had buried Jesus was now empty. Someone had stolen his body. When Peter, himself, peered into the empty tomb, he was sure it was now over. All the dreams of the kingdom had vanished away there in the empty tomb. Now Peter was positive that everything had truly ended.

But then there was that evening in the upper room, when it seemed that perhaps it was not yet over. That evening when Jesus suddenly appeared among them even though the doors had been locked. And a week later when Jesus appeared for the second time.

But then there was nothing more. Jesus had not returned again. Everything was, indeed, over. And so Peter and his fishermen friends returned north to Galilee and the sea where it had all begun. They returned to do what they had always done. To fish. To carry on where they had so abruptly left off when they heard that first call of Jesus. Here on the sea, they might be able to forget all that might have been, to forget dreams of the Kingdom of God. Until …

Until that daybreak when they heard another voice calling to them in the morning mist. When in the light of the rising sun, they recognized their Lord who now invited them to another meal, a breakfast of fish and of broken bread. Yet, Peter found that it was still not over. His friend asked him a question: the most important question that anyone could ask: “Do you love me?” And Peter replied: “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.” And Jesus said: “Feed my lambs.”

It was still not over. A second time, the same question was asked: “Do you love me?” And the same answer given: ”Yes, lord, you know that I love you.” And Jesus said: “Tend my sheep.” And it was still not over. A third time, the same question, the same response. And the same command: “Feed my sheep.”

Perhaps it was then that Peter realized it is not enough merely to say: “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.” It is not enough merely to speak the words. Now he knew it is time to demonstrate that love. Now is the time to carry on the work that Jesus had started. Now is the time to realize that the task Jesus started is never “over.” Our journey into the kingdom is never completed. That to love Jesus means that we must feed his lambs, tend his sheep.

Now is the time for us to recall that the last words spoken by Jesus the Lord in today’s gospel are these: “Follow me.” Now is the time to recall that it is not over until we hear: “… the voices of every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and in the sea; everything in the universe singing …. To the one seated on the throne, and to the lamb, be praise and honor, glory and might, for ever and ever!” And to this, our only possible response is: … so be it … “Amen.”

Third Sunday of Easter; April 26, 1998
Acts 5:27-32, 40-41; Rev 5:11-14; Jn 21:1 -19

Today’s question is a catechetical one. It comes from both the old “Baltimore Catechism” and the new “Catechism of the Catholic Church.” It’s this: What are the three theological virtues? What are the three major graces given to us by God? Yes, they are, of course: faith, hope and charity (or love). Faith, hope, and love are the three gifts we heard about in our three readings for today. Faith, a gift which relates to our past, Hope, a gift for our future, and Love, a gift for our present.

Our first reading is from Luke’s Acts of the Apostles. Luke writes about the past, about what the apostles Paul and Barnabas did on their missionary journeys. He wrote about how they exhorted new Christians, new disciples of Christ “… to persevere in the faith” given to them. In today’s reading, Luke recalled how Paul and Barnabas appointed elders in each of the communities, the churches, they established and how they “… commended them to the Lord in whom they had put their faith.” Luke recalled how, when Paul and Barnabas returned to Antioch, the founding home of the first Christians, how these two apostles “… reported what God had done with them and how he had opened the door of faith to the gentiles.”

And what is this “door of faith” opened by God, this gift of God given to us in the virtue called faith? To have faith is to believe that God exists, that this God is good, that all God has given us is good, that all of creation is good. It is through the gift of faith that we read our salvation history and know that God is our origin: God is our past.

And it is through the gift, the virtue of hope, we believe we know with our entire being that God is also our future. The Father who created us has sent us the Holy Spirit to lead us into the future and this future is good, no matter how difficult the past might seem. The kingdom of God is our destiny.

We, and the early Christians, heard about this future hope in our second reading from John’s book of Revelation. We heard how the sea, the chaos of the present world, would be no more. We heard how the Jerusalem of Israel, the most holy place on this earth for those first Christians, would be no more. Instead, there would be a “new Jerusalem,” a new city of beauty, of stability, and of light: a light emanating from the Lamb of God, himself. And in this city, God would dwell alongside its residents. In this new city, God “… will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and there shall be no more death or mourning, wailing or pain, for the old order has passed away.”

But what about the present? This time when chaos still exists, when there is still death and mourning, when there is still wailing and pain. Still there are tears. How do we survive in this present between the time of the faith of the first Christians until the time of the hope for the “new Jerusalem?”

The answer, the only answer, comes in our gospel reading. God has gifted us not only with faith and hope but, most importantly, with the gift of love. And it is a special kind of love. Love for one another. Jesus spoke these words to his disciples, his friends and to us: “As I have loved you, so you also should love one another. This is how all will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

“Love for one another.” This love makes the present tolerable. This love allows us to wait in hope for the new Jerusalem. “Love one another as I have loved you.” But what kind of love did Jesus, himself, practice? Just how are we to love one another?

Given that this weekend we celebrate Mother’s Day, I would suggest that perhaps the love of a mother for her child is much like the love of Jesus for his friends. With maternal love, one loves the offspring for who the child is and not for who the child will become. Not for what you do, or will do, for me. Not for what you have done or have accomplished; but rather that you exist, merely that you are. Maternal love says: I love you because you have been an intimate part of me and yet you are now your own person.

Nurturing love, maternal love, promotes growth and independence; yet it has a concern about separation and potential harm to the beloved. It is both a protecting love and a releasing love. Maternal love both embraces and yet it frees one from bondage.

The love Jesus gave to his friends, and to us, is love with forgiveness. It is love which exists even when the lover knows that the beloved is less than what the beloved is capable of being. Jesus showed us from his cross that forgiveness is not approval of what is wrongly done so much as it is loving someone without considering what the person has done wrong. Love with forgiveness is starting over, time after time, without harboring feelings of ill-will about the past.
It is with this kind of love that Christians are to await the coming of the “new Jerusalem.” It is with the faith, hope and love of a mother for her child that we live out the new commandment, the new order: “Love one another – as I have loved you.”

Fifth Sunday of Easter; May 9, 2004 (Mothers’ Day)
Acts 14:21-27; Rev 21:1-5a; Jn 13:31-33a, 34-35

Today’s question is really not so much a question as it is a request for you to use your imagination. For a moment, I would invite you to reflect on “peace.” What are your own, personal images of peace? For me, a personal image of peace is: floating on a rubber raft on warm gulf waters, looking up at the clouds drifting by. For someone else, it might be sitting on a warm rock on the side of a mountain, overlooking a green valley, far below. Or your personal image of peace might include sitting in the semi-darkness of a quiet church, seeing the glow of candles and praying, quietly.

For many of us, an image of peace would include tranquility, serenity, silence: a harmony of me with God. For others, peace would be seen as the absence of warfare or of other conflict. Peace would be a harmony of me and others, with other people. Yet we recognize how difficult it has always been to achieve this earthly peace. In our first reading for today from the Acts of the Apostles, we were reminded that the early Christian community had its own conflicts. We heard about how hard it was for them to set aside the teachings of Moses and put into practice the new teachings of Jesus.

To resolve the problem, it was necessary to have almost an “enforced” harmony. The message sent by the Council of Jerusalem was clear: the Holy Spirit and we have spoken, and this is the way we are going to do things. Is this what is meant by peace: the absence of conflict because each person is commanded to do the same thing? Or does peace, especially the peace of Christ, mean more than the absence of conflict, more than the warm fuzzies of tranquility, serenity and silence?

Today, as we approach Ascension Thursday and Pentecost, we are called, once more, to reflect on the “peace of Christ.” We are reminded that each one of us is offered the gift of the “peace of Christ.” But how can you have the “peace of Christ” when you are told you no longer have a job? How can you have any kind of peace when you learn that your son or daughter is into drugs? How can you be at peace while waiting for the doctor’s diagnosis? Where is the “peace of Christ” when you are sitting at the side of a dying friend? Where is the peace of Christ in Bosnia, in Africa, in the Middle East, in the heartland of the United States? It would seem that the peace of Christ is not found in the world’s peace, with all of its warfare and lack of tranquility, with all of it’s shrill cries. But rather, we need to seek the “peace of Christ” in the injunction: “fear not” and in the hope: “be not afraid.”

This quest to “be not afraid” is keenly expressed in a small, best-selling book written by pope John Paul II. The central theme of his book, entitled, “Crossing the Threshold of Hope,” is that of – “be not afraid”. He used this theme in his first homily delivered in 1978. What does it really mean: “be not afraid?”

For an answer, perhaps we need to begin with our own childhood. A major fear for every child is the fear of abandonment, of being deserted, of being left alone: unloved, unwanted. It is a fear that follows each of us throughout our lives. This fear of being left alone: motherless, fatherless, without a friend or companion was also felt two-thousand years ago by the disciples as they ate with Jesus during his final meal on earth. Jesus also recognized this fear among his friends, among those he loved, and so in today’s gospel reading we hear him give a gift to them, a gift we call “the peace of Christ.”

He said to them: “‘Peace’ is my farewell to you, my peace is my gift to you; I do not give it you as the world gives peace. Do not be distressed or fearful.” He then goes on to tell them that when he goes to the Father, he will send the Paraclete, the Holy Spirit, not to teach them anything new but rather, to remind them of all that he has already told them. Jesus, their friend, their Lord and master, would not abandon his friends. He will not, he has not, abandoned us. He has sent to us a counselor, a friend, an advocate: one who will guide us and instruct us and remind us. One who will walk with us, one who will help us to be not afraid.

On the night he was betrayed, he gave us the gift of his peace. This peace of Christ is not images of warm fuzzies. This peace of Christ is not even the absence of conflict. Rather the peace of Christ gives us the hope: be not afraid. Be not afraid when a job is lost; when trouble comes to a loved one. Fear not, when we are ill or when a loved one dies.

The peace of Christ accompanies us when we are true to the words of Christ and put into action his instructions to heal, to reconcile, to love. For in today’s reading we were also reminded: “Those who love me will keep my word … and my Father will love them …, and we will come to them … and make our home with them.” This, then, is the peace of Christ we wish to each person around us during our Eucharistic celebration: be not afraid, the Lord is with you.

At the beginning of the Easter season, we heard certain words that are still valid as we complete this season of Easter and continue our journey beyond his resurrection, our journey towards the New Jerusalem. When we entered this darkened church at Easter Vigil, we sang the words: “The light of Christ surrounds us; the love of Christ enfolds us; the power of Christ protects us; the presence of Christ watches over us.” Taken together this is, indeed, the peace of Christ, which says: be not afraid, I give you my peace: shalom.

Sixth Sunday of Easter; May 21, 1995
Acts 15:1-2, 22-29; Rev 21: 10-14, 22-23; Jn 14:23-29

My question for today has several possible answers, even though it’s a simple one. It’s this: During your entire life, how many graduations have you participated in? How many commencements have you seen? Given that this is the time for celebrations for young men and women who are leaving their high school or college years behind them, you might think that my question is prompted by these events. And of course, it is. But it’s also prompted by today’s gospel reading.

Although many of you have been, or will soon be, subjected to at least one graduation or commencement address, you may not recognize that we have just listened to an excerpt, an important excerpt at that, of a very special commencement address. It is the address that was Jesus’ final sermon, his final speech, given to his friends shortly before he left them.

At first you may not think it’s a graduation speech. But it really is. Like almost every other commencement speaker, Jesus reminds his listeners about the past, the times they spent together, and he prepares them for the future, the next step in their life-long journey. And that is, indeed, what a graduation, a commencement is all about. It is truly the stepping forth to a new life. It is the beginning of a new pathway. It is a change from what is known to a world that is unknown.

Perhaps, now, you would now like to change the answer to the question I asked. Perhaps you would agree with me that a graduation, a commencement, is more than completing high school or college. Rather, it marks a transition in your life. There are many transitions in our lives. Many new beginnings. Many times we have changed significantly.

Perhaps the first time is at our Baptism, when we became a Christian, whether as a child or an adult, when the Holy Spirit entered into us in a very special way. First Communion and Confirmation, both of which some of you have recently celebrated, mark other major changes when Christ and the Holy Spirit have again commenced a new life in us in very special ways.

But there are other transitions in our lives. For the young, it may be the transition from elementary school to middle school or from middle school to high school. And as we said, the usual transition from high school or from college. And with each change, there comes a series of questions: questions that are more important than the one I asked you a few minutes ago.

The questions which come with transitions are very scary questions. Questions like: what comes next? What happens now? All those scary questions about how do I change from a secure past to an unknown future? But these questions and the transitions, the changes, that cause them, go beyond high school and college commencement exercises of young adults.

For the “not-as-young,” for parents and other adults, there are transitions that may involve moving a household from one part of town to another, from one city to another. Whether you are preparing to leave Christ the Good Shepherd or are about to join us, there are all those uncertainties about the new place and how will it compare with the one you loved so much?

And whether or not you change the location of your home, there may be a change of employment or of economic status. Each of us hopes that the change will be a good one, that the job for which I interviewed will still be there when I’m ready to start working, that the company in which I have invested my time and energy will not explode like some dot-com but will continue to see my value and may even recognize I merit an increase in my salary.

For others, there are transitions involving relationships. This is the season for marriages, for young brides and grooms. Unfortunately, it may also be the season for separations and divorces. It is always the season for changes in relationships, of finding new lovers and beloveds, of losing old lovers and those we loved.

It is always the season for aging, for a transition from those who run daily to those who now jog weekly. For baby-boomers who deny that they are now eligible to be members of the AARP. For those of us who have retired from a particular career but not from an active life. It is always the season for dying, for passing from this life to the next. We are indeed, constantly undergoing a series of transitions until we make that final transition … and return home to a loving God.

But in the meantime, how do we look at the changes in our life. Or more importantly, how do we react to them? Do we reject them with fear? Or do we accept them with hope? Do we preserve the past and become attached to the world as it was? Or do we seek the future and participate in the world as it now is and is likely to become? These are not new questions. They’re evident in the three readings we heard today.

In the first reading from the Acts of the Apostles, we heard how there was dissension among the early followers of Christ. Part of the group wanted to follow all of the dictates of the Mosaic Laws and continue the rituals and dietary practices of the Jews while still accepting Jesus as the Messiah, the Chosen One of God. Others maintained that Christ had died and had risen from the dead in order to free them from such rituals and practices. And so a meeting was held in Jerusalem and a message sent by the apostles to the Christians of Antioch. However, all of the conflict did not end. There were those who continued to hold firm to the past and were reluctant to change.

We get another glimmer of these attitudes in the reading we heard from the Book of Revelation. We, again, heard about the New Jerusalem from heaven that would replace the old Jerusalem of earth. Yet this New Jerusalem continued to have gateways that depended on the past. The twelve gates to the new city are inscribed with the names of the twelve tribes of the Israelites, of the peoples who are the ancestors of all Christians. At the same time, this New Jerusalem is surrounded and defended by a wall with twelve levels of stonework and each level of this protecting wall bears the name of one of the apostles.

Although this New Jerusalem, the city in which we all aspire to live, although it has its historic ties to the Israelites and the apostles, it has no ritualistic temple of the past, but rather it has the lamb, itself. This city has no need for either artificial light nor the light of the sun and the moon, since its lamp is now the Lamb of God. The old remains, yet all is new. Events are in transition.

Yes, the early Christians suffered persecution as they changed from the way of their ancestors to the path of the risen Christ. They had their own problems with their transitions. And how did they handle them? How did they survive? The answer rests in the commencement address, the graduation speech delivered by Christ before he left his disciples. Let me read, once more, a few lines of what Jesus said to them: “Whoever loves me will keep my word, And my father will love him, And we will come to him and make our dwelling with him. … I have told you this while I am with you. The advocate, the Holy Spirit, Whom the Father will send in my name, Will teach you everything; And remind you of all that I told you. Peace I leave you, my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give it to you. Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid.”

“My peace I give to you.” Yes, we exchange these words at every Eucharistic celebration. But do we appreciate what we are being given? Some of us may say: but I am not really at peace. I feel weighed down by the changes in my life. I do not feel secure with the future. I want to stay where I am, to preserve what I know to be true. I do not want to give up the comforts I have known.

The disciples felt the same way. They did not want to hear Jesus tell them he was going away from them; that he was returning to the Father. And Jesus, understanding their fear, reassured them. It was his own peace, his own blessing, his own “shalom” that he gave them. His peace was not peace as the world understood it. It was not the peace of absolute harmony and tranquility. There would still be conflicts among them. They would still be physically hungry, cold and ill. They would still experience trials and tribulations.

Yet there is now a difference. Although Jesus would no longer be there to comfort them, he promised to send the Holy Spirit as the new comforter, the new guardian, the true advocate who would strengthen and defend them: the one who would teach them and remind them of all they had been taught.

Next Sunday, we will celebrate the Ascension of our Lord. We will celebrate the day when he physically left this world, left his followers, left us. And then, a week later we will celebrate Pentecost, the day when the Holy Spirit descended upon those he loved, descended upon us.

Yes, there are many graduations in our lives: times when we need to step forth from a secure life to a life of uncertainty. And yes, there are many commencements in our lives: times of new beginnings and of dramatic changes. But in each graduation, in each commencement we must continue to hear the words spoken by Jesus the Christ: “I send you the holy spirit. My peace I give to you. Be not afraid.”

Sixth Sunday of Easter; May 20, 2001
Acts 15: 1-2, 22-29; Rev 21:10-14, 22-23; Jn 14:23-29

Today’s question has no one, single answer. It’s a question each of us needs to ponder separately. The question is this: what do you think about when you hear the word “church?” Just what is a “church?” Now some of you may think about a particular structure, a building. Perhaps Christ the Good Shepherd. Or maybe in your mind, you see the image of a classical, little, white church in the country. Or maybe for you, the word “church” conveys a mind’s eye view of a Gothic Cathedral, like St Patrick’s in New York City. And yet, we all recognize that the word “church” means more than a building.

Sometimes we speak not of “a” church, but rather “the” church. We say this when we want to focus on the people who make up the church as a community, rather than as a building. If you’ve taken any adult education classes with me, you’ve heard me speak about the “ecclesia,” the gathering of the people. You may also have heard about different “models” of the church. Avery Dulles, a Jesuit priest and theologian who became a U.S. Cardinal, wrote a significant book on this subject, called “Models of the Church.”

He wrote it at a time when the major model, the major way of looking at the church, the people of God at the time of Vatican II, was that of the “institutional church.” Prior to Vatican II, the focus for the Roman Catholic Church was as an institution, one established by Christ, himself, as a hierarchy of clergy and laity. A gathering, perhaps, but one governed by the Pope through archbishops, bishops and priests. The function of the rest of the gathering was to pray and to obey.

Fr. Dulles said there are other ways to look at the church, the ecclesia, the gathering of the people. He proposed several alternate models. He proposed that, together, we make up a “mystical community.” By that, he didn’t mean some weird sort of mysticism, not a so-called “new age” gathering of people with wooly heads in some other universe. Rather he referred to an image going back to St Paul, in which all of us make up the mystical body of Christ, in which we are the members of his body with Christ as our head. It’s an image at the opposite end of the spectrum from that of an institutional church ruled by clergy with the laity as mere subjects.

Fr. Dulles proposed other “models” for consideration. He also saw the church as “sacrament.” The church is a visible sign of an invisible reality. As with all sacraments, the church confers grace, God’s gift of His love to a community of believers. But Fr. Dulles also cautioned that an over-reliance on this model could lead to a problem. It could create a community which was focused only on itself; one that saw no reason for an outreach to others who were not yet believers within the community.

So Fr. Dulles proposed another model, one he called “the church as Herald.” A herald in the ancient world was a man who proclaimed the message of the one who sends him forth. We, as church, under this model, are to proclaim the message of Christ. We are to proclaim that the Kingdom of God has begun. Many Christians incorporate this model when they say that to be saved, one must “believe in your heart and profess with your lips that Jesus Christ is your Lord and Savior.”

However, Fr. Dulles also pointed out that a reliance on this model of the church as Herald had its own limitations. For many people, the mission of the church is more than preaching about Jesus the Christ. It is more than just being his herald. For them, the mission of the church is becoming actively involved in serving others. And so, Fr. Dulles proposed a model of the church as “Servant of God.” In this model, you must put into practice what you preach. In this model, the church works for social justice and has a preferential treatment for the poor, the marginalized.

Of course, what Fr. Dulles concludes in his book is that there is no one, perfect model of the church. We can probably agree that the Catholic church indeed has elements of being an institutional church, with specific roles performed by one group that cannot be performed by another. We also, I think, acknowledge that the church is the mystical body of Christ with us as members of that body and Christ is our head. There are those who are called to be heralds and proclaim the message. There are those who are called to lives of service for others. The church means many things, has many roles for each of us.

Now some of you may be wondering why I’ve focused today on the models of the church. The church as institution, as sacrament, as mystical community, as herald and as servant. I’ve done this for several reasons. First of all there are the readings for today and for the next few Sundays to come, as we prepare for the completion of the Easter Season. Next week we celebrate the Ascension. And then Pentecost, the birthday of the church. For these Sundays, our first readings are taken from the Acts of the Apostles: those times when the followers of Christ first gathered together as a community, as a church.

Today we heard how the church grew beyond its Jewish origins, beyond its original dietary laws, so that it became the church of gentiles as well. It was in Antioch, you will recall, that our church, our gathering, became known as Christians. In today’s second reading we heard about the new Jerusalem, the new community come down from heaven, in which there is no temple structure: no building to contain the glory of God, but rather the whole city, the whole community, “had no need for sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God gave it light, and its lamp was the lamb.” Yes, the temple-limited God had become the city enlightened by Christ, himself.

And in our gospel reading we heard, once more, how upon returning to the Father – Jesus and his Father would send forth the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, to teach us everything and remind us of all that he had told us. So it seemed to me that today would be a good day to have us reflect on the models of the church, what analogies we might use to describe the church.

And in this light, there is another model I want to mention. It is an ancient model of the church which we also need to recall. Especially today, when we celebrate mothers’ day. How many of you recall the time when we spoke of the church as “Holy Mother Church?” And just what do we mean when we think of this model?
● Consider those mothers who gave us life. Who gave us our new breath. From whom we were born.
● Consider those mothers who nourished and nurtured us. Those who provided for our every want and need … even when we were obstinate and refused the love they offered.
● Consider those mothers who comforted us, who cradled and hugged away our tears and hurts.
● Consider those mothers who forgave us when we did things we should not have done. Those mothers who showered us with love and mercy we did not merit … that we need not earn.
● Consider those mothers we tend to take for granted, whom we honor only once or twice a year, when, in fact, we owe everything we are, or hope to be, to them.

Yes, these are the women whom we love and honor in a special way today … but really should love and honor every day. And so today, as we celebrate Mothers’ Day, a day dedicated to those women in our lives who have meant so much to us, I would also suggest that we take a moment to recall our debt of gratitude not only to them but to Holy Mother Church, as well. And remember the words spoken to us a few minutes ago: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give it to you. Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid.” May the peace of Christ be with you. May motherly love be with you. May our Holy Mother Church be with you.

Sixth Sunday of Easter; May 13, 2007 (Mothers’ Day)
Acts 15: 1-2, 22-29; Rev 21:10-14, 22-23; Jn 14:23-29