Why did I begin every homily with a question? Answer: I was never good at telling jokes or inspirational stories.
Fr. Bill Robertson, who taught homiletics to the deacons in my class – and was later my pastor at CGS – said the speaker had to grab the attention of his audience as quickly as possible. Most priests began with a joke, hopefully a religious one. Asking a question was one of the recommended methods for responding to this requirement of enticing the congregation at the outset of the sermon. Of course, one seldom gave a “sermon” after Vatican II. That form of address was too directive – with a focus on the beliefs of the preacher rather than upon the content of the scriptures which were to be “broken open.”
I was firmly taught, and agreed, the clergyman was to concentrate on the proclaimed Scripture and not on his own personal viewpoints relating to religion and society. I believed the best homily was the one listeners heard in their own heads and felt in their own hearts, rather than the one which came from the mouth and mind of the preacher. Over the thirty years during which I was an active homilist, I was continually amazed to hear from others that what I had thought I had focused on in my homily was not what they heard me say. I learned the direction in which I believed the Holy Spirit was leading me was, in fact, not the same as the one which the listener needed at that moment. The resulting difference often surprised me, but I did not question its validity. After all, many questions have more than one answer.
I was equally amused that those attending the liturgy at which they knew I would be the homilist, frequently inquired, while I was waiting for the entrance procession to begin, what my introductory question would be. They wanted to think about the answer before they heard anything I had to say later in the Mass. I came to realize that, in many instances, they later recalled the question, itself, more than what I had said in my homily.
Nevertheless, I did try to follow the classic outline for a homily. First, tell them what you’re going to tell them. Second: tell them. And conclude by telling them what you told them. I always attempted to circle back to the opening question in the final lines of the homily I delivered. Sometimes the introductory question had to be rephrased in order to arrive at the proper destination.
This procedure was not always an easy one to follow when I prepared what I was about to “tell” others. It began with prayer – usually at least two weeks before the weekend for which I had been scheduled as homilist. My personality would not allow for a last-minute preparation. I constantly feared the weekend might arrive before I was fully prepared. I had to be finished well ahead of any formal deadline. My motto was identical to that of the Boy Scouts of America: “be prepared.”
After I had read all of the scriptures assigned for a particular liturgy and had prayed about their content – what it meant to me and might mean to those who first heard these words two thousand years ago as well as to those who would hear them in the present – I would reflect on what I might say, not only to inform them, but also to encourage them to implement these words in their life, today. I tried to engage in the classical gift of “exhortation” – to encourage and strengthen the listener and to recognize that the Greek word for this “gift” was “parakaleo,” a word related to Paraclete, the Advocate, the Holy Spirit.
Although ideally the homily should be proclaimed without following a written script, I found I could not accomplish this task. Since it was the procedure within the parish for each homilist to participate in all five weekend Masses, I realized I would lose track of where I might be during the course of consecutive presentations, if I did not follow a written script. I recognized that for those who did not use a script, the length of what they said increased as the day progressed. Fortunately, I did learn how to follow a script without it sounding as if it were being read. I was able to mimic those old-time radio shows in which the voice of the actor could be varied depending upon the nature of the drama.
Although I was often uncertain about how my words would be received by others, I admit there were times when I was actually applauded when I finished speaking. I also admit that I had a mixed reaction to such a response. Although this recognition should have meant that they had been moved by what I had said and agreed with it, I often felt that they viewed the presentation as “entertainment” and not as a suggestion on how they might change their lives according to what the Scriptures revealed to us. However, when I indicated applause was not being sought, they often responded that their reaction was the result of the Holy Spirit, and I should not attempt to thwart it. On the other hand, I suppose I enjoyed this response in lieu of the one when individuals would come up to me after Mass and inform me how heretical my words had been or how, at the very least, they had not appreciated them within the context of the Holy Liturgy.
Nevertheless, my thirty-plus years as a homilist did prompt my own epitaph. Several years ago I had my headstone engraved with the words: “I have no more questions.” This does seem to be the way my life should conclude – at that point, the final answers will have been given; I will have no more questions.