Homily 23OT-A -- The Thirst for Souls

   I never much liked reading Thérèse of Lisieux back when I was in seminary.  Yeah, there were classic passages that came out of her Autobiography which were included in the Office of Readings and a number of other references that would appear in the works of others that were tantalizing enough to dig out her original texts and read specific passages for context and flavor.  But that being said, I really didn’t care for a steady diet of her stuff… I found it saccharine sweet, and moody, and, in places, even a bit self-absorbed.  This is kind of a scary confession to make in reference to a Doctor of the Church, but I’ll chalk it up to the general dislike I have for ‘kitschy’ or ‘frilly’ things (as you might imagine in the writings of a French teenager of the late 19^th century who grew up with a silver spoon in her mouth and who really didn’t see or know the world) and my own spiritual prejudices.

   In recent years, though, I have been introduced to her work through even more collateral sources, which are making me look at her more deeply, and consider the immense stature of the small French girl who simply wrote from her heart as it matured in the life and love of her Savior.  One story that comes from her autobiography is that of her intense prayer for a convicted murderer facing execution.  Young Therese, awaiting admission to the convent at the time, was in prayer before an image of the crucified Christ, considering how the blood spilling from the wounds of his hands fell helplessly to the earth without people rushing to catch it and receive it.  She heard in her heart the cry from the cross, “I am thirsty!” and it inspired in her a great longing that would be with her for the rest of her life: a longing for union with Christ and a union with Christ’s own thirst for the souls of sinners.

   In the newspapers was a story of a notorious murder about to be executed for his crimes—a real bad guy who had been made out to be as vicious and unlovable of a soul as one could imagine… a monster who had been found guilty of inhuman crimes.  She was moved to fear in the consideration that that he might die without repenting—a state that would expose him to the fires of hell for all eternity.  “I believe that You will forgive this wretched Pranzini,” she said of the condemned, “I shall believe You have done so even if he does not confess or give any other sign of penance, for I have complete faith in the infinite mercy of Jesus.”  She knew that of herself, her prayer meant nothing, but that her faithful desire to offer the infinite merits of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass and the spiritual treasury of the Church would bear fruit.  “… I ask You for just one sign of his repentance to encourage me.”

   And so, the day of execution came and went, and upon opening the newspaper the next morning, she tearfully read the account of Pranzini’s last moments.  He mounted the scaffold with a hard face and unrepentant scowl, and as he was bound and ready to be fed to la guillotine, he suddenly turned and seized the crucifix offered by the priest who was present.  Kissing the Sacred Wounds, he appeared to make peace with God, before whom he would stand in just seconds as the blade fell.   Therese realized “I had been given my sign, and it was typical of the graces Jesus has given me to make me eager to pray for sinners.  It was the sight of the Precious Blood flowing from the Wounds of Jesus that my thirst for souls had been born.”

   Fast-forward almost sixty years to September 10, 1946 when another Therese, a Sister Theresa of the Loreto Sisters was on a train heading home to the convent from the mission fields in India.  Sr. Theresa had taken her name in honor of the young St. Therese in France who died in 1897 at the tender age of 24 and was canonized in 1925.  Sr. Teresa had been teaching school for more than a decade, and she, herself, was comfortable and well-established in the spiritual life of her community as God invited her to consider something completely new and different.  She heard the call, “I thirst,” and in the weeks that followed, she was flooded with revelations and inspirations to leave the relative comfort of teaching at the boarding school, and head out into the streets to care for the “poor of the poor”.  We, of course, know her as Mother Theresa of Calcutta, founder of the Missionaries of Charity (MC), and now a “Blessed” of the Church.  The rest of her story is now part of history, thanks in large part to the BBC journalist, Malcolm Muggeridge, who ‘discovered’ her in the 1960’s.

   But one thing you will notice when you walk into a mission or convent of the Missionaries of Charity is, a usually-graphic depiction of the crucified Christ, with a plaque off to one side or the other proclaiming the famous words, “I thirst”.  Mother Theresa taught her sisters to keep the thirst of Christ before them always, for his thirst for souls—especially the poor, the dying, the outcast, the sinner—was to be their own unquenchable desire.

   The “thirst for souls” is a strange, but exciting spiritual challenge for me to get my head around.  First, to consider the Lord’s thirst for me.  Thirst is not simply a physiological compulsion—when one is thirsty—really thirsty, as on a hot day—the psychological impact is intense.  The thoughts of water and the anxiety caused in the mind of a thirsty traveler can be nothing short of debilitating.  All other thoughts and concerns are laid aside until the thirst is quenched.  Is this how Jesus looks upon his people?  With an all-consuming love that occupies every aspect of his being, until it is satisfied?  What does it really mean for God to be thirsty, and how intense would that thirst be?  He thirsts for me!  He thirsts for you!  We thirst for him!  Like the Woman at the Well (John 4), he first asks us for a drink and then turns around and offers us living water that we might never thirst again.

   But what does it mean to “thirst for souls”?  Let’s look at our readings for this weekend.  Paul (Rom 13: 8-10) tells us that the fulfillment of the Commandments is the law of love: “Love your neighbor as yourself”.  Such love is not abstract—it takes form and substance in the very people you meet and encounter this day-- family, friends, co-workers, those who serve you and those you serve.  Jesus praised the Good Samaritan who loved his neighbor who fell into evil along the side of the road (Luke 10).  This connects us to the prophecy from Ezekiel (33: 7-9):  “If I tell the wicked one, ‘O wicked one, you shall surely die,’ and you do not speak out to dissuade the wicked from his way, the wicked shall die for is guilt, but I will hold you responsible for his death.”  Wow.  I have a responsibility for my brother who has fallen into sin!  I must have enough love, even for a brother or sister who may not be worthy of my love--even for a brother or sister who might have betrayed my love--to lead him away from sin and into righteousness, as if my own salvation depends upon it… because it does!  We have a vested interest in the salvation of our neighbors… we must stick our necks out for them… we must thirst for their salvation!  And so we are commanded to try, and if through our best efforts they do not come around, only then can we be at peace.

   The Gospel builds on the prophetic tradition.  If a brother sins against you, correct him.  If he refuses your correction, take him before witnesses, then the Church.  If he continues to refuse, then treat him as you would a Gentile or tax collector.  A few chapters before we were told that Jesus gave to Peter (and through him, his successors in the leadership of the Church) the power to “bind and loose”… to hold sinners accountable for their actions and to set them free in the Lord’s name.  Now we hear that all the disciples have been told that they are to bind and loose.  We do not necessarily associate this command with the practice of sacramental reconciliation, but with a much more fundamental grace that comes as a follower of Christ: we can (and must) forgive the transgressions of our brothers and sisters, and we have the power to forgive, and in doing so, to change the destiny of our relationships.  When one has sinned against another, in justice the sinner owes a debt to the victim.  In the event of a simple sin, simple restitution can go a long way to healing the damage that sin causes.  (For example, if I steal your turkey sandwich out of the staff refrigerator at work, once I have made good on that loss and perhaps a little extra for the inconvenience, then we can be at peace with one another.)  But for much more complex sins, such as gossip damaging the good name of another, theft of an item that cannot be repaid, bodily harm or murder, there is no easy (or perhaps possible) restitution in this world.  Only by the free act of the will of the victim can the sinner be released from the debt of his or her sin… an incredible power that we pray for each time we recite the Lord’s prayer, “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” 

   To be reconciled with our neighbor and to refuse to subjugate him to the full debt of his sin is to not only rescue the sinner and restore the relationship, but it also frees the victim from a certain kind of slavery to the sinful act perpetrated against him.  That sin is always before the victim, binding the victim to that sin and to the debt as long as the sinner is unable to ‘pay back’ that debt.  To hold a grudge or resentment against one who sins against us is to volunteer ourselves for the same kind of slavery we impose on our neighbor.  Can our neighbor be truly free upon leaving this world to enjoy the freedom of heaven with unforgiven sin on his or her soul?  Answer that question very carefully, because if we were to wish damnation upon all those who have harmed us, we might very well be sharing the same eternal destiny with all the same people we wish encumbered by sin.

   After all, if a recalcitrant sinner is not swayed by witnesses or the Church, what are we to do with them.  Treat them like a Gentile or tax collector, which ironically, is pretty good treatment in the world of Jesus.  He ate with tax collectors, and urgently sought their reconciliation as well!

   And so, at its deepest level, ‘to thirst for souls’, I think speaks something of the dynamic we are being taught about this weekend in our scriptures.  The fulfillment of Law… the economy of relationships… is love.  If we truly love our neighbor, we will not only go out of our way to be at peace with them, but to be truly reconciled with them. Indeed, we will preemptively seek reconciliation with those who have sinned against us! We must work to unburden souls from the guilt and price of sin, in whatever form it takes.  We must hope for our neighbor’s ultimate salvation and redemption.  We must dare to hope to see them--even the most undeserving we might encounter… even those who have sinned most grievously against us--dancing before the heavenly throne for all eternity, in honor and worship of God.  Surely this will bend and stretch our ability to love… but that is probably good.  Love always requires sacrifice.  Love always stretches our souls.  Love leads us to the clearest perception of God as he really is.  If God wants salvation for all his children, how can we desire anything less? 

Homily Preview: 20OT-A

   I didn't have a Saturday night Mass this evening, and don't have a Mass until later tomorrow morning, so I am a little later in the homily prep process than I normally would be at this point.  Rather than having something of a text or even notes, I'm still at the mulling-it-over state of what I'll be preaching tomorrow.  I think I need to talk about mercy.  Here's some points that I think I need to find a way to connect and present tomorrow:

• We see the Canaanite woman approach Jesus three times, persistently begging his attention (Matt 15:21-28) and finally being rewarded for her faith-- the reward being deliverance from a demon that had hold of her daughter.  (...clearly an act of mercy.)
• The pope and our bishops have asked us to call to mind persecuted Christians around the world, and in particular in the Middle East where Christians are suffering nothing less than martyrdom, if not genocide, this very day.  In the fat and easy life we have here in the States, it is easy to forget that people are facing death for practicing the very same faith that somewhere between half and two-thirds of our faithful can't trouble themselves over by attending Sunday Mass.  In calling to mind the unity we all have as members of the Body of Christ, we implore God's mercy upon the suffering members, that they may be delivered from their cruel persecution under the boot of radical, militant Islam.  We also pray for the unity of all Christians to speak out and inspire our leaders to provide the humanitarian relief and security necessary to preserve innocent life and human dignity in these afflicted regions of the world.
• St. Paul proposes the power of mercy (Romans 11: 29-32) to draw all of the human family together around the One God.  While the "us" and "them" in Paul's context is Israel and the Gentiles, there are so many "us"es and "them"s that rage against one another... the waring factions in the Middle East, the civil unrest in Ferguson, MO, the polarized political parties, the haves and have-nots in the economic rat-race...  Paul suggests that our common need for mercy, flowing from the universal need that all men and women have for salvation (in that all have fallen short of the vision of God), actually unites us to one another:

For the gifts and the call of God are irrevocable.
Just as you once disobeyed God
but have now received mercy because of their disobedience,
so they have now disobeyed in order that,
by virtue of the mercy shown to you,
they too may now receive mercy.
For God delivered all to disobedience,
that he might have mercy upon all.

•  The Church has a deep tradition of reflecting on the language of mercy:

• The English word mercy shares the same roots as the French word, merci, which means "thank you", but even more historically refers to 'reward', 'giftedness', 'grace', or 'pity'.  So, to use the French word, merci, is to acknowledge that "I am gifted" by your act of kindness, pity, or grace you have shown me.  Further behind the French word merci lies the Latin merces which has the sense of 'reward' in the context of wages or pay.  A worker or retailer thus earns his living by selling merchandise at a market, which also shares this root.  Mercy in the English-speaking world is thus shaded by an 'economy' related to good and evils, justice and rights, reward and penalty.  Mercy is thus the forbearance of a just penalty by a gratuitous benefactor.
• But the idea of 'mercy' in scriptural and theological sources doesn't completely share its history with this line of meaning.  In Latin, 'mercy' is referred to as 'misericordia', which means, roughly, 'gentle heart'.  This parallels the Hebrew ideal of 'hesed' which specifically invokes covenental love... love which is not merely a contractual quid pro quod, but rather mutually-beneficial and life-preserving... resistant to betrayal and stronger than any sin.  (Remember, the first reading also takes us back into the idea of the covenant... 'follow the covenant and justice will be revealed' (cf Is 56: 1).)
• Greek takes a different turn, rendering mercy as 'eleos', from where we get the liturgical phrase, "Kyrie eleison" ("Lord have mercy"), at Mass.  'Eleos' has the sense of a healing balm, or flowing oil poured out as a gift of the Father upon his children.  I wonder if there is a connection between this idea and what we hear in Psalm 133, when we hear "Oh, how good and pleasant it is for brothers to live in unity: it is like precious oil upon the head, coming down upon the beard, even Aaron's beard, coming down on the hem of his robe..."  Not only is the unity of brothers a grace and anointing from God, but the reference to Aaron implies a priestly (pontifical) reality coming from this 'anointing'.  Not only is the human family whole, but its wholeness is found in an orderly brotherhood under God our Father through as a result of this anointing (of mercy).  Aaron's own priestly role is to be a man of anointing (mercy) and unity, not unlike our own bishops and priests who pour out God's mercy on the Church and strive to unite all men and women in common worship of God.  There is also an implied pneumenological (Holy Spirit) reference to the power of the Spirit to bring all the scattered brothers and sisters of the Father into unity of language, faith, and love by this anointing.

• As you might imaging, the Angelic Doctor has a lot to say as well, but as it is 11:00 and I have to get some sleep, I'm not going to go down that road here and now.
• One must also acknowledge the extensive reflection on mercy put forward by St. Faustina and the Divine Mercy revelations.  What a devotion for our age, which is in such great need of the Lord's mercy!

And so, as is usually the case, I have a whole lot of stuff to run with, and this week, the ideas point to a central truth quite nicely... all the seemingly-disparate angles bending the light to a single, bright beam: we must urgently pray to God for mercy, not only for our (undeserving) selves, but even for our (undeserving) enemies, that we might be delivered from the misery of the Evil One who seeks to divide and conquer us.  Do we have the courage to ask for and the faith to work for a peace that this world cannot give?  What I am still looking for is a unifying theme or story or 'hook' that illustrates these truths in action... a biographical or historical vignette, the story of a saint, a small joke or familiar saying, an image from literature or media, an observation from human nature, or something else.  While I might use a thousand words to describe the technical way that this all works (as I have above), as a preacher I will be much more effective if I can provide a compelling image that can carry the weight of all these words without having to rehearse them all.  This is a 'homily preview'.  Tune in tomorrow, where God-willing, it all comes together, in 8-10 minutes or (hopefully) less.

Update, Sunday 08:30am:  I'm going to lead with a summary of the news stories this week on ISIS and Ferguson, and ask the question how did our world get this way, and what is the solution?  (Mercy!)  We have been permitted by the bishop to use the Mass formulary for Persecuted Christians and the Eucharistic Prayer III for Various Needs.  I really like the formulary for the propers as they do bring to mind and prayer our union with their sufferings very well.  Further, the formulary supports what I am going to say about our unity in God's mercy.  On the other hand, I don't particularly like the novelty of the Eucharistic Prayers for various needs.  Because I do not believe the sentiments expressed there are strong enough to overcome the disadvantage of its novelty, both in my presumaly-novice recitation of it and in the distraction I sense this causes the people (every time I have used an 'alternate' EP, I invariably get a question of where it came from and if it's 'approved'... as if I'd dare make one up on the fly!), I'm going to take a 'pass' from exercising that option.  I do like the preface to that prayer though, and if I can use it separately (I need to look up that is a legitimate use), I might just do that.

Homily Notes 19-OT-A - Three half-truths (a.k.a. lies) and a promise.

   The Gospel before us today in Matthew (14: 22-23) tells the story of Jesus meeting his disciples while at sea during a storm, inviting Peter to come out and walk on the water with him.  The gospel has a two-fold function.  It is yet another story of Jesus' miraculous power as God--he walks on the water.  But it also comes to us with many of the elements of a parable... there's something deeper, something greater in the message of the story, and what's more, we are encouraged, I think, to place ourselves in the shoes of Peter to see how we would respond to Christ's invitation to come walk on the water.

   The Jewish people were deathly afraid of the water and what it stood for.  The waters were chaos.  Ships were sent out from ports into the Mediterranean Sea and frequently never seen again.  Indeed, the first chapter of Genesis resounds in the hearts of the people, assuring them of God's desire to separate the dry land from the sea (Gen 1:10) just as certainly as God separated the day from the night.  Indeed, the temple reflected something of the relief that the people had in making it to terra firma: one would have to wash through the baths, not only relieving themselves of the guilt of sin and becoming ritually pure to offer sacrifice, but it was something of a sign of refuge as they emerged from the waters into God's holy, firm, and sacred grounds inside the temple precincts.  Catholics continue to perpetuate this sentiment as the faithful bless themselves with holy water at the doors of our churches... we are not only recalling our own baptisms which set us free from sin, but as we step into the church (often up a series of steps rising up from the street level outside--a further subtle hint of what is going on as we enter church) we are stepping onto holy ground... a refuge.. a sanctuary... from all of the stuff that happens to us 'out there' in the so-called 'real world'.

   Taking all of that into perspective as we look at the gospel, it's a rather simple story.  The disciples were distressed by the winds that tossed their boats-- how fitting for so many of us who struggle with life's challenges and difficulties-- illness or death in the family, anger and discord on the job, too little money and too much month until payday, papers to write and exams to take at school, the sacrifices required by kids and families and marriages... the chaos goes on an on, and is represented by the rough waters the disciples found their boat in that evening.

   And so Jesus walks by, over and above the chaos of the waters, and calls out to Peter, "take courage, it is I; do not be afraid".  Peter, trying to identify his master, puts him to the test: "Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water," to which Jesus replied, "come."  And so we see our hero, Peter, step out onto the water.

   It is at this point that I invite you to consider three half-truths that we are often told by friends and family--and they are told and re-told very innocently and without any malice or desire to confuse, but sometimes they unintentionally cloud the truth of who is really in charge of those rough waters.  Indeed, I have caught myself offering and receiving these 'consoling' words, for lack of a better thing to say, resorting to a kind of "internet theology" that looks good on Facebook, but fails to heal and encourage the aching soul.

  First, consider how the boat was a few miles off shore and being tossed by the waves.  When we encounter someone who is in a crisis, like the disciples were on that night, we are sometimes tempted to encourage them with the words, "the Lord doesn't give you more than you can handle!"  Indeed, the corollary to this saying which comes from the very person who needs encouragement is, "I wish the Lord didn't have such high regard for me and what I am able to handle!"  This saying comes from a corruption of 1 Corinthians 10:13, which even in the NAB read at Mass seems a little deceiving.  It says we will not be tried beyond what you are able to bear... a better way to read it in the context it was given would be that we will not be tempted (thanks RSV and Douay-Reims), which has a very different meaning than most people intend by this saying!  Let's cut to the chase:  The Lord often does allow us to be overwhelmed by 'more than we can handle'.  It's a simple fact of life.  If we could 'handle' everything that comes to us and challenges our faith, our life, our health, and our safety, what practical need would we really have of God?  Now, this is not to say the God torments his faithful to draw them to himself... that's not the point.  His permissive will allows the darkness to creep about the earth... it is a product of our free will and a consequence of our fallen state due to sin that we do not see God face-to-face and enjoy the totality of his life in the here-and-now.  Death entered the world through one man, and through one man (Jesus), the world will be redeemed, and is being redeemed as we speak.  The challenges we face as we choose to turn away from the darkness and to the light of God reflect our increasing ability to love, to sacrifice, to give, and to live as God does, preparing us for the Kingdom of Heaven.  One of those lessons is to realize that the world can sometimes swallow us up, and that we can receive 'more than we can handle'.  The invitation is to keep the eyes on Jesus and when we are driven to our knees in absolute desperation that we know who to call upon for deliverance... we call upon the Lord who has power, even over the tempest of the seas.

  A second half-truth is in the saying which is sometimes attributed to St. Ignatius of Loyola, the great spiritual heart-doctor of the church, but sometimes attributed to Augustine.  The saying, allegedly, is "work as if it all depends on you, pray as if it all depends on God."  I have even preached on this before... it is even glossed in the Catechism #2834 (!), but there seems to be something of a good half-truth there.  We should have everything on-board and working for us when we face life's challenges: God should be present as we perfect our own work ethic.  But there is something wrong with that.  Who gets the credit when we 'conquer overwhelmingly' in God's love, which overcomes all things?  Was it our prayer (and the eloquence, charm, or coercive power of our prayer to tell God how to solve our problems), or was it our work?  In any case, our success often redounds in some way to our manipulation of the situation... of being industrious enough to work and convincing enough to pray.

   Other Ignatian sources, which I have not been able to completely verify, seem to say that the saying is actually completely backwards:

Let this be the first rule of your undertakings: confide in God as if the success of those undertakings depended completely upon you and not at all upon God; nonetheless give your whole self to the undertakings as if you yourself would be doing nothing in them but God alone would be doing everything.  (Still looking for source- is it authentic St. Ignatius or possibly even St. Peter Canisius?)

Perhaps we should pray as if it all depends on us, and work as if it all depends on God!  Our prayer, if urgent and sincere and pure in its reliance on God is most certainly heard, and God, in his wisdom, will provide the solution which we should not concern ourselves over unduly, but simply accept... not in a quietism, but instead in faithful cooperation with his will.  His burden will be easy and is yoke light, if we allow ourselves to cooperate with the workload he gives us, rather than trying to strike out in our own way.  As Peter began to walk out on the water, there was a fundamental trust in the power of his master, but he quickly lost sight--perhaps looking at himself and his own power, perhaps wondering if there was a physical or scientific reason for why he stood upon the seas and the chaos below.  That's when he started sinking.  That's when he needed greater faith.  And that's when he reached out for the Lord...

   And so we come to the third half-truth.  "The Lord helps those who help themselves".  This is probably the most dysfunctional of the three sayings.  The Lord does provide aid to those who take advantage of his gifts and opportunities, but sometimes we are simply beyond helping ourselves.  We need to have the courage, the smarts, the opportunity, the vision, the hope to be able to reach out beyond ourselves... not only into divine assistance, but to the assistance of family and friends, to the professional care of doctors, counselors, and teachers, and to the hands of those who can raise us up where we are too weak or hurt or scared to go.  If we are self-made people, we commend ourselves to our self-made purgatories or hells here in this world, and perhaps unwittingly in the world to come.  (I once heard it remarked that the Sinatra hit, "I did it my way" is undoubtedly the elevator music in hell itself!  There's a whole discussion of funeral music that could send me down a rabbit hole here, but we'll leave that for another discussion.)  It turns out that the Lord actually cannot help those who are turned away from him and intent on simply helping themselves.  Peter was able to call out, "Lord, save me!"  It doesn't get any simpler than that.  We feel the water engulfing us, and we turn without reservation, without condition, without hesitation to the Lord who walks on the waters and bids us to come out and join him there.

   So how can we survive those choppy waters of chaos and fear?  The one true invitation which remains is the one that comes from the Lord to come toward him in faith.  Faith is not simply a 'spare tire' in our bag of tricks... faith is not a special wrench in our tool box to rely on when the times get rough and nothing else will work.  The invitation before us today is to grow in faith, in season and out of season, relying on God alone to be our salvation and strength.  This promise is not just an assurance of his presence in the background of our lives, but it is the consequence of the covenant that was given so many years ago to Abraham that he would be our God and we would be his people (Genesis 17:7).  That covenant has been perfected in the Law of Moses, and brought forward through the prophets and kings and faithful of the ages, up until now as our Lord offers his own Body and Blood upon the altar we come to this day... on his terra firma, coming out of the chaos and confusion of our own lives.  He is our God.  We are his people.  We are bound by faith, by love, and by sacrifice to the events which are ratified in our churches and in our prayer today while standing confidently on this holy ground.