25 August 2019

Homily - 25 August 2019 - The Twenty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time

The Twenty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

Dear brothers and sisters,

A few moments ago, we prayed “that, amid the uncertainties of this world, our hearts may be fixed on that place where true gladness is found.”[1] Of all the things we experience in this world, only one will remain: love. And love is brought to fulfillment in that place where true gladness is found, which we call heaven, “the ultimate end and fulfillment of the deepest human longings, the state of supreme, definitive happiness.”[2]

We often want to know where heaven is, but the better question to consider is what heaven is. Christians know that the word heaven

does not indicate a place above the stars but something far more daring and sublime: it indicates Christ himself, the divine Person who welcomes humanity fully and forever, the One in whom God and man are inseparably united forever. Man’s being in God, this is Heaven. And we draw close to Heaven, indeed, we enter Heaven to the extent that we draw close to Jesus and enter into communion with him.[3]

To put it another way, “Heaven does not belong to the geography of space, but to the geography of the heart.”[4] This is why we speak of heaven as “the blessed community of all who are perfectly incorporated into Christ.”[5] But how are we incorporated into Christ? We shall return to this in a moment.


One thousand nine hundred and forty years ago today/yesterday, Mount Vesuvius erupted and buried the people of Pompeii under more than fifteen feet of volcanic ash. In the early afternoon of August 24, 79, Pliny the Younger tells us that “a cloud with an odd appearance” was seen in the sky and just a short time later

…it appeared sometimes bright and sometimes dark and spotted, according as it was either more or less impregnated with earth and cinders… The ash already falling became hotter and thicker as the ships approached the coast and it was soon superseded by pumice and blackened burnt stones shattered by the fire. Suddenly the sea shallowed where the shore was obstructed and choked by debris from the mountain.[6]

The terror was so great that some people thought “the last eternal night had fallen on the world.”[7] By the time the eruption was over about 8:00 a.m. on August 25th, thousands of people perished in Pompeii alone.


Today, throngs of tourists amble about the uncovered streets of Pompeii. They marvel at the intricacy of the mosaics and frescoes, they laugh at the brothel, and stare in wonder at preserved loaves of bread, but they give little – if any – thought to what went through the hearts and minds of the Pompeiians as they watched their inescapable doom come down upon them. Where were their hearts set? Upon the uncertainties of this world, or on that place where true gladness is found? Where are our own hearts set?


Today, we hear the Lord Jesus say to us, “Strive to enter through the narrow gate, for many, I tell you, will attempt to enter but will not be strong enough” (Luke 13:24). When he calls himself the narrow gate, the Savior is not excluding people from salvation, as some of his followers seek to do. Rather,

everyone may enter life, but the door is "narrow" for all. We are not privileged. The passage to eternal life is open to all, but it is "narrow" because it is demanding: it requires commitment, self-denial and the mortification of one's selfishness.

Once again, as on recent Sundays, the Gospel invites us to think about the future which awaits us and for which we must prepare during our earthly pilgrimage.

Salvation, which Jesus brought with his death and Resurrection, is universal. He is the One Redeemer and invites everyone to the banquet of immortal life; but on one and the same condition: that of striving to follow and imitate him, taking up one's cross as he did, and devoting one's life to serving the brethren. This condition for entering heavenly life is consequently one and universal.[8]

The way to enter into this gate – the gate of Christ – is through the waters of Baptism, the Sacrament by which “we become members of Christ, are incorporated into the Church and [are] made sharers in her mission.”[9] Because we are incorporated into Christ through the waters of Baptism we also receive the promise of eternal life with God if “we know the Lamb without spot on which [we] feed.”[10] We know that

the faithful Christian who has ‘kept the seal’ [of Baptism] until the end, remaining faithful to the demands of his [or her] Baptism, will be able to depart this life ‘marked with the sign of faith,’ with [the] baptismal faith, in expectation of the blessed vision of God”[11]

– with the expectation of heaven, with the expectation of true gladness.

But what does Jesus mean he speaks about being strong enough to enter through the narrow gate? He speaks about maintaining a friendship with him that is so deep, so relational, so strong, that the carrying of his Cross becomes not a burden, but a joy. Those who are strong enough to enter through the narrow gate do not fall away from the life of discipleship, they do not abandon the Lord when difficulties, doubts, or demands come their way. Rather, they cling to him all the more fervently. Indeed, “true friendship with Jesus is expressed in the way of life: it is expressed with goodness of heart, with humility, meekness and mercy, love for justice and truth, a sincere and honest commitment to peace and reconciliation.”[12] In short, the true friends of Jesus look like Jesus, sound like Jesus, and act like Jesus.

It is necessary to remember that elsewhere Jesus says quite clearly, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me” (John 14:6). Here, again, the Lord is not being exclusionary, but is inviting everyone to enter into his friendship, to take up his Cross, and follow after him. There simply is no other way to salvation, no other way to eternal happiness, no other way to heaven, than him.

Gathered as we are around this altar of the Lord, in a few moments we will partake of his Body and Blood; we will dine with him at the re-presentation of his Last Supper. Do we know the Lamb without spot on which we feed? Have we come here with our hearts set on this passing world, or on that place where true gladness is found? Because we do not want to hear him say to us, “Depart from me, all you evildoers,” let us strive to see him more clearly, to love him more dearly, and to follow him more nearly, and in so doing become his true friends. Then, with our hearts set on him, we can face the difficulties, doubts, and demands of life with joyful confidence in the power of his love. Amen.



[1] Roman Missal, Collect for the Twenty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time.
[2] Catechism of the Catholic Church, 1024.
[3] Pope Benedict XVI, Homily, 24 May 2009.
[4] Ibid., Homily, 25 December 2007.
[5] Catechism of the Catholic Church, 1026.
[6] Pliny the Younger, Letter LXV, To Tacitus.
[7] Ibid., Letter LXVI, To Cornelius Tacitus.
[8] Pope Benedict XVI, Angelus Address, 26 August 2007.
[9] Catechism of the Catholic Church, 1213.
[10] Saint Augustine of Hippo, Sermon 308A.6.
[11] Catechism of the Catholic Church, 1274.
[12] Pope Benedict XVI, Angelus Address, 26 August 2007.

23 August 2019

Islamic State Ongoing Updates - August 2019

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30 August 2019
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03 August 2019

Homily - The Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time - 28 July 2019


The Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

Dear brothers and sisters,

In a few moments, we will ask the Lord that “these sacred mysteries may sanctify our present way of life and lead us to eternal gladness.”[1] What is it about these sacred mysteries, what is it about the Holy Mass, that has the power to fulfill our request? It is within these sacred mysteries, “in the presence of the angels,” that we sing God’s praise and “give thanks to [his] name” (Psalm 138:1 and 2). Here at the Lord’s altar, he “is exalted, yet the lowly he sees, and the proud he knows from afar” (Psalm 138:6). It is within these sacred mysteries that we receive “our daily bread,” the Most Holy Eucharist (Luke 11:3).

This past week, the Pew Research Center published findings from a survey titled, “What Americans Know About Religion.” The results were, to be honest, disheartening - but not surprising. This particular survey asked “32 fact-based, multiple-choice questions about topics related to religion.”[2] Just over half of those taking the survey answered all of the questions correctly.

 If the findings truly represent the American people, 87% of us know the definition of an atheist; 81% of us know what Easter is about; and only 58% of us know the “Golden Rule” is not one of the Ten Commandments.

Naturally, all of this is rather concerning, but what is most troubling about the survey concerns Catholics. One of the multiple-choice questions read as follows:

Which of the following best describes Catholic teaching about the bread and wine used for Communion? The bread and wine…

·       Actually become the body and blood of Jesus Christ
·       Are symbols of the body and blood of Jesus Christ
·       Not sure

Distressingly, only 50% of Catholics in the U.S. answered this question correctly; 45% answered it incorrectly; and 4% were not sure. What happened to the other 1%, I do not know.

There is no reason to raise your hand or to vocalize your answer, but I must ask: How do you answer this question? Is the Communion we receive in the Holy Eucharist the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ, or is it just a symbol? Catholic faith, of course, knows it to be the very Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity, of Jesus Christ, who is seated at the right hand of the Father and yet gives us himself as our nourishment and salvation; it is not a mere symbol. Those who say the Eucharist is only a symbol have not seriously read the Gospels or honestly studied the history of the Church. If we come to the Holy Mass without understanding what and, more importantly, Who the Eucharist is, it will be difficult for these sacred mysteries to sanctify our present way of life and to lead us to eternal gladness.

In 1963, J.R.R. Tolkien wrote a letter to his son Michael in which the professor wrote with a father’s love about matters of faith. He addressed, among other things, scandals in the Church and, within that context, the Eucharist:

I have suffered grievously in my life from stupid, tired, dimmed, and even bad priests; but I now know enough about myself to be aware that I should not leave the Church (which for me would mean leaving the allegiance of Our Lord) for any such reasons: I should leave because I did not believe, and should not believe any more, even if I had never met any one in [holy] orders who was not both wise and saintly. I should deny the Blessed Sacrament, that is: call Our Lord a fraud to His face.”[3]

How could he use such blunt and forceful language? He could write in this way because he knew the reality of the Eucharistic Lord.

In the sixth chapter of the Gospel of Saint John, after the feeding of the five thousand, the Lord Jesus says to the crowd, “For the bread of God is that which comes down from heaven, and gives life to the world” (John 6:33). Desiring this bread, the crowd says to him, “Lord, give us this bread always” (John 6:34). Whereas before Jesus spoke in somewhat veiled language, now he speaks in very clear and unmistakable terms. He says to them, “I am the bread of life; he who comes to me shall not hunger; and he who believes in me shall never thirst” (John 6:35-36).

Not liking his words, the crowd “then murmured at him” because, so they said, they knew where he came from (John 6:41). In response, Jesus strengthens his words and says, “I am the living bread which came down from heaven; if anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever; and the bread which I shall give for the life of the world is my flesh” (John 6:51). Here, we must pause this Gospel passage and remember what Jesus did and said at the Last Supper: “And he took bread, and when he had given thanks he broke it and gave it them, saying, ‘This is my body which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me’” (Luke 22:19). Remember, too, that Jesus, the Living Bread, was born in Bethlehem, a name which means “House of Bread,” and was placed in a manger, that is, in a feeding trough.

Now, when the crowd heard him say, “I am the living bread which comes down from heaven,” they thought he was either a blasphemer or a mad man, and so Jesus asked them, “Do you take offense at this” (John 6:61)? If we did not realize it before, here we can see clearly that Jesus is not speaking metaphorically, for at these words “many of his disciples drew back and no longer walked with him” (John 6:66). As they abandon him, we do not find Jesus calling them back; he does not tell them they misunderstood him; he does not weaken his language to make it merely symbolic; no, he holds fast to what he has said and turns to the Twelve and asks, “Will you also go away” (John 6:67)? This leads Saint Peter to give his famous response, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life” (John 6:68). Yes, indeed; to whom else can we go? It is precisely through the Holy Eucharist, made present at every celebration of the Holy Mass, that the Lord Jesus gives us his Body and Blood to eat and drink; it is through the Eucharist that he keeps his promise: “I am with you always, to the close of the age” (Matthew 28:20).

Tolkien knew that, taking the Lord Jesus, at his word, he must believe in the Eucharist, not as some want it to be (just a symbol), but as it truly is (Jesus’ Body and Blood). He later went on to write to his son, Michael, saying,

We must therefore either believe in Him and in what he said and take the consequences; or reject him and take the consequences. I find it for myself difficult to believe that anyone who has ever been to Communion, even once, with at least right intention, can ever again reject Him without grave blame. (However, He alone knows each unique soul and its circumstances).[4]

He could say these words, just as blunt and forceful as his earlier words, because he knew that the Passion, Death, and Resurrection of Jesus is made present to us in the Blessed Sacrament “with love beyond all telling.”[5] Because of this, Tolkien told his son, “But I fell in love with the Blessed Sacrament from the beginning – and by the mercy of God have never fallen out again: but alas! I indeed did not live up it.”[6]

Because it is the Sacrament of the Lord’s own love for us, it is very difficult to live up to the Eucharist. To receive the Lord’s love in so intimate a way requires of us that we freely share the Lord’s love with others. This is why Pope Benedict XVI cautioned us that “a Eucharist which does not pass over into the concrete practice of love is intrinsically fragmented;” if our reception of the Eucharist does not help us grow in holiness, we have not rightly received it.[7] Let us, then, beg the Lord to strengthen our faith in the power of his love and that, through our reception of the Eucharist, we might love and serve both God and neighbor, and so be brought to eternal gladness. May we, too, fall in love with the Blessed Sacrament and, by the mercy of God, never fall out of it. Amen.


[1] Roman Missal, Prayer over the Offerings, Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time.
[2] Pew Research Center, “What Americans Know About Religion,” 23 July 2019. Accessed 27 July 2019. Available at https://www.pewforum.org/2019/07/23/what-americans-know-about-religion/.
[3] J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter 250, To Michael Tolkien, 1 November 1963.
[4] Ibid.
[5] Roman Missal, Prayer after Communion, Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time.
[6] J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter 250, To Michael Tolkien, 1 November 1963.
[7] Pope Benedict XVI, Deus caritas est, 14.

21 July 2019

Homily - 21 July 2019 - The Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time


The Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

Dear brothers and sisters,

We might be tempted this morning to focus our attention on the timing of the first reading from the Book of Genesis. We are told it occurred “while the day was growing hot” and we certainly know something of that in these recent days (Genesis 18:1). If we were, however, to focus our attention on this aspect of the reading, we would miss something much more important and something much more curious.

It was at this time of day that the Patriarch Abraham saw “three men standing nearby” the entrance to his tent (Genesis 18:2). We are next told how Abraham interacted with these three unnamed men: “When he saw them, he ran from the entrance to the tent to greet them; and bowing to the ground, he said: ‘Sir, if I may ask this favor, please do not go on past your servant’” (Genesis 18:2-3). Now, if you were listening closely you will have noticed something strange, something you might attribute either to an error on my part or on the part of the translator; in both guesses, though, you would be incorrect.

Abraham sees three men, in the plural. He goes to greet “them,” again in the plural. Yet when he addresses the three men he greets them, saying, “Sir,” in the singular. Why? Surely a man such as Abraham knows the proper rules governing the use of grammar. What is going on here?

Saint Ambrose of Milan, the great teacher and spiritual father of Saint Augustine, rightly says that

Abraham, who was glad to receive strangers, faithful to God and tireless in his service and prompt in fulfilling his duty, saw the Trinity typified. He added religious devotion to hospitality, for although he beheld three, he adored one, and, while keeping a distinction of the persons, yet he called one Lord, thus giving honor to the three but signifying one power. For not knowledge but grace spoke in him.[1]

In those three men standing nearby, Abraham beheld the Most Holy Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; God had visited the Patriarch and Abraham asked the Lord to stay with him. When the Lord draws near to us, what is our response? Do we stop whatever we are doing and ask him to stay with us, offering to him whatever hospitality we may, or do we ask him to come again another time because his visit is perhaps inconvenient?

Because Abraham was a man of justice, he bowed himself to the ground in the presence of God; he gave to God the honor that is due to him (cf. Genesis 18:19; 18:2). We can be sure that when Abraham bowed down before God, his exterior act reflected his interior devotion. Is it the same with us? Does our outward composure reflect the composure of our hearts, or do we simply go through the motions of piety? When we bend the knee before God, are we conscious of what we do? When we bow from the waist at the mention of the Incarnation during the Creed, are we conscious of the One before whom we bow?

Writing in 1939, Romano Guardini lamented what he perceived as a lack of genuine piety. He said,

Many churchgoers simply don’t seem to know where they are or what it is all about. A man’s presence in church does not mean merely that his body is there rather than elsewhere. His body is the equivalent of himself, and being present is a vital act. There are people who can walk into a room, sit down, and little more seems to have happened than that a chair has been occupied. Someone else can come in, and though he neither says nor does anything further, his presence is like a power. There are works of art in which this quiet power of presence is very strong; we have only to think of those medieval paintings which portray numbers of saints seated next to each other. They do nothing; hardly a gesture or word is exchanged, yet everything is vitally alive with their presence. To be present, then, is more than to sit or kneel in place. It is an act of the spirit and expresses itself in one’s whole being.[2]

These eighty years later, can we say that much has changed?

The act of bowing down before another, whether of bending the knee or of bowing the head – is an act of humble submission to another. It is an outward sign of the inner reality that I am not in charge of my own life and that I am not the center of the world, contrary to what our culture repeatedly tells us. We do not like to bow before others, to place ourselves at the service of others. “But to bow low before God can never be unmodern, because it corresponds to the truth of our being,” that we are only creatures. “And if modern man has forgotten this truth, then it is all the more incumbent on Christians in the modern world to rediscover it and teach it to our fellowmen.”[3] Indeed, we must remind ourselves and others that “the man who wants to come close to God must be able to look upon him – that is essential. But he must likewise learn to bend, for God has bent himself down.”[4]

When Abraham saw the Lord, he did not run up to him to embrace him; he bowed low before him. So must it be with us. We see this in the example of Mary, who “sat beside the Lord at his feet listening to him speak” (Luke 10:39). She knew the importance of bowing before God; she showed the disposition of her heart with the expression of her body. While Martha was busy with the important details of hospitality, Mary chose that which will not pass away.

When he reflected on this passage, Saint Augustine pondered what Mary was doing at the Lord’s feet. “What was Mary enjoying while she was listening? What was she eating? What was she drinking? Do you know,” he asks. He says:

Let’s ask the Lord, who keeps such a splendid table for his own people, let’s ask him. ‘Blessed,’ he says, ‘are those who are hungry and thirsty for justice, because they shall be satisfied’ (Matthew 5:6). It was from this wellspring, from this storehouse of justice, that Mary, seated at the Lord’s feet, was in her hunger receiving some crumbs. You see, the Lord was giving her then as much as she was able to take… What was Mary enjoying? What was she eating? I’m persistent on this point, because I’m enjoying it too. I will venture to say that she was eating the one she was listening to. I mean, if she was eating truth, didn’t he say himself, ‘I am the truth” (John 14:6)? What more can I say? He was being eaten, because he was Bread. ‘I,’ he said, ‘am the bread who came down from heaven’ (John 6:41). This is the bread which nourishes and never diminishes.

Having bowed down before him and having placed herself at the Lord’s feet, Mary learned that “without love, even the most important activities lose their value and give no joy. Without a profound meaning, all our activities are reduced to sterile and unorganized activism. And who, if not Jesus Christ, gives us Love and Truth?”[5]

In these remaining days of summer, let us ask the Lord Jesus to open our hearts to him, to teach us to bow low before him, and to stay at his feet. May he perfect us in himself so that we will think the truth in our hearts and not slander with our tongues (cf. Psalm 15:3). May he make us, like Abraham, men and women of justice, who give him the honor and the worship that is his due, with our gestures and hearts united. Bowing low before him in this life, may he raise our eyes to see his Face in the life to come. Amen.


[1] Saint Ambrose of Milan, On His Brother, Satyrus, 2.96.
[2] Romano Guardini Meditations Before Mass, (Manchester, New Hampshire: Sophia Institute Press, 1993), 28.
[3] Joseph Ratzinger, The Spirit of the Liturgy (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2000), 206.
[4] Ibid.
[5] Pope Benedict XVI, Angelus Address, 18 July 2010.