More Than Meets the Eye: 21st Sunday in Ordinary Time

Homily for the 21st Sunday in Ordinary Time

Final Draft. Audio version will be posted on the St. Aloysius web site by Tuesday, August 29th.

When was the last time you had to “get past something”
in order to move on?

Maybe you had to “get past” someone’s outward appearance
in order to appreciate the person beneath the outward appearance.

Or, maybe you had to “get past” the way your teenagers expresses themselves
in order understand what they are trying to say.

Well, that’s similar to what’s taking place in today’s gospel reading.

Some of Jesus’ own disciples are saying,

“This kind of talk is hard to endure.”

What kind of talk is hard to endure?

The kind of talk that is “hard to endure”
are the words of Jesus himself when he insists
and keeps on insisting:

“My flesh is real food, my blood is real drink.”

As Catholics, you and I have been taught all our life
that the bread on the altar only looks like bread
and the wine in the chalice only looks like wine.

But, when you step back from what you taught,
and you hear these words in all their rawness
stripped of centuries of tradition and reverence,
they are, in fact, hard to endure, hard to understand.

How can we say and believe that the powerful God
who whirled the galaxies into existence…
this Incomprehensible Energy is present
present beneath the appearance of ordinary Bread and Wine?

How can we say and believe that
the Holy Savior of the wounded children of God,
Christ himself, the Rescuer of the desperate human race
is present here in this church,
not symbolically but in all His fullness: Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity…
how can we grasp this?
Let me tell you how.
Or, at least, let me tell you how to begin to love and appreciate this gift
more fully.

It starts with the willingness to see more than meets the eye.
It begin with cultivating the ability to look beyond the appearance of things.

Let me give you an example.

Last Wednesday night
I gave a talk to a group of volunteers
at a therapeutic riding center just north of Indianapolis.

It was a pleasant evening.
We shared stories about horses.
We share stories about people.
And some of the stories had the word “miracle”
stamped all over them.

I learned about a four year old autistic boy
who never said a word until he sat on a horse.

After four years of silence, the sound of “Whoa”
echoed in that barn and filled his parents with joy
they thought they’d never know.

Another child was unable to chew solid food.
But after watching the way a horse ate an apple
from his mother’s hand
(you know how a horse chews),
Charlie learned to chew.
“Charlie, they said, chew like Buckeye.”
Well, the boy started to chew.

Now, most of these volunteers were middle aged, suburban women.
They appeared completely ordinary,
no different from people in a checkout line at Kroger’s.

When meeting was finished,
one of the woman in the group
(somewhat past middle age)
offered to give me a tour of the facility.

Her name was Cheryl.
She founded the riding center twenty years ago.

As we made our way through the barn,
she mentioned that the center
had its start in a terrible tragedy.

I asked what it was and she told me that
she and her husband had lost their daughter.

She mentioned that she herself
had also been hurt in the incident.

“Did you lose your daughter in accident?” I asked.

“No.” She hesitated.
Finally, she said.
“She was murdered by her estranged husband.”

As we walked along,
Cheryl went on to describe the events of a horrible night
in which the man came into her home with gun in hand.

Cheryl was the first one to get hit.
Before he went into the next room
where her daughter was hiding
and a one-year-old baby was sleeping,
he stood over Cheryl, ready to fire a second time.

Cheryl looked at him and said,
“Bill, before you kill me,
I want you to know that God loves you
and I forgive you.”

He sneered and shot again,
but the bullet was not fatal.
Cheryl heard him go into the next room.
She heard more shots.
She heard him take the baby
and flee the house.

It all took place 16 years ago.

As I listened to this mild-manner woman
with the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen,
I realized I was in the presence of someone
filled with the Spirit of Christ.

Think of it.
She looked her would-be killer in the eye and said,
“Bill, I forgive you.”

Do those words sound familiar?

They should because they echo down to us
from the day we call Good Friday
when a Savior covered in blood cried out,
“Father, forgive them. They don’t know what they are doing.”

Cheryl went on to forgive the man who killed her daughter.
(I’m sure it wasn’t easy and personally, I can’t imagine how.)

Cheryl and her husband have raised that man’s son--their grandson--
and they did so in a home imbued with love and mercy,
a home free of bitterness and resentment.

Hard to believe anyone could do that.
Yet, here she was, as ordinary as could be,
as a close a stranger in line with me at Kroger’s.

As Jesus says in today’s gospel,
“The flesh is nothing, the Spirit is everything.”

Cheryl’s appearance was as ordinary as a summer day,
but inside her lived the Spirit of Christ.

What’s this tell us?
It tells us that, when it comes to perceiving the presence of Christ,
we do well to hone the talent of looking beyond the appearance of things.

At this Eucharist today,
look beyond the appearance of the Bread,
look beyond the appearance of the Wine.

See in them the gift of incredible forgiveness.
See in them the gift of God’s Son.

Second Draft.

The discussion at last night's homily reflection was lively. The parishioners found the story about Cheryl moving but, after I gave more details, the group encouraged me to include more of the facts in the homily, particularly as they pertained to the act of forgiveness.

There was also discussion about other people they knew who radiated the presence of Christ. I considered adding some of these local examples but fearEd the homily would be come too lenghty.

Read it and let me know what you think.

Fr. Jim
(jms48@fuse.net)



When was the last time you had to “get past something”
in order to move on?

Maybe you had to “get past” someone’s outward appearance
in order to appreciate the person beneath the outward appearance.

Or, maybe you had to “get past” the way your teenager expresses himself
in order understand what they are trying to say.

Well, that’s what’s taking place in today’s reading.

Some of Jesus’ own disciples are saying,

“This kind of talk is hard to endure.”

What kind of talk is hard to endure?

The kind of talk that is “hard to endure”
are the words of Jesus himself when he insists
and keeps on insisting:

“My flesh is real food, my blood is real drink.”

As Catholics, you and I have been taught all our life
that the bread on the altar only looks like bread
and the wine in the chalice only looks like wine.

But, when you step back from what you taught,
and you hear these words in all their rawness
stripped of centuries of tradition and reverence,
they are, in fact, hard to endure, hard to understant.

How can we say and believe that the powerful God
who whirled the galaxies into existence
is present beneath the appearance of ordinary Bread and Wine?

How can we say and believe that
the Holy Savior of the wounded children of God,
the Powerful One who rescued the desperate human race
is present in midst, hidden beneath the appearance
of Bread and Wine?

How can that be?
How can we possibly believe that?

Let me tell you how.

It starts with the ability to see beneath the appearance.
It starts with the willing to perceive more than meets the eye.

Let me give you an example.

Last Wednesday night
I gave a talk to a group of volunteers
at a therapeutic riding center just north of Indianapolis.

It was a pleasant evening.
We shared stories about horses.
We share stories about people.
And some of the stories had the word “miracle”
stamped all over them.

I learned about a four year old autistic boy
who never said a word until he sat on a horse.

After four years of silence, the sound of “Whoa”
echoed in that barn and filled his parents with joy
they thought they’d never know.

Another child was unable to chew solid food.
But after watching the way a horse ate an apple
from his mother’s hand
(you know how a horse chews),
Charlie learned to chew.
“Charlie, they said, chew like Buckeye.”
Well, the boy started to chew.

Now, most of these volunteers were middle aged, suburban women.
They appeared completely ordinary,
no different from people in a checkout line at Kroger’s.

When meeting was finished,
one of the woman in the group
(somewhat past middle age)
offered to give me a tour.

Her name is Cheryl.
She founded the riding center twenty years ago.

As we made our way through the barn,
she mentioned that the center
had its start in a tragedy.
She and her husband had lost their daughter.

She mentioned that she herself
had been hurt in the incident.

“Did you lose your daughter in accident?” I asked.

“No.” She hesitated.
Finally, she said.
“She was murdered by her estranged husband.”

Cheryl went on to describe the events of a horrible night
in which the man came into her home with gun in hand.

Cheryl was the first one to get hit.
Before he went into the next room
where her daughter was hiding
and a one-year-old baby was sleeping,
he stood over Cheryl, ready to fire a second time.

Cheryl looked at him and said,
“Bill, before you kill me,
I want you to know that God loves you
and I forgive you.”

He sneered and shot again,
but the bullet was not fatal.

It all took place 16 years ago.

As I listened to this mild-manner woman
with the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen,
I realized I was in the presence of someone
filled with the Spirit of Christ.

She looked her killer in the eye and said,
“Bill, I forgive you.”

Do those words sound familiar?

They should because they echo down to us
from the day we call Good Friday
when a Savior covered in blood cried out,
“Father, forgive them. They don’t know what they are doing.”

Cheryl has forgiven the man who killed her daughter.
Cheryl and her husband have raised his son--their grandson--
in a home imbued with love, hope and mercy,
a home free of bitterness and resentment.

Hard to believe anyone could do that.
Yet, here she was,
as a close a stranger in line with me at Kroger’s.

Her appearance was as ordinary as a summer day,
but inside her lived the Spirit of Christ.

Sometimes is necessary
“to get past the appearance”
in order to see the presence of Christ.

Earthy appearance is nothing,
the Spirit of God is everything.

At this Eucharist today,
look beyond the appearance of the Bread,
look beyond the appearance of the Wine.

See in them the gift of incredible forgiveness.
See in them the true presence of Christ.
See in them the gift of God’s Son.


FIRST DRAFT:

“This kind of talk is hard to endure.”

What kind of talk is hard to endure?

The words that are "hard to endure"
are the words of Jesus himself:

“My flesh is real food, my blood is real drink.”

As Catholics, you and I have been taught all our life
that the bread on the altar only looks like bread
and the wine in the chalice only looks like wine.

In reality, beneath the appearance of bread and wine
is the true presence of Christ, the full reality of his Body and Blood
and that it means to draw near the Creator of the world
and the Holy Savior of the wounded children of God,
the Powerful One who rescued the blind and desperate human race
of which you and I are one of trillion billion members.

How can we say that the Divine Presence that whole world calls God
is indeed present here in our midst, hidden beneath the appearance
of ordinary bread and wine?

How can that be?
How can we possibly believe that?

Let me tell you how.

It starts with the ability to see beneath the appearance.
It starts with the willing to see more than meets the eye.

Let me give you an example.

This past week the Holy Spirit led me to experience
something incredible and completely unexpected.

Last Wednesday night
I gave a talk to a group of volunteers
at a therapeutic riding center just north of Indianapolis.

We shared stories and some of the stories had the word “miracle”
stamped all over them.

They mentioned a four year old autistic boy
who never said a word until he sat on a horse.

After four years of silence, the sound of “Whoa”
echoed in that barn and filled his parents with joy
they thought they’d never know.

Another child was unable to chew solid food.
But after watching the way a horse ate an apple
from his mother’s hand,
Charlie learned to chew.
“Charlie, they said, chew like Buckeye.”
(You know how a horse chews)
Well, the boy started to chew.

Now, most of these volunteers were middle aged, suburban women.
They appeared no different from people in a checkout line at Kroger’s.

But once the meeting was finished,
I came to realize, almost by accident,
that I was in the presence of an extraordinary person,
an extraordinary saint.

Her name is Cheryl.
She founded the riding center twenty years ago.
She’s somewhat past middle age.
A woman with gray hair, a soft voice
and soft eyes…eyes that are so kind and peaceful
you have no choice but stop whatever it is you’re doing
and engage this person in a bit of conversation.

She gave me a tour of the facility.

As I was getting ready to leave
she mentioned that the therapeutic riding center
had its start in a tragedy.
She and her husband had lost their daughter.
Cheryl herself had been hurt in the incident.

“Did you lose your daughter in accident?” I asked.

“No,” said. “She was murdered by her estranged husband.”

Cheryl went on to describe the events of a horrible night
in which the man came into her home with gun in hand
an living nightmare began to unfold.

It all took place 16 years ago.

In the intervening time,
Cheryl have forgiven the man who killed their daughter
and have raised his son--their grandson--
in a home imbued with love, hope and mercy.

The tone of this conversation
was as casual as could be.

But the power of her words
were more than I could fully grasp.

She forgave the man who murdered her daughter.
She set her heart on raising a child
in a home free of bitterness and resentment.

Hard to believe anyone could do that.
Yet, here she was,
as a close a stranger in line with me at Kroger’s.

Her appearance was as ordinary as a summer day,
but inside her lived the Spirit of Christ.

Appearance is nothing,
the Spirit is everything.

So, at this Eucharist today,
look beyond the appearance of the Bread,
look beyond the appearance of the Wine.


See in them the gift of incredible forgiveness.
See in them the gift of mercy.
See in the gift of God’s Son.

Homiletic Theory

Dear Friends of this Blog,

I realize that the title of this week's post is as dry as sand...I apologize. Why an article are homiletic theory? Well, since we have a guest preacher at St. Al's this Sunday, I have the week off and decided to seek your opinion on an academic paper as opposed to a homily.

The article that appears below is a summary of a keynote presentation that I gave at a recent deacon conference. I intend to submit it as a paper at an upcoming meeting of the Academy of Homiletics.

If you find sections that need improvement or clarification, please post you comment on the discussion board or contact me directly at jms48@fuse.net.

Your feedback is much appreciated! -JMS

The Work of Our Hands:
Listener Involvement in Liturgical Preaching

by
Jim Schmitmeyer

Introduction

Have you ever remodeled a house? Have you ever served on a steering committee
for a church renovation? If so, you know what that kind of work entails and you know the kind of people that get that kind of job done.
So, picture a typical blue collar worker in your mind, perhaps a carpenter or a welder. Why? Because the goal of this paper is to highlight the ability of liturgical preaching to forge a vital connection between the work of human hands and the worship of our sovereign God.
This paper will demonstrate that such connections depend on the relationship
between the preacher and his or her listeners and development of a “partnership in preaching” mindset within a congregation.

Part I: The Relationship between Work and Worship

Before we consider specific aspects of the preacher-listener relationship, it is
necessary to consider the setting in which liturgical preaching takes place. A comparison between what takes place at the Table of the Word (ambo or pulpit) and the Table to the Eucharist (altar of sacrifice) will reveal the sacramental dimensions of liturgical speech and its reliance on “the stuff” of ordinary life, i.e. the work of human hands.
We begin with the proposition that homiletic preaching is different from other
kinds of preaching. How is it different? It sanctifies.What does it sanctify? It sanctifies the work of human labor, human love and human longing.
The key word here is sanctifies. The words of the preacher make holy the work of human hands in a similar way that the words of a priest consecrate the Bread and Wine on an altar. If Sunday worship is comprised of two segments: the Liturgy of the Word and the Liturgy of the Eucharist, each segment contains its own “communion service”
A liturgical view of preaching sees the homily as “the communion service” of the Liturgy of the Word. In my particular tradition, this is strongly supported in of the Catechism of the Catholic Church: “ In every liturgical action the Holy Spirit is sent in order to bring us into communion with Christ as so to form his Body” (#1108).
Homiletic preaching is not “time out” from the experience of awe that true
worship engenders. Moreover, preaching is not “time out” from worship for a few words of instruction or clarification from the preacher. Rather, Jesus said, “Those who hear you, hear me.”
That’s a reference to human communication as a form of
divine communion. Jesus is speaking here about a type of communion that occurs when people talk in a certain way. Therefore, it follows that the homily can in fact become a “linguistic-sacramental” moment.
The purpose of this unique rhetorical form called homiletic preaching is to engender within the assembly a mystical encounter with God through the faculty of human speech, speech that reveals the hidden presence of God in the world in which we live.
When a preacher weaves associations from the lived experience into the matrix of sacred tradition and scripture, a transformation occurs. The longing of our hearts and the work of our hands is viewed as something holy and worthy of God, in short, our life and our world is sanctified through contact with the Divine Word of God.
The process of sanctification occurs in descending and ascending pattern. In the former, human labor is accorded respect and honor simply by receiving attention in the course of a sacred rite. In other words, listeners are reminded that the work of their hands is important to God, as this quote from sociologist James Stockinger eloquently conveys:

Each of us lives in and through an immense movement of the hands of other people. The hands of other people lift us from the womb. The hands of other people grow the food we eat, weave the clothes we wear and build the shelters we inhabit. The hands of other people give aid and comfort in times of affliction and distress. It is in and through the hands of other people that the fruits of the earth are appropriated to the needs of our individual lives. And, in the end, it is the hands of other people that lower us into the earth. (James Stockinger as quoted in “The Good Society” by Robert Bellah et al Knopf, 1991)

The ascending movement of the liturgical sanctification of everyday life is expressed in this quote by theologian Teilhard de Chardin, S.J. who, as a chaplain in World War I, wrote this reflection on the Mass on a day when the required elements of bread and wine were unavailable.

Over there, on the horizon, the sun has just touched with light the outmost fringe of the eastern sky…. I will place on my paten, O God, the harvest to be won by this renewal of labor…
Grant me the remembrance and the mystic presence of all those in office, in laboratory and factory…
Once upon a time men took into your temple the first fruits of their harvests, the flower of their flocks. But the offering you really want, the offering you mysteriously need… is nothing less than the growth of the world….
Receive, O Lord, this all-embracing host which your whole creation…offers you at this dawn of a new day. (Teilhard de Chardin’s “Mass on the World”)

The “all-embracing host” to which Chardin refers is not the bread of the Eucharist, but the work of human hands. He is telling us—through language inspired by the sacred liturgy—that human labor and commerce matter to God and, when offered to God, are sanctified by God.
This joining of our lives to the sacrifice of Christ is vital to the human spirit and lies at the very heart of the Church’s sacrifice of praise. The homily serves the sanctifying nature of the liturgy whenever it endeavors to make holy the offering of our day-to-day life.
The classroom is the proper setting for education. A church provides the place for praise. With this in mind, it should be clear that Christians do not attend the sacred liturgy to be lectured. We come to be sanctified so that, when we return to our regular duties on Monday morning, God might use the resumption of our human labor to sanctify that world to Himself.
In other words, the worship paid to God inside a church begins long before the pipe organ cranks up and the opening hymn is sung. This why preachers who engage the experience of listeners who work in agriculture, sales, construction, communication, health care, etc. place themselves in an ideal position to help the people of God to connect the Word of God with the world in which they live.
There is a saying among the Orthodox: “With the eyes of flesh we see bread and wine upon the altar. With the eyes of faith we see the Body and Blood of Christ.” Can a similar statement be made about the sacramentality of preaching? I.e. “With our human ears we hear about human experience, but with ears of faith we hear the voice of Christ.”
Consider the possibilities with the following texts:
· the prodigal son who runs away from home,
· a wedding reception in the village of Cana that runs short on wine
· a fishing boat suddenly, miraculously full of fish.
That’s what we hear with our human ears. But then, through the preaching of the Word, a transformation occurs.
· the story of the prodigal son melds with the image of a kid loitering outside a 7-11 convenience store
· we find ourselves dancing at a wedding and note the rhythm of grace in the shuffle of our feet and the passing of the years
· we’re fishing with a grandchild on a pond in Indiana or Tennessee but get our minds off “the miracles” all around us.
This is what happens when we worship. We listen to ordinary words but hear the language of angels spoken with a Southern, Minnesotan or Mexican accent.
In a sense, it’s Pentecost all over again as we hear the proclamation of God’s wonderful works in our own language; the deep mysteries of God conveyed in words we understand.
Such is the impact of preaching when partnerships are formed to make connections happen between God’s world and our world.

Part Two: A Brief Look at a Rhetorical Framework

To help us understand the unique rhetorical qualities of homiletic discourse, we’ll compare it to three other categories of preaching.
Throughout the history of the Church, there has existed four distinct types of preaching: Evangelistic, Catechetical, Theological and Homiletic. The following analysis is drawn from Fred Baumer’s doctoral dissertation, “Toward Homiletic as a Rhetorical Genre” (Northwestern University, 1985). In this work, each traditional type of preaching has its unique purpose which can be summarized as follows:

Evangelization: Conversion
Catechesis: Right behavior
Theological argument: Right thought
Homiletic: Worship

Each type of preaching as its own unique content:


Evangelization: Information
Catechesis: Advice
Theological argument: Analysis
Homiletic: Integration

Integration can be viewed in terms similar to those used above to describe sanctification:
· integration places the mysteries of God in the context of ordinary life
· integration enhances the experience of mystical transformation, i.e. God’s presence becomes real through the agency of the spoken word.
In short, integration happens when the preacher, like a blue collar worker, welds our world to God’s world, enabling, for instance, a young boy to think about St. Joseph as he envisions the basement at home and his dad’s work bench in the corner or allowing a visitor to a hospital to recall Christ healing a leper at the sight of a nurse changing a bandage.
Integration is an act of sanctification and illumines the insight at the heart of de Chardin’s words: Receive, O Lord, this all-bracing host, this work of our hands, which all creation offers you at the beginning of this day.”

Part Three: Making the Connections Happen

How is integration accomplished in public discourse? The primary rhetorical strategy used by liturgical preachers is that of description.
The more that preachers can describe the experience of grace in the lives of their listeners, and the more that listeners are willing to share their experience of grace with their preachers, the more effective the homilies become.
The preacher is the one who stands in the midst of the community and cries out: “Look! Here is God! And there is God! And over there, yet another hint of God!”
Through describing such things as the yearning at the heart of human love, the hurt that lies amid the fragments of broken dreams or sketching a vision of a world where terrorists abandon their bombs and lions lie down with lambs, the people of God begin to grasp something of the wonders of the God in whom we live and move and have our being. The result is True Worship, that is, sincere and heartfelt praise, thanksgiving and exultation.
No one accomplishes this important work better than an effective homilist. Here are recommendations to foster a attitude of partnership in preaching within one’s congregation:

1. Introduce a “Take Your Preacher to Work” Initiative
Can you imagine Jesus preaching to roughneck fishermen without ever climbing into one of their boats? Jesus did not shun the work of the dock…or the dust of the field…or the din of the marketplace. His preaching was full of references to ordinary life. Because of this, His words had immediate appeal and lasting effect. So, ask your listeners for a tour of their work place, join a parishioner in the company lunchroom or request an hour or two of “shadowing.” Visit the job sites and the places where your listeners work, and you’ll be following the example of the greatest preacher who ever lived.
2. Enter the Marketplace

Jesus referred to money more often than he mentioned sin. If you include his references to coins and market place, the gospels mention commercial transactions twice as often as they mention the word, “sin.”

3. Form Homily Reflection Groups

Homilists aren’t professors. We’re more like reporters out in the field. A homily reflection group that reviews an early draft of the Sunday homily can help the preacher refine the focus and add detail to make the exposition of a particular passage realistic and compelling.

Conclusion: A Sample Homily

This homily for the Fourth Sunday of Advent illustrates the use of listener input as well as the use of descriptive language in bringing about an experience of “communion” in the context of the Liturgy of the Word.



Do not be afraid, Mary.

We hear those words in today’s gospel,
but as any mother will tell you,
fear and worry fall heavy on the heart.

Do not be afraid, Mary.

But nine months of pregnancy
means nine months of worry.
Will my child be healthy?
Will my child be strong?

Do not be afraid.

What about colic and jaundice;
ear infections, speech impediments?

Do not be afraid.

What about school?
Will my child have friends?
What will I say
when others make fun of my child?

Mary, do not be afraid.

Will my child be brave?
Will my child save the life of someone drowning?
Defend the rights of those shoved aside?

…

Maybe it was here, at this point in the conversation,
that Mary bowed her head
and opened her heart.

And new life in her was conceived.
And the salvation of the world commenced.

It began in fear, but the fear did not flee.

It tugged at her heart
and showed in her eyes
each time the baby’s cry turned shrill,
each time he ran from the house
--as little boys do--
only to come back with a swollen lip
or blood matted in his hair.

Fear.
It was always there, as it is for every mother.
Sometimes muffled,
like the sound of a hammer
in the carpenter shop.

Other times sharp and loud,
like the cries of the crowds that began to gather
on the shore of the sea
to hear the words He would speak.

This son of hers,
this child she carried in her womb
now cradling lepers with open sores
now lifting children into his lap…

This son of hers
now going down to the river,
now going out to the desert
now going out on the sea
to pull in nets of fish
with strong arms bronzed with the sun.

And she knew…(as only a mother can know)…
she knew that one day
bright blood
would string down those arms of his
now so strong, but once so small.

And nails would pierce the hands she once washed.
Because her son’s words were strong, much too strong.

And some day soldiers would come…
she knew they would come…for him.

Do not be afraid. Mary, do not be afraid.

Food, Real Food: 19th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Homily for the Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Third and Final Draft.

Self-assessment: It took awhile to chisel out an effective conclusion. Once I settled upon the connection between "food" and "life and death," I was able to polish up the manuscript at key places. For example, "powerful words" became "urgent words" and at three places I added the line "or the journey will be too much." This adjustment not only emphasized the element of urgency, but it also served to better unite the listerners with Elijah and the mother in the airport. Finally, I deleted the reference to the mother and child in the speech placed in the mouth of Christ in order to sharpen the focus on the urgency of clinging to him.

I hope this analysis proves of some help to other preachers who desire to make Word of God as relevant and compelling as possible for today's Church.

An audio version will be available on the St. Aloysius Gonzaga web site by Tuesday, August 15th. -JMS

No liquids. No gels.
No toothpaste. No mouthwash.
No carry on baggage.

The message went out to all the passengers
in congested security lines at airports
throughout the country this week.
The new restrictions were put in place
after a terrorist plot
to blow ten planes out of the sky
was uncovered and foiled.

Thank God.
Thank God for the men and women who serve and protect us.

I read about the reactions of people delayed at the airports.
The vast majority of travelers, it seems,
were more than willing to throw away their toiletries
in exchange for some assurance of safety.

All liquids—shampoo, perfume, cologne—had to go.
Only one exception was made;
one exception alone permitted:
Baby formula.

I read an article
about a mother tasting her baby’s formula
in front of a security agent
to demonstrate that it was food,
authentic nourishment
for the infant in her arms.

Food, obviously, is more important than shampoo.
Not even the threat of terrorism
is going to stop a mother
from feeding her child.

I thought of the scene of that mother and child in the airport
when I read today’s passage
about the prophet Elijah where it says:
“An angel touched him and said him:
Eat, Elijah. Get up and eat,
else the journey will be too much for you.”

I suspect the mother said a similar thing
to the security guard.

“Sir, my baby has to eat. She needs to eat.
Or the journey will be too much for her.”

Can you hear the urgency in her words…?
her insistence standing rock solid it the swirl
of the confusion and fear of that day?

“Sir, it’s not shampoo. It’s not a bomb.
“It’s food, real food.”

Powerful words!
Words that contain an urgency
similar to what we find in the gospel today when Jesus
shouts out above the crowd:
“I am the living bread come down from.
Eat this bread, you shall not die!”

“I am your food,” says the Lord.

Jesus spoke these words situation packed with tension.
The crowd pressed in, confusion broke out.

On that day he spoke his words of truth
in the midst of mayhem.

And he did so again last week.
In crowed airports across this country
the Word of God was revealed to those with ears to ear:

Oh, my people!
Throw off the baggage,
discard the handbags.
All of you, listen, hear the announcement!

You men dressed for business in Atlanta.
You newly weds headed for Kingston Bay.
Remove the ipods, pitch the computers.

Cling to me.

Cling to me.
Forget the gel.
Forget the shampoo.
I am your food.
I am your food.

Today, you and I find ourselves in this transportation terminal
we call a church.
The reason we’re here is because
God is our food,
Christ is our bread.

Without this bread
the journey will be too much for us.

Do you grasp what this means?
Do you grasp the power in the words
Christ speaks to us today:

“I myself and the living bread come down from heaven.
Eat this bread, you shall live!
Eat this bread, you’ll never die!”

Second Revised Draft.

No more gels. No more liquids.
No toothpaste. No mouthwash..
No more carry on baggage.

The message went out to all the passengers
in the congested security line
at the airport terminals this past week.
The new restrictions were put in place in record time
after a terrorist plot
to blow ten planes out of the sky
was foiled.

Thank God.
Thank God for the men and women who serve and protect us.

I read about the reactions of people delayed at the airports.
The vast majority of travelers
were more than willing to throw away their toiletries
in exchange for the assurance of safety.

All liquids—shampoo, perfume, cologne—had to go.
Only one exception was made;
one exception alone permitted:
Baby formula.

I saw a picture of a mother tasting her baby’s formula
to demonstrate that it was food,
authentic nourishment,
genuine food for the infant in her arms.

I thought of that scene when I read God’s Word
as revealed to Elijah:
“An angel touched him and said him:
Eat, Elijah. Get up and eat.”

I suspect the mother said a similar thing
to the security guard.

“My baby has to eat. She needs to eat.”

Can you hear the power of her words
in the midst of the confusion and fear?

“It’ not shampoo. It’s not a bomb.
“It’s food, real food.”

Such is the power of Jesus’ words in the Gospel of John:
“I am the living bread come down from.
Eat this bread, you shall not die!”

“I am your food,” says the Lord.

Jesus spoke these words
in a tense situation.
The crowd pressed in, confusion broke out.

On that day he spoke his words of truth
in the midst of mayhem.

He does so again today:
Even in a crowded airports,
the air thick with apprehension,
the Word of God is revealed to those with ears to ear:

Oh, my people!
Throw off the baggage,
discard the handbags.
All of you, listen, hear the announcement!

You men dressed for business in Atlanta.
You newly weds headed for Kingston Bay.
Remove the ipods, itch the computers.

Cling to me.

Look and see:
A hungry child cries for food.
And the food shall not be taken away.

Cling to me.
Forget the gel.
Forget the shampoo.
I am your food.
I am your food.

Today, you and I find ourselves in this transportation terminal
we call a church.
The reason we’re here is because
God is our food,
Christ is our bread.

Can you hear the power in those words?
Do you know the power of those words?
Receive his Body. And live forever.

A Light in Darkness: Feast of the Transfiguration

Homily for the Feast of the Transfiguration

(Final Draft. And by the way, thanks to Vic for pointing out the weak transitions in the first draft. His observations made me realize that the logical progression of images and ideas was in bad shape. If you wish to compare, the weak version is posted directly below this one. If you wish to hear the delivery, it’ll be posted on the St. Aloysius web page on Monday. ---JMS)

Memories are important.

I have a sister whose pastime is genealogical research.
An entire room in her house is stacked full of
old photographs, correspondence, newspaper clippings…
all kinds of memorabilia related to the history of our family.

Memories are important.

In our church office, we have file drawers designated:
“The Archives of St. Aloysius Parish.”
Like my sister’s genealogical collection,
these drawers contain lots of pictures:
pastors and school principals,
students and festival workers.
Along with maps of the parish and minutes of meetings;
lists of baptisms, confirmations, weddings and funerals.

Memories are important.

I’m sure that every house, apartment and condo in this parish
has a similar place set aside
for the preservation of certain memories:
the fireplace mantle with its photographs of weddings and graduations;
a chest at the foot of a bed that holds a quilt
stitched by Grandma Neiheisel or Grandma Nusekabel,
perhaps a soldier’s rosary from 1945,
a mother’s day card from 1957,
a ticket stub to a Red’s game at Crosley Field.

I mention these items because,
as we look into today’s passages from God’s Word,
we come across an ancient letter from St. Peter.
And as we open its brittle pages yellowed with age,
we find Peter reflecting on a memory of an eventful day.

He describes the day of the Transfiguarion
on which he and James and John
climbed Mt. Tabor at the side of Christ
and, at the peak of the mountain, witnessed extraordinary, dazzling events!

“With our own eyes,” he says,
“we saw his majesty.
We ourselves heard the voice of God!”

Imagine what that day must have been like
for those Jewish men of that time and place!

They had witness God’s confirmation of the long awaited Messiah!
This Jesus—this rabbi
who fished with them
and laughed with them
and had chosen them to be his friends and disciples—
this rabbi was actually the Anointed One of God, the very Son of God.

They saw it!
They heard it!
The glory of heaven!
A brilliant, dazzling light!

They could barely believe it!
They wanted to shout it!
How could they possibly contain it?
How could they keep it to themselves?

Yet, that is what they were instructed to do.
That was the order Jesus gave them
the strict policy he handed down
as they made their way
back down the mountain.

And now, after all those years, Peter knew why.
And that’s what he’s reflecting on in this letter.

You see, at the time the vision took place,
they were not far from Jerusalem.
Soon Peter and his fishing buddies
would have their faith tested and their hopes dashed.

Soon the dazzling light of salvation of the world
would sputter beneath the shadow of the cross…
not reappear until the morning of the Resurrection.

So, if you ask me, Peter sounds a bit melancholy
as he writes this letter.
Like someone sifting through old memories in an attic,
there’s a tinge of sadness.

His memory of that burst of heaven’s light
has turned into “a small flame,”
a flickering light pushing aside the darkness of the night.

“Keep your eyes on the promise,” he writes,
“as you would on lamp shining in a dark place.
Remember the promise…
hold on to the promise….”

There is wisdom here.
Peter’s pointing to the hope and reassurance
that strong memories contain.

(And we all know how powerful some memories are.)

Like the love scribbled at the bottom
of a Mother’s Day card,

like the courage soldered into the metal
of a Purple Heart…

Well, Peter is telling us to rely on the memory he’s passing on to us.
The memory of how God’s promise of light
did not give way to the power of the night.

“Hold on to the promise,
do not forget the promise!”
….

So, be thankful for the memories Peter has left us.
Be grateful that the voice of Peter
echoes strong within the Roman Catholic Church.

Be thankful also,
that we are not left with memories alone.

Rather, the light of the risen Christ shines on in our world today,
As the Bible say, “no darkness can ever extinguish it.”

It lives in lives of people like you and me…
lives lived with hope…
hope in the promises of Christ.

________________________

FIRST DRAFT:


Homily for the Feast of the Transfiguration

[Your feedback and constructive criticism is invited. Please e-mail me at jms48@fuse.net]


Memories are important.
And some memories are more important than others.

I have a sister whose pastime is genealogical research.
An entire room in her house is stacked full of
old photographs, correspondence, newspaper clippings,
copies of deeds and all kinds of memorabilia related to the history of our family.

In our church office, we have file drawers designated:
“The Archives of St. Aloysius Parish.”
Like the room housing my sister’s genealogical collection,
these drawers contain pictures of pastors and school principals,
students and dances and festivals
as well as maps of the parish and minutes of meetings
and lists of baptisms, confirmations, weddings and funerals.

And I’m sure that every house, apartment and condo in this parish
has a similar place set aside
for the preservation of certain memories:
the fireplace mantle with its photographs of weddings and graduations;
a chest at the foot of a bed that holds a quilt stitched by Grandma Neiheisel,
a box with a hand-carved pipe from Ireland,
a soldier’s rosary from 1945,
a mother’s day card from 1957,
a ticket stub to a Red’s game at Crosley Field.

I mention these items because,
as we look into today’s passages from God’s Word,
we come across an ancient letter from St. Peter.
And as we open its brittle pages yellowed with age,
we find Peter reflecting on memory of an eventful day.

He describes the day on which he and James and John
climbed Mt. Tabor at the side of Christ
and witnessed that extraordinary, dazzling event called
The Transfiguration.

“With our own eyes,” he says,
“we saw his majesty.”

“And we ourselves heard the voice of God!”

Like an old man holding a silver medal in the palm of his hand,
you can hear the melancholy in his voice.

The event is now long in the past,
but the memory of that amazing day remains:
the dazzling light blazes anew!
The powerful Voice reverberates again!

But it is all a memory now, a distant memory.

In his own words,
Peter describes the light
no longer as a burst of sunlight crowning the hilltop,
but rather a small flame pushing aside the darkness of the night.

“Keep your eyes on the promise,” urges the aging saint.
“Keep you eyes on the promise as you would
a lamp shining in a dark place.”
He nods and his fingers tap the parchment.
“Until day dawns,” he says,
“and the morning star rises in your hearts.”

There is deep wisdom here in the memory of St. Peter.
Because, as you know, back on that mountaintop day
of majestic power and brilliant light,
Peter and James and John were inclined to shout out the wonder of it all.
Indeed, their hearts were pounding in their chests!
They had witness God’s confirmation of the long awaited Messiah!
This Jesus—this rabbi who fished with them and laughed with them
and had chosen them and was not in the process of teaching them—this young rabbi
was the Anointed One of God, the very Son of God.
They saw it!
They heard it!
They could barely believe it!

How could they possibly contain it?
How could they keep it to themselves?

Yet, that is what they were instructed to do.
That was the order Jesus gave them as they came down the mountainside.

And now, after all those years, Peter knew why.

For on that day, up ahead, lay Jerusalem.
The city that slaughtered prophets
and would soon crucify the Son of God.

Soon he himself would witness
the dazzling light of salvation
sputtering beneath the shadow of the cross…
seemingly extinguished…
not reappear until the morning of the Resurrection.

How hard a lesson to apprehend,
this prophetic message of promise amid a pressing darkness.

Yet, such is the message we’ve been given
and it’s one to which we cling.

Like the love scribbled at the bottom
of a Mother’s Day card,
like the courage soldered into the metal
of a Purple Heart…
like the endurance written into a contract,
like the memory of youthful exuberance reflected in a trophy…

like these memories, strong and vibrant memories,
so too the proclamation of the ancient Word of God
shores us up!

Not only that, there’s more!

The salvation made tangible in the Sacraments of the Church
also keeps strong our faith…
no matter the times or circumstances in which we live.

Yes, the voice of Peter echoes strong within the Church.
And the light of faith will lead us to Christ.

We are not left with memories stuffed away in an attic chest.
Rather, we live in the light of the risen Christ.
The promise inscribed in the Word of God assures us of this:
the light of our faith “shines on in darkness,”
truly it’s a light that “no darkness can ever extinguish.”