13th:Sunday of Ordinary Time: The Adventure of St. Al's

Farewell Homily for St. Al's Parish - Second Draft
(A new assignment at St. Michael Chruch, Ripley, Ohio and St. George Church, Georgetown, Ohio begins on July 2nd)

Today’s gospel,
about leaving home and family,
brings to mind
a conversation with a young man from our parish
this past week.

His name’s Jon and he’s home from college
with a summer job driving a delivery truck.

His boss, evidently, recognizes a good worker when he sees one.
He keeps asking Jon about his career plans.

“I don’t know what to tell him,” Jon says to me.
“I don’t want a career.
I want adventure.”

I look at Jon and tell him:
“I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

“You do?” he asks.
“You bet,” I say.
“It’s the reason I became a priest.”

* * *

Now, some of you here today
might not associate a religious vocation
with a life of adventure,
but I do.

Listen to the words in today’s gospel
and you’ll know why:

“Foxes have dens and birds have nests
but the Son of Man has nowhere to rest his head.”

That’s a call to adventure.
That’s a call to be ready to respond
at a moment’s notice.

In other words,
if you like creature comforts…
if you’re satisfied with the way things are…
don’t bother to apply.Now, as soon as the Lord says this,
someone hollers from the crowd,
“Lord, I want to follow you.
Let me say good-be to my family.”
His reply?

“You’re out of here, man!
If you’re going to look back,
you’re not fit to come along.”

Jesus makes it real clear:
Give all you got
or get left behind.

The risks are high,
the sacrifice great.

No doubt about it,
the call to adhere yourself
to Christ is a call to adventure.

My point here is that Jesus doesn’t deal in career options.
He’s not interested in your resume.

Rather, he hands you the cross,
looks you in eye and asks,
“Are you up to it?”

* * *

That’s what he asks of you,
that what he asks of me.

To follow Christ means to offer
all you are
and all have
and be ready to respond at a moment’s notice.


When the Lord sent me here to St. Al’s
I was given the charge to join you in an adventure,
the adventure of walking with you before the face of God.


an adventure that encompassed the effort
of helping you teach your children right from wrong
in a society enamored of sin
the adventure of hearing the Word of God
in a 24-hour world of bad news
the challenge of clinging to the Sacraments of the Church
at a time in history
when nothing—not even human love—is considered holy.

The call is tough,
the call is real,
the call is vital.

The call of the Gospel is nothing
if not a call to adventure.

(You know, now and then the Lord looks at me and asks,
“You still up it?”
I swallow head, he nods and says,
“Keep going.”)

* * *

Today, I want to tell you what a privilege it’s been
to share the adventure with you here at St. Al’s.

You are a wonderful parish
and I hope I served you well.

Over the last six years
you’ve invited me into your homes
and taken me with you to work.

I’ve celebrated with you
the joy of baptizing your children.

I’ve prayed for your salvation
and the release of your burdens and sins.

I’ve urged you to see the face of Christ
in co-workers on the job site
and strangers on the street.

I’ve counseled you
in times of uncertainty and fear.

I’ve led you in worship of the living God

* * *

And you, in turn, returned the favor.

Again and again,
you revived my hope through the witness of your faith.

You showed me the goodness of the Church
in a time of scandal and despair.

You showed me the power of love
in your dedication to the poor.

You showed me the energy of the Holy Spirit
in the countless activities, projects and programs
that make up the life of this active and vibrant parish.

Again and again,
you showed me the face of Christ

when I visited your homes

when I prayed with you in the hospital

when I joined you at graveside

when I heard you call out to God in your deepest needs

* * *

It’s true what the Lord says:
Foxes have their dens, the birds have their nests.

But through his grace
I’ve come to know that,
when you walk with others before the face of God,
home is everywhere you go.

You and me—we’ve walked the road together.

It’s been a privilege for me to share the journey with you.

It’s been an honor…
an adventure beyond compare.








[First Draft follows]

Today’s gospel,
about leaving home and family,
brings to mind
a conversation I had
with a young man from our parish
this past week.

Jon’s home from college
with a summer job driving a delivery truck.

His boss keeps
asking him about his career plans.

“I don’t know what to tell,” he said.
“I don’t want a career.
I want adventure.”

He went on to talk about how making money doesn’t interest him,
but lending a hand to those in does:
rebuilding houses destroyed by Hurricane Katrina,
teaching Bible classes to those in prison,
being a Big Brother to a kid without a dad…
these are the things he’s doing in college
and there’re the things that bring him fulfillment.

He wants more than a career,
he wants an adventure.

“My boss just shakes his head,”
Jon said.
“He doesn’t understand.”

“But I do,” I told him.
“I know exactly what you’re talking about.
It’s the reason I became a priest.”

* * *

Now, some of you here today
might not associate a religious vocation
with a life of adventure,
but I do.

Listen to the words in today’s gospel
and you’ll know why:

“Foxes have dens and birds have nests
but the Son of Man has nowhere to rest his head.”

In other words,
if you like creature comforts,
don’t even bothering to apply.Someone hollers from the crowd,
“Lord, I want to follow you.
Let me say farewell to my family.”
How does Jesus reply?

“You’re out of here!
If you’re going to look back,
you’re not fit to come along.”

Give all you got
or get left behind.

He makes it real clear:
the risks are high,
the sacrifice great.

No doubt about it,
the call to adhere yourself
to Christ is a call to adventure.

Jesus doesn’t deal in career options.
He’s not interested in your resume.

Rather, he hands you the cross,
looks you in eye and asks,
“Are you up to it?”

* * *

That’s what he asks of you,
that what he asks of me.

And that’s why he sent me to this parish:
to walk with you before the face of God
and join in the adventure…

the adventure of teaching your children right from wrong
in a society enamored of sin;

the quest to discern the Word of God
in a 24-hour world of bad news;

the challenge to cling to the sacraments of the Church
at a time in history
when nothing—not even human love—is considered holy.

Now and then, the Lord looks at me and asks,
“Are you up it, Jim?
You’re still up it, aren’t you?”

I’m here to tell you,
when I was ordained a priest a quarter century ago,
I never thought it’d be so hard.

But then again, I never dreamt it would such an adventure.

And it’s been a privilege to share the adventure with you.

This is why I came to you:
to join you, for a time, on the road to heaven,
to walk beside you and point out the grace along the way.

I’ve urged you to recognize the face of Christ
in your co-workers,

I’ve prayed that you would know his forgiveness
when you sinned

I’ve celebrated with you the joy
at the birth of a child

I’ve counseled you to put your trust in Jesus
in times of uncertainty and fear.

I’ve led you in worship of the living God

The reason I came was to walk at your side,
for a brief while,
before the face of God.

* * *

And you, in turn, returned the favor.

Again and again,
you revived my hope
in the many ways you together
to keep St. Al’s a strong and vital community.

You strengthened my faith
in your dedication to the poor,
in your search for truth about God
in your efforts to share your faith with others.

Again and again,
you have shown me the power of faith at work:

when I visited your homes

when I prayed with you in the hospital

when I joined you at graveside

when I heard you call out to Christ in your deepest need.

* * *

It’s true what the Lord says:
Foxes have their dens, the birds have their nests.

But through his grace and the acceptance of his call,
I’ve come to know that
when you walk with others before the face of God,
home is everywhere you go.

You and me—we’ve walked the road together.

It’s been a privilege for me;
an adventure beyond compare.

Nativity of John the Baptist: How Hard did the Baby Cry?

“What manner of child shall this be?”

That’s a question found in the gospel passage today.
But the question on my mind is this:

How hard did the baby cry?

Today we celebrate the birth of the great prophet, John the Baptist.
But what I want to know is how hard did John cry
on the day of his birth.

Did the child born of Elizabeth and Zechariah
wail in protest in practice for the day
when he’d assail the leaders of the land
with harsh cries of condemnation,
a throat cleared of phlegm,
a voice guttural with the pain of the oppressed?

How hard, on the day of his birth,did that baby cry?

In Luke’s account, all marvel at the work of God.
Yet the child whose birth we celebrate today
would one day elbow his way from the confines of the priestly home
and, barefoot, scale rock-strewn hills and stand atop sharp, chiseled rock
and yell “Prepare!” “Confess!” “Repent!”
Now. Before it’s too late.
Locust wings glinting like spit in wisps of beard,
he’d talk of axes and preach about destruction.

Just how hard did that baby cry?

* * *

This feast we celebrate today is unique.It’s one of only three birthdays commemorated
on the liturgical calendar of the Roman Catholic Church.
We celebrate the birth of our Savior.
We celebrate the birth of Mary, our Mother.
And celebrate the birth of John the prophet.

We rejoice in the love of Mary.
We exult in the strength of Christ.

But the words of the prophet,
while heralding the approach of the world’s salvation,
also draw our attention to the sound of children crying in the night,
the stomp of Herod’s soldiers in the alleys of Bethlehem,
the muddy water of sin swirling about the feet and ankles
of all of us who dare to take our place on the bank of the river, saying,
“Save me, Lord, from the dangers of the world.
Save us, Lord, from the fears in our souls.”

Why?
Because this is what a prophet is born to do.
The vocation of the prophet
rests in revealing the truth.
And the truth that the prophet reveals
resides in the fact that the world is broken
and God alone can fix it.

How hard did that baby cry?

* * *

I met a friend on a street with a cast on his arm.
I joked and asked,
“What happened, Dave? You fall off your bike?”

He didn’t smile.
He lost his brother a month ago.
He told me he slammed the wall in anger one night.

How hard does a prophet cry?

A father turns on the ballgame,
feels a shiver of pride as the flag flaps in the wind
and the strains of the national anthem fill the room.

But at his feet lies the morning paper
with news of bombings in Iraq.
On top the TV the framed portrait of his daughter in uniform
sends a shiver of panic to his gut.

How deep does a prophet weep?

A college student
takes a spring break trip to Cancun
and gets on the wrong bus on the second day,
a but headed for the barrio instead of the resort.
A mother shoves baby into muscled chest and bronzed arms
of the marketing major, fraternity-pledged student from the suburbs
of the United States.
The baby is a living skeleton covered with sores.

How hard does that baby cry?

How hard does the prophet wail?

* * *
Zechariah takes the child into his arms and says,
“You, my child, shall be called the prophet of the Most High,
for you shall go before the Lord to prepare his way.”

Has the road been cleared?
Is the highway open?

How soon returns the Savior?
How smooth the approach?

11th Sunday in Ordinary Time: Forgiveness to Cry For

Forgiveness.

That’s a tough word to understand, isn’t it?

You might say it’s a word custom-make to trip you up.

When life’s going good, for instance,
and we’re moving along just fine,
some bully throws a log in our path,
and we stumble.

When that happens
we respond as best we can:
to pick ourselves up and get back on our feet.

But, then the word forgiveness
and we stumble all over again.

Why?
Because, when life gives us push
or someone shoves us in the back,
resentment gets under our skin
as easy as dirt infects an abrasion.

And it’s hard to catch your balance
when you’ve already been thrown off balance.

That’s why I say the word forgiveness
is custom-made to trip you up.

* * *

But sometimes the problem is not in the feet.
There are times when forgiveness gets caught in the throat
and makes us choke.

This happens when the tables are turned,
when we’re the one committing the foul in the game…
.
when we’re the one doing the tripping.
when we’re the one to blame,

Think about it,
when get caught, what do we do?

Why, we press our back in the corner and choke out a plea:

“Sorry. Didn’t mean it. Honest. (We clear our throat).
Forgive me, all right?
I said I’m sorry. Okay? Al right? (choke, choke).”

That’s what we do when we screw up and get caught.
We cough up the word forgiveness
and hope for the best.


So, let me summarize my points so far:
1. When someone trips us up,
we resent the expectation to forgive.
2. When we ourselves screw up,
the words, “I’m sorry,” get caught in the throat.


Now, let’s take a look at today’s gospel.

What’s its “take” on the word forgiveness?

Interestingly enough,
it tells us that the experience of forgiveness,
isn’t a matter of stumbling or muttering or choking on some words.

Rather, according to the Gospel,
the experience of forgiveness—I talking about true, undeserved forgiveness—
makes you sob.

* * *

Just ask the woman in today’s gospel passage.

Better yet, ask yourself.

How did it feel the last time
you experienced forgiveness

for something
so embarrassing,
so humiliating
so…unforgivable…


that the only response was to break down and sob?


You probably don’t want to talk it, do you?

You prefer not to call it to mind, am I right?

Then again, maybe the Lord hasn’t yet brought you far enough down the road
of spiritual maturity
to give that blessing.

If it hasn’t happened yet, it’s going to. Someday.

We’re all sinners, writes St. Paul in his Letter to the Romans.
We all far short.

Forgiveness. What’s it like to experience pure, underserved forgiveness?

The Bible provides a couple of examples.

St. Peter entered experience
through in the gray light of early dawn
when he heard the rooster crow,
and the jangle of the jailer’s key
and his words of denial
echo off the courtyard wall
outside the Jerusalem jail.

This weekend the woman with jar of oil enters the experience
amid the sound of jeers and ridicule
the night she crashes the party at the home of Simon the Pharisee.

* * *

What about you?

If you’re like me,
you resist the experience.

When I mess up,
I try to make it right.

When I fall down,
I’m quick to get up.

When I fall behind,
I double my efforts.

But God doesn’t ask for that.
He doesn’t expect that.

He just wants you to receive it.

The gift. His gift. The gift of forgiveness.

Total, undeserved forgiveness.

* * *

When you’re ready, he’ll hand it to you.

When he does,
you’ll never be the same.