Mark 10:45

Category: Homily

  • Embracing God’s Promise: The Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes

    Embracing God’s Promise: The Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes

    Genesis 1:20—2:4a

    As you heard, the reading from Genesis ended with the seventh day. Did you notice that, unlike the first six days, the author didn’t say, “Evening came and morning followed – the seventh day”? That’s his way of telling us that this day is different; it symbolizes a relationship with God that was never meant to end, when Heaven is united to Earth in perfect unity and peace. As we all know, it didn’t take long for sin to disrupt that union. Still, as God shows throughout the rest of the Bible, He is always willing to offer us healing and restore that peace.

    One way God continues to do that is through the Blessed Mother. We remember particularly today her appearances in France in1858, near the small town of Lourdes. Many who have visited there have experienced God’s healing power through her intercession. Not only that, Mary’s message of trust, compassion, and renewal is a wonderful reminder that God’s mercy is always available, that He’s always calling us into a more and more sacred union with Him – like that of the seventh day.

    Who doesn’t long for that kind of peace? What joy, what happiness! It may seem like a dream, especially to many of us, who find life burdensome and full of struggles. While it’s easy to get discouraged, remember something Mary said to Bernadette at Lourdes: “I cannot promise you happiness in this life; only in the next.” I think from that we can take at least two things:

    First, while we cannot run away from the problems and struggles in this life, we do have this life. Every day, every breath, is a gift of God to us. Why not set aside a few extra moments to thank Him for life, for the privilege of waking up, being able to be here, and most of all for the gift of His Only Son, our Lord, Jesus Christ? And, as we receive Christ, thank him for keeping the promise he made to the Eleven: I am with you always, until the end of the age (Matthew 28:20). He is always with us, always at work in our lives. Those few quiet, thankful moments never go unrewarded, and mean the most when coming from the hearts of those who suffer; God always finds ways to restore in us a measure of peace, like the healing water of Lourdes.

    Second, Our Lady reminded Bernadette about happiness in the life to come. Healing and rest are not only possible, they’re God’s promise to us! So, even when peace eludes us and life feels out of control, try to do what Mary did: Trust in God’s perfect plan and remember that He is in control. Our strength and comfort come from not from anything we can do, but from knowing that our eternal rest is secure in His love and that, if we unite our will to His and Our Lady has done, then, like her, we will one day be with God and know the unity and peace that only He can give.

    May the intercession of Our Lady of Lourdes guide us toward daily moments of rest and healing, helping us rediscover that perfect union of the seventh day – a union where every day holds the bright promise of God’s eternal, loving rest.

    —

  • Vulnerability: The Path to True Love

    Vulnerability: The Path to True Love

    Saturday of the 4th Week in Ordinary Time

    Hebrews 13:15-17, 20-21; Psalm 23:1-6; Mark 6:30-34

    When I was a kid, my cousin and I debated many important things, like whose comic book superhero was better. I said Spiderman, he said Superman. When I asked him why Superman was better, he said, “Simple. He’s invulnerable. Spiderman isn’t.” I had to look up ‘invulnerable.’ Turns out it means Superman is immune or highly resistant to physical damage, injury or disease and illness. In other words, he’s almost impossible to hurt.

    Of course, in real life things are different. We all know, especially as we age, that the human body is quite vulnerable. So is the human heart; certainly parents, children, and spouses feel in their lives that connection between love and suffering. Indeed, some people are afraid to love others for just that reason; they don’t want to be hurt.

    But I don’t think it can be any other way. Why? Because, to be genuine, love requires vulnerability. We see that even with the first step: trust. Psalm 23 reminds us that God is our Shepherd and calls us to trust Him. With what? Our entire self! Placing ourselves wholly in His care requires total openness and surrender – in other words, being vulnerable. The psalmist beautifully expresses this trust when he says, Even though I walk in the dark valley I fear no evil; for you are at my side (Psalm 23:4). Such trust isn’t about relying on our own strength, but surrendering to the guidance of the Good Shepherd.

    Then in Mark 6:30-34, Jesus shows us the payoff for that. When he saw the people’s hunger – not just for food, but for guidance and meaning – their vulnerability moved Him with pity. This is love in its purest form, empathetic and totally self-giving. Christ can only love totally, so he doesn’t shy away from their neediness, but embraces and fills it. This is what happens when we let go of control and allow ourselves to show Him that we are in need.

    We see this in the life of St. Josephine Bakhita. Torn from her home as a child, subjected to cruelty, and stripped of control, she had no choice but to be vulnerable. However, when she encountered Christ, she found that vulnerability isn’t just a condition of suffering, but also the gateway to love. She learned to trust in God’s love, not to hide her wounds, physical or emotional, but to give them to him, and allow him lead her to peace and healing. Her decision to forgive those who hurt her was an act of profound love, requiring the courage to let go of resentment and trust in God’s justice.

    Just as in human relationships, where love requires the risk of being hurt, our relationship with God requires us to move beyond fear and trust in His guidance. When we let down our guard and allow Him to be our Shepherd, we experience a love that is not only protective but also transformative. In so doing, we mirror Christ Himself, who made Himself vulnerable for our sake; taking on human suffering, loving to the death, and ultimately revealing that true love is not about self-preservation, but about self-giving. That is the irony of love: Only by giving ourselves away do we ever really find ourselves.

    —

  • Nourishing the Heart

    Nourishing the Heart

    Wednesday of the 3rd Week in Ordinary Time

    Hebrews 10:11-18; Mark 4:1-20

    A man who lives not far away from me has made it clear that he really loves his lawn. It seems like every time I pass by, he’s out working on it. The effort shows; his lawn is the nicest I’ve seen. As for mine, I don’t do half what he does, and that shows, too. If you just pass by it, it may look fine, but trust me – if you stop and take a closer look, you’ll see way too many weeds lurking in the soil.

    In the gospel, Jesus has made it clear that he’s also concerned about soil, but of a very different kind: the soil of our hearts. He certainly made the conditions ripe for growth, as the Author of Hebrews told us when he said, For by one offering he has made perfect forever those who are being consecrated (10:14). And not only that, God has planted the Word in our hearts (10:16). So, the issue Christ wants us to consider is, what have we done with that soil? Is it rich, soft, and full of growth like my neighbor’s, or is it more like mine – looking OK from a distance but, on closer inspection, full of weeds and hard patches where little grows? I have to ask myself:

    • Do I spend too much time on work, social media, or other entertainment? If so, then some “fasting” is called for; I need to stop the overwork, cut back the hours on the internet and TV, and use that time to deepen my relationship with God, my family, friends, and those who need my time and attention.
    • Do I worry about money, relationships, or success, rather than entrusting myself to God? If so, then I need to replace that worry with prayer, asking God to give me the grace to remove distractions from my heart, that I may bear better fruit.
    • Speaking of fruit, what about the fruits of the Spirit? Looking at myself over these past months, have I become more loving, patient, kind, etc. (the fruits listed in Galatians 5:22-23)? If not, what sins are hindering their growth or hardening my heart? Nothing softens that soil like a good examination of conscience.
    • If I resist that kind of examination, I have to ask myself whether I really trust in Christ’s saving work on the cross, as we heard in Hebrews, or if I rely more on my own strength and understanding. The antidotes to such pride are humility and fortitude; humility, that I accept whatever correction and guidance I’m given from Scripture, Church teachings, or spiritual mentors, and fortitude, that I may put it into practice.

    Being the good soil our Lord wants is hard and sometimes painful work. Bad habits or ways of thinking that have formed over many years are like hardened soil that must be dug into, broken up, and turned over. Such transformation will not happen in a day or without His grace. But if we ask, and commit to working at it diligently, Christ will give us the grace needed to soften our heart, remove the weeds of sin, and nourish the seeds of faith. Only in this way can we be the soil that bears fruit for the Kingdom of God thirty and sixty and a hundredfold (Mark 4:20).

    —

  • A Divine Prescription for Healing

    A Divine Prescription for Healing

    Saturday of the 1st Week in Ordinary Time

    Hebrews 4:12-16; Mark 2:13-17

    When we’re sick and have to see the doctor, we have a pretty good idea what’s going to happen: We’ll give an account of our symptoms, get a physical exam, then treatment, which means surgery if necessary. It’s been that way probably for as long as there’s been medicine, so it’s interesting how the Author of the Letter to the Hebrews goes in reverse order: First comes the surgery with the two-edged sword, then the exam, then we render an account (Hebrews 4:12).

    Why? I think he’s trying to say that having Jesus minister to our sinfulness is completely unlike any other “doctor-patient” relationship because, unlike other doctors, he already knows everything about us, and his diagnosis and treatment are perfect. So the question really is, are we going to be a good patient and listen to him, accept his diagnosis, and do what’s necessary to be healed?

    If we need any reminders about what’s necessary, Jesus has made at least three things clear in this week’s gospel stories from Mark.

    First, we must show him our faith. We won’t be healed without it. It can be our own faith, as with the leper, or we can rely in part on the faith of those around us, as Simon’s mother-in-law, the demoniac, or the paralytic did. We can show our faith immediately, as Levi and the other Apostles did, or we can be more tentative; either way, we’re going to be tested and must pray for the perseverance to keep going. That’s what happened to the Apostles; they frequently struggled to understand much of what Jesus said and did, but, except for Judas, none of them gave up. That’s what Jesus wants us to do, too.

    Second, remember the medicine of mercy. We know how good it feels, and how healing it can be to forgive those who have hurt us, or to ask forgiveness of those we have hurt. In addition, there is the mercy of reaching out to other people who are hurting or in need. Recall in the gospel today the mercy of our Lord, who simply shared a meal with tax-collectors and sinners – people the Pharisees dismissed. Those who reach out in this way in imitation of Christ, who sympathizes with our weaknesses (Hebrews 4:15), are what Fr. Henri Nouwen called “wounded healers” – people who, recalling their own feelings of inadequacy, anger, sadness, grief, or loneliness, reach out in empathy to care for and bring a measure of healing to others who struggle with those same feelings. In so doing, wounded healers help heal themselves.


    Third, we must be willing to endure the pain of healing. Many of us have gone through physical therapy, so we know that pain is often a part of healing. But we also know this pain is different from the pain of illness, for it comes from strengthening areas that need to be exercised so we can be whole again. It’s the same in the spiritual life. For Apostles such as Levi, it may have been the pain of poverty, of leaving everything behind to follow Christ; for the Pharisees, the pain of humility, of realizing that the people they thought beneath them are loved by God as much as they are; and for the tax-collectors and sinners, the pain of justice, of reforming their lives and becoming the righteous people they were called to be. For us, it depends on the symptoms, but whatever they are, the Divine Physician has the remedy. Let us pray to have and show the faith by which he heals us, the humility to ask for and accept his healing, and the courage to persevere until the end.

    —

  • Risking Everything

    Risking Everything

    Memorial of St. Elizabeth Ann Seton

    John 1:35-42

    Today’s gospel is the same one chosen to formally welcome those who wish to become full members of the Church, or seek a deeper understanding of it. We can see why; two disciples follow Christ, spend time with him, and are so affected by that encounter that they in turn become evangelizers and bring people to Christ. It’s also the perfect gospel to consider our saint of the day, Elizabeth Ann Seton; her life as an American, a woman, and a Catholic, shines a light on this story that helps us better understand the depth and complexity of the call of Christ, its cost, and its rewards.

    Born in New York City in 1774 into a wealthy Episcopalian family, Elizabeth was intelligent, devout, and beautiful; a prize for any young man of her time. In 1793, she wed a handsome young businessman, William Magee Seton, and in nine years was the mother of 5 children. Although she also had to care for William’s siblings, whose parents had both died, Elizabeth was a busy but happy homemaker.

    Unfortunately, disaster soon struck. William’s business began to fail, and, even worse, so did his health. Hoping warmer weather would help his tuberculosis, the Setons and their eldest daughter sailed to Northern Italy to stay with William’s business friends, the Filicchi family. This didn’t work. William died in December of 1803, leaving Elizabeth a widow with 5 young children and a failed business.

    This would hardly be the time we’d expect Christ to turn and say, “Come, and you will see,” but that’s exactly what happened. While caring for Elizabeth and her daughter, the Filicchis went about their lives, which included Catholicism. They never pressured Elizabeth, but did invite her to join them. Having been warned earlier about the dangers of the “smells and bells of Catholicism” by her spiritual director, Elizabeth observed guardedly at first. However, as time passed and she began to see the rhythm of devout Catholic life – including daily Mass, Eucharistic Adoration, and devotion to the Blessed Mother – she felt Christ calling her in a way she never had before. Coming across a copy of the Memorare, she was so moved by it that it became one of her favorite prayers. Finally, watching a procession on Corpus Christi, Elizabeth found herself on her knees with the Catholics as the Eucharist passed by. In her mind, she heard an Anglican pastor snickering: ‘Elizabeth, these silly peasants believe that piece of bread is really and truly Jesus Christ.’ Deep inside, she replied, ‘So do I.’

    When she returned to America, she was Anglican on the outside, but Catholic on the inside. Knowing it would cost her dearly to convert, she struggled with the decision, but finally, two years later, became a Catholic, taking Mary as her Confirmation name in honor of the Blessed Mother.

    Elizabeth was right; conversion made a hard life even harder. Her family and William’s shunned her, and the boarding house she had opened was lost when people found out she was Catholic. But, filled with the zeal those first disciples felt after staying with Christ, nothing could stop her. She moved her family to the one Catholic Diocese in the country, Baltimore, and opened a school for girls. Soon, Catholic women from around the country joined her. Over time, they formed a convent and Elizabeth founded the Sisters of Charity of St. Joseph, the first female religious order in America. Their mission was to teach girls, especially those who could not afford an education. Elizabeth was named first superior and given the title “Mother.” In 1813, she and 18 other sisters took vows of poverty, chastity, obedience, and service to the poor and in 1814, accepted their first mission, an orphanage in Philadelphia. By 1817, the sisters were working in New York.

    Sadly, even this success was tinged with sorrow. Two of Mother Seton’s daughters died from tuberculosis, and a short time later, Mother herself suffered from ill health. She died January 4, 1821, just 46 years old. Nevertheless, her legacy lives on. Elizabeth Ann Seton was beatified in 1959 and canonized in 1975, the first native-born American saint. Not only that, she is patron saint of Catholic schools, educators, teachers, people who have lost parents, people who have lost children, people who have been rejected for their faith, people with in-law problems, and all who travel at sea.

    The life of Mother Seton teaches us that it isn’t what happens to us but our response that matters. It’s easy to have faith when things are going well, but what about when they aren’t? Didn’t Elizabeth wonder where God was when her husband died, his business failed, her family shunned her, the boarding house closed, and her children died? Perhaps. Still, look how she responded. She may have gotten down, but she didn’t stay down; she got up, got busy, and found ways to serve. It is the same for us. When Christ calls us to come and see, he makes no guarantee that the road will be easy and there will be no suffering. Rather, he asks us to follow him whatever the road; not to run from suffering but to walk through it with him; to risk everything for love of Him. It is a tall order, but as St. Elizabeth Ann Seton showed so well, and as St. Teresa of Avila reminded us, those who risk everything for love of God will find that they have both lost everything and gained everything.

    St. Elizabeth Ann Seton, pray for us.

    —

  • The Only Lasting Joy

    The Only Lasting Joy

    Saturday of the 3rd Week of Advent

    Zephaniah 3:14-18a; Luke 1:39-45

    This is the time of year when the whole world seems to focus on joy. Everything from songs to decorations to napkins urges us to be joyful. We hear it in the readings today: Shout for joy, O daughter Zion! Sing joyfully, O Israel (Zephaniah 3:14), and … the infant in my womb leaped for joy (Luke 1:44). But, if you’re anything like me, you might find that, while you do feel joy sometimes, other times you don’t. Call it the stresses and strains of life, the rush of so many places to go and people to see during the season, or just being under the weather – whatever it is, we don’t always feel joyful.

    Should we? We might be tempted to think so, but if we pause and reflect a little more deeply on the readings, a fuller picture emerges.

    First, we heard Zephaniah speak of joy to daughter Zion. At that time, “daughter” was used to refer to the suburbs of a city, the area just outside its walls or gates. In this case, that was the Israelites who had returned to Jerusalem from exile and now faced the daunting task of rebuilding the Temple and their whole way of life. While there was some short-term happiness in the return, the long term was full of fear and uncertainty. Thus, when the prophet spoke of joy, he wasn’t asking the people to feel joyful, but to rejoice in the assurance that God had not only not abandoned them, but would actually be in their midst as their Savior! This was a joy that nothing and no one could take away.

    Then in the gospel, we heard that John leapt in the womb of his mother. Although he was certainly joyful in that moment, we cannot help but think forward to his ministry years later: Regardless the outcome – acceptance or rejection, challenge or even threat to his life – his vibrant and unshakable proclamation of the coming of Christ reflected a joy that also could not be taken away.

    From these two examples, we see that what matters isn’t whether we feel joyful, but whether we are joyful. Feelings, even joyful ones, come and go like any emotion. On the other hand, spiritual gifts such as joy are meant to last, because they come from God. This gift, as Holy Father Francis says, is “the fullness of consolation, the fullness of the presence of the Lord… The great strength that we have to transform, to preach the Gospel, to go forward as witnesses of life is the joy of the Lord, which is a fruit of the Holy Spirit, and today we ask him to grant us this fruit.”1

    So, if we want lasting joy, the Holy Father has told us what we need to do: Go forward as witnesses of life, resting in the assurance that, as with the daughter of Zion, God will always be our consolation, and as with the Baptist, will give us the continual joy of His presence. No matter what we do, be it mourning or laughing, if we are His witnesses as we do it, the fruit of that love will always be joy.

    What better time to ask the Holy Spirit for this Christmas gift? That we, like the Blessed Mother, Elizabeth, John the Baptist, and all the Saints, be the best witnesses of life; that we may know and be able to share with everyone the deep and lasting joy that comes only from loving God and daring to go wherever that love takes us.

    1https://www.catholicnewsagency.com/news/44217/joy-is-more-than-emotion-it-is-a-gift-of-the-holy-spirit-pope-francis-says

  • Can You Hear?

    Can You Hear?

    Memorial of St. Ambrose, Bishop and Doctor of the Church (Dec 7)

    Isaiah 30:19-21, 23-26; Matthew 9:35–10:1, 5a, 6-8

    In the first reading, Isaiah reminded us of two things: First, our Teacher will no longer hide himself; second, his voice shall sound in our ears. In both of these, I find echoes of the great St. Ambrose, who we remember today.

    Christ hardly hid himself from Ambrose; quite the contrary. Born just after Christianity became the religion of the Empire, raised in a wealthy Catholic family, Ambrose was highly intelligent, politically astute, and virtuous. As a young man, he became governor of a large part of northern Italy that included Milan. At that time, Christianity was embroiled in a battle between Arians, who believed that Jesus was not God, and Catholics, who did. When the Archbishop of Milan died, an argument broke out about whether an Arian or Catholic bishop should succeed him. Summoned to the cathedral to help settle the issue, he addressed the crowd. While he was speaking, a small voice cried, “Ambrose, bishop!” When the whole assembly took up the cry, Ambrose fled and hid in the house of a friend.

    Why would he do that? A couple of reasons. For one thing, Ambrose had never been baptized! Second, he was governor; his focus was on himself and his career. When he walked into that cathedral, he saw a crowd with an issue to settle, not troubled sheep without a shepherd, who needed him. But Christ did, and when that voice said, “Ambrose, bishop,” it was Christ sounding in his ears what we heard in the gospel: The harvest is abundant but the laborers are few… Without cost you have received; without cost you are to give (Matthew 9:37; 10:8).

    On one level, he was a good choice. Both the Arians and the Catholics liked and respected him; they knew him as a good man, a man with natural virtue. But that’s not enough; Christ needs good Christians, and that requires the supernatural virtues infused at baptism – faith, hope, and love – and the grace of the other sacraments, especially the Blessed Sacrament. After the emperor refused his request to find someone else, Ambrose submitted himself, undergoing one of the fastest and most complete conversions in history: From pagan to bishop in about 10 days!

    From then on, armed with those graces, bishop Ambrose lived a life of heroic virtue. For 23 years, he worked tirelessly to educate himself, his priests, and his people. A compassionate shepherd, his door was open to everyone, from pauper to emperor. A rigorous defender of the faith, he wiped out Arianism in Milan, facing down emperors to do it, and he excommunicated the Catholic emperor Theodosius, famously announcing that emperors are in the Church, not over it. A gifted speaker and writer, his teaching impressed and won over Augustine, who went on to become a great bishop and doctor of the Church himself. All this because Ambrose heard the voice of Christ calling him to a richer, deeper life, and responded to it, however reluctantly at first.

    It’s good to remember this lesson from the life of St. Ambrose, especially during Advent. In a world that advertises Christmas before Halloween is over, Christ is almost hidden by his own holiday and his voice drowned out by the noise, hustle and bustle of the season. Still, we are called to live in this world, and not just live in it, but bring Christ to it. That takes all the virtues, natural and supernatural, and the grace of the sacraments, especially Holy Communion. So, as we approach to receive our Lord at holy Mass this Advent, let us take time to savor and rejoice in Isaiah’s words, with your own eyes you shall see your Teacher, and listen carefully for Christ the Teacher sounding in our ears, ‘This is the way; walk in it’ (Isaiah 30:20, 21).

    —

  • Meeting Perfection

    Meeting Perfection

    Feast of St. Andrew, Apostle

    Romans 10:9-18; Matthew 4:18-22

    Years ago, I trained alongside a deacon at a nursing home. Perfectionist that I am, I remember thinking that things felt all wrong. For one thing, we held our service in a room that was too busy; there must be a better place. For another, it was close to lunch; there must be a better time. Worst of all, as I tried to talk to the people, I realized that I wasn’t very good at it; maybe what I had to give wasn’t enough and I should stop trying.

    Today’s feast is exactly the right one for someone like me, for although St. Andrew appears in few places in Scripture, he has something very important to teach us about discipleship and seeking perfection. The lesson comes in three stories.

    The first we just heard. As Andrew was at work, going about his daily business, Jesus passed by and called him. Immediately, he and his brother got up and followed. The second was when the Apostles were trying to figure out how to feed a large multitude, and Andrew introduced Jesus to a boy with five barley loaves and two fish (John 6:9). In the final story, Andrew introduced some Greek-speaking people to Jesus, who mysteriously replied that the hour for him to be glorified had come (John 12:20-23).

    The perfectionist in me sees problems with each story. Jesus came to Andrew at work; wasn’t there a better place, like maybe the local synagogue? As for introducing those curious Greeks, this wasn’t long after Jesus raised Lazarus and the Jewish authorities were gunning for him. Surely, this was no time for introductions but for getting Jesus out of town. And wasn’t the kid with the loaves and fish the wrong person? Even Andrew wondered what good those were for so many (John 6:9).

    Well he may wonder, but as he came to learn, he didn’t need to have it all figured out. What he needed was faith; as St. Paul said, to believe in his heart that Jesus is Lord (Romans 10:9-10). Clearly, Andrew had faith in abundance! With faith in his heart, it didn’t matter where he met Christ, meeting him was enough; it didn’t matter when people asked to meet Jesus, asking was enough; it didn’t matter how many loaves and fish the boy had to give, giving was enough.

    As Andrew learned and these stories teach us, Christ isn’t looking for perfection; he is perfection. What he wants is our faith and effort. Given that, he will make the meeting place perfect, the time perfect, the gifts perfect, and will bring those who have faith in him to perfection; in St. Paul’s words, enriching all who call upon him (Romans 10:12).

    At the end of each Mass, we are told to go; as apostles, we are sent. In every situation of daily life that awaits us lie the same temptations I mentioned at the beginning: Wherever we are is the wrong place; whatever time, the wrong time; we, the wrong people. The example of St. Andrew reminds us that the opposite is true. For those who hold fast to faith in our hearts, there is no wrong place, no wrong time, and we are never the wrong people. God has chosen us, empowered us, and gives us many opportunities to make a difference for the better. Let us take advantage of every one of them.

    St. Andrew, pray for us.

    —

  • Becoming Who We Are

    Becoming Who We Are

    The Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed

    Wisdom 3:1-9; Romans 5:5-11; John 6:37-40

    Many years ago, on a train trip to Chicago from rural Michigan, I sat behind a family who had never been to a big city before. I tried not to listen, but their conversation was too interesting. The kids had no idea what skyscrapers were, so Dad tried to explain. It didn’t work; when we stopped in a small town, one kid said, “A skyscraper!” No, son, that’s a grain elevator. As we got to the city limits, Mom got tense. “Kids, when we stop, stay with me. Don’t wander off. They probably carry guns here. It doesn’t look like a very friendly place to me.” I wanted to say, “Ma’am, we’re going to Union Station, not Al Capone’s headquarters,” but kept my mouth shut. By the time we got downtown and they saw Chicago, it was clear that the actual reality was nothing like they imagined.

    This kind of thing happens in the Church, too. All Souls’ Day is a good time to see it, because purgatory takes center stage. Just hearing the word “purgatory” conjures up in many minds some of the imagery of the first reading: souls punished, chastised, tried, put in a furnace, burnt offerings (Wisdom 3:4-6). Not hard to see why in the popular imagination, purgatory is a fiery place where souls go to be purified – somehow – and for some length of time. (That’s all fuzzy. What isn’t fuzzy is the fire.)

    Let me do what my much younger self should have done for that young family on the way to Chicago: Clear up some misconceptions.

    1. Purgatory isn’t a place, it’s a process. For what? Well, although all of us would love to enter God’s presence immediately after we die, we have to deal with what John wrote in Revelation; namely, that nothing impure can enter heaven (21:27). So, if our soul has any venial sins or attachments to worldly things, all that must be eliminated first.
    2. There is, and there isn’t, a fire. There isn’t, in the sense that souls can’t “feel” the way bodies can, but there is, in the sense that souls can yearn (or burn, if you will) for a closer relationship with God, and know that growing closer to Him is only possible if we let go of our selfish desires.
    3. After we die, there is no time. The dead are beyond that. The better question is, how spiritually distant am I from God? Do I love God with an intense love that is willing to overcome any obstacle that keeps me from being with Him, or am I too attached to what I want? And how much do I really love others, especially those I’ve had the most difficulty with?

    With these misconceptions cleared up, we can better appreciate the balance of the imagery we heard in the book of Wisdom. Souls are punished, but also full of hope; chastised, but greatly blessed; tried, but found worthy of God; proven in a furnace, but like gold; sacrificed, but taken by God to Himself. So yes, there is suffering, but the battle is won, and they are not alone. This is why St. Paul said that hope does not disappoint (Romans 5:5); God is with us every step of the way, and the outcome is both known and glorious. Every soul being purified will be united with Him when all is said and done.

    What should we take away from this? Three things:

    1. The best way to deal with purgatory is by working to avoid it entirely! Our goal is sanctity; let us pray for the grace and strength to do what it takes to stay close to Christ, to remain in him, to do whatever he tells us.
    2. Pray for the souls in purgatory. This is a wonderful example of the love we are called to have – the love that seeks the good of others before the self. The witness of the saints testifies that souls undergoing purification are helped in the process by the prayers and sacrifices of others. Once in heaven, they can intercede for us.
    3. Remember that purgatory isn’t about who we were, or who we are, but who we are becoming, which is the most perfect version of ourselves. That is what Christ has called us from all eternity to be: perfect, as our heavenly Father is perfect (Matthew 5:48).

    —

  • Glorious Grains

    Glorious Grains

    Tuesday of the 30th Week in Ordinary Time

    Ephesians 5:21-33; Luke 13:18-21

    When we visit a cathedral or basilica, we naturally focus on the art and architecture. I doubt that anyone stops at the outside of the building first and says, “Wow, those bricks are impressive. And the mortar between each one… glorious!” No, we take these for granted.

    It’s ordinary to look past the ordinary.

    Yet, where would that glorious cathedral be without the bricks? And how would the bricks stay together without the mortar? And where would the mortar be without the tiny, insignificant, almost invisible grains of sand?

    Maybe the insignificant isn’t so insignificant after all. Certainly in the case of the cathedral, we can’t get to the larger without beginning with the smaller.

    That is the fundamental point of our Lord’s parables today. The large mustard bush can’t grow unless the little mustard seed is planted first; the dough can’t rise unless the tiny yeast become active and so leaven the bread. So the Church, with all her glorious accomplishments, can’t rise without us, the tiny grains of sand, working together, dying to ourselves as it were.

    That’s the kind of dying that makes a marriage, or any lasting relationship, too. We don’t define a good marriage by how nice the wedding was, or how wonderful the vacations were. Rather, it’s the day-to-day living; the submitting to each other, dying to self. That of course includes the moments of joy and sorrow, but it also (and mostly) includes the vast majority of ordinary moments in-between. In fact, it is what we do or fail to do in those ordinary moments that give the extraordinary moments their deepest meaning.

    As St. Paul reminds us, Christ himself is the perfect example of all this. Who submitted himself more than he, who was more selfless or humble than he who took our flesh and handed it over, that he might make us, his Bride, holy and immaculate before the Father? And he did this every day; not a moment from his conception onward has been wasted. Indeed, Christ sanctified time by entering into it. There were the hugely extraordinary moments, like his incarnation, death and resurrection, but there were also the “ordinary” moments, like today, when he taught or simply walked with among us. And the world has been forever changed by even the most ordinary of them.

    One of my sons once gave me an hourglass, and I find it an apt metaphor. Each moment we are given by God is a grain of sand; we have it only as it passes, then the moment is gone. Today and every day, Christ is calling us to remember that each moment is far, far from ordinary; for God is in each one, and each can be used to build Him what He wants most: the glorious cathedral of a life in which He will dwell forever, if we let him.

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