In the beginning, God had a dream.
Like all parents, God looked at his children, found them good and dreamed for them.
Human parents, undoubtedly have many dreams for their sons and daughters.
Dreams of success, of achievement, of happiness,
Dreams of becoming something more than they, the parents, had been.
A little girl is already walking down the aisle on her birthday
A little boy is already pitching his first no hitter before he can stand upright
Parents dream for their children
God dreamed too for Adam and Eve and, perhaps unlike human parents, God’s dream was simple and it was this: That they would say “yes”.
God dreamed that Adam and Eve would say yes to the paradise He offered them.
God dreamed that those first two would say “yes” to God’s love and companionship.
God dreamed that their “yes” would engender many ages of fulfillment, promise, wonder.
Human parents know, however, that seldom do their dreams for the children come true, at least not in the way they imagined. And so it was with God. Adam and Eve didn’t say “yes”.
They refused the Father’s love, denied the paradise he created for them and their resounding “no” to God has echoed down the corridors of time, bouncing off the walls of human folly, engendering itself into the very fiber of our existence.
That “no” to God became the inheritance of that first son. It became original to us. It taught us to squander promise, and deny hope. That “no” became the marker of a fallen race, a desperate people. Inheritors of the first sin, time and again we broke God’s offer of reconciliation, in the covenant of the rainbow, the covenant of blood, in the law and prophets, we heard God’s plea for a “yes” and with the stubbornness of a three year old who has just learned the word, we said “no”.

But still God’s dream could not be stilled. God dared to keep dreaming, even in the face of persistent and absolute disappointment.
Until one day, he saw an opportunity and in the frenzy of beating wings and the cacophony of light, God’s dream was uttered again, to a simple girl, one of the low of the earth, a slave of men’s expectations. And here is the miracle. Mary said. “yes”. And God sighed.
That “yes” uttered so long ago in a dark and sullen place of human existence, resounds today. That Word continues to give hope and promise to a people mired in their own self-seeking, their own sordidness. That Word continues to gain momentum in a world weighed down by a lack of promise, a deficiency of peace, a dearth of faith, a scarcity of hope.

And that “yes”, Mary’s “yes” has translated itself into countless languages, spoken by people of every color, every culture. It is spoken in the accents of the poor and the neglected of every society. That “yes” has become the universal symbol of hope, of purity, of the future. That “yes” is celebrated here, today on this altar, as a Word which cannot be silenced, a Word we inherit and consume and take to a tired world. It is the yes to conquer all no’s, out there and in here, in our hearts, our worn minds. And God’s dream is realized, in Mary and in us. In the beginning, God had a dream, and that beginning is today, is now, is here. Happy are those who are called to this altar.

A voice cries out in the wilderness.

Have you ever thought that John the Baptist is a lot like Santa Claus?

John the Baptist is there as a precursor to the message of Jesus.

For weeks before the arrival of Christmas, Santa Claus invades the collective imaginations (not to mention the malls and department stores) of the whole world.

John the Baptist goes into the desert to announce the coming of the messiah

Santa Claus is a herald, not of the Kingdom’s in breaking among us, but of the arrival of the commercial onslaught of Christmas consumerism.

Like John the Baptist, Santa Claus is also scary

When I was a kid, thought of Santa Claus was enough to send me into convulsions.

Red suit
Red eyes
Tangled beard
Foul breath
Virtus nightmare, St. Nick was and …

Well frankly, I was an evil child.

I was usually naughty and frequently crying or pouting.

So, this time of year was always fraught with danger

The very sight of Santa Claus in a department store or mall would send me howling

Still does

Forget about cute little pictures.

To me, Santa was an unwanted voyeur into my little life of sin and I resented him and his list

John the Baptist was a threat to the complacency of Israel.
He had no problem showing the chosen people a detailed list of their transgressions and calling them to a new reality

They were disturbed by his presence, and frankly so are we
Camel suit
Fiery eyes
Tangled beard
Grasshopper breath

John the Baptist isn’t exactly the kind of fellow your granny would have invited to tea.
Repent
Renew
Revision

He called them and he calls us to realize that we have been bad children, since the time of the first apple pie, we have been on the downturn.

Humanity is usually naughty and frequently crying or pouting.

This time of anticipation, therefore, must be fraught with danger

Brothers and sisters, there is menace in the Gospel.

There is an insidious threat in these Gospel readings of Advent that somehow over the years we have sanitized into saccharine little images of sanctity that better suit our domesticated versions of the divine reality.

But in essence, John the Baptist was a political agitator, something of a zealot, a religious fanatic, more akin to the reckless, almost suicidal denizens of a terrorist cell or some fanatic holed up in Montana than the kindly seminarians, priests, religious and other folk of southern Indiana.

There is danger here, in going out to the desert, in listening to revolutionary thought, in daring to call out Divine names, in threatening cultural upheaval

And in the other Gospels of advent as well, subversive prophecy of political anarchy, unwed motherhood, refugees. Mountains being leveled, valleys filled in, the landscape of the human condition transformed by violent means

And calls to action

Up, Jerusalem! stand upon the heights;look to the east

Coming full circle and confronting my childhood fears, I wonder if we have not robbed our faith, particularly our advent faith of some of its raw energy, by making it well nice instead of naughty

Perhaps we have scrubbed everything up in hopes of domesticating God.

Perhaps we think we can tame the almighty a bit by painting him in pastel shades and putting him under the Christmas tree, tinseling him up, lighting him in twinkling lights

When, in fact, the message of the Gospel is a message that should probably make us a little paranoid.

In the past months, we have come into this deserted place to hear a voice of prophecy, speaking to each of us in his own way, calling us to a new way of life, to a new realization of the Kingdom.

Have we heard it? Have we been threatened by it?

It is nothing less, my brothers and sisters, than a call to take the reality of God seriously

A reality that does threaten our complacency
Our very idea of the good and the nice
Our comfortability with ourselves and others

We must see God as something more than Santa Claus, who rewards us if we are nice and punishes us if we are naughty.

We must see God as more than an overgrown elf who distributes favors and then conveniently disappears for a year.

Advent is a time for stirring the pot, shaking the branches
It is also a time to wake up and smell the disturbing aroma of conversion wafting on the winter wind

Likewise, this seminary community.
We must be changed by our experience in this deserted place

Up, Jerusalem! stand upon the heights;look to the east and see your childrengathered from the east and the westat the word of the Holy One,rejoicing that they are remembered by God.

Remembered by God, a dangerous act of anamnesis.
And that remembrance,, like this remembrance we celebrate here, is not safe, but calls us to witness, calls us to sanctity, calls us to confound our pouting and shouting cries of preparation as we stand upon the heights,
Looking to the east
The west
Gathering
Fathering
Rejoicing at the Word of God.


Brothers and sisters, we need to hear that message

A message, clamoring message of renewal invading our bones, penetrating our minds,
We need that message of renewal right in the heart of this community and Jesus in his advent, in his explosive coming among us, is that message.

Even as the world is turning its jaundiced eye to the holy night of peace, the little town of Bethlehem sleeping insipiently in the glow of the golden arches and blue light specials, we recognize that we do not live in a world of peace

But a world of war
of violence
of hatred
of threat
of death
of lack of respect

And so words of peace and pacifism, gestures of hope, signs of kindness become contradictions

Our pacifism is violence to a world of violence
our goodness, threatening to a world of sin
our kindness is DANGEROUS to a world of fear mongering, materialism, and apathy.

His message of peace is dangerous and we embrace it willingly as the world’s only hope, and its greatest enemy.

In the cold winter, in the darkness of night, the people tremble in the shadows, but hope dawns
A Voice in the distance, calls in the night, On wind he enfold us and speaks of endless day
That’s dangerous
Gentle on the ears he whispers softly,
Rumors of a dawn so embracing,
Breathless love awaits darkened souls,
Soon will we know of the revolutionary morning.

Perhaps advent is more dangerous than we thought for we, sisters and brothers, are the inheritors of that menacing promise announced by the wild man of the desert, we are the people of that promise

And here is the place of that promise. And this is the community of that promise and we are its representatives for the world flooded by the empty delusion of indifference and pain and crimes of the heart and sin, crass Clausian materialism, cyncism, doubt.

A voice cries out in the wilderness prepare the way. It is our voice, our collective voice strengthened by the body of Christ.

Up, Jerusalem! stand upon the heights;look to the east and see your childrengathered from the east and the westat the word of the Holy One,rejoicing that they are remembered by God.

We sing of God, immortal yet among us
His body broken here as on the cross
His blood poured out, a sacrifice unequaled
Eternal Word, contained in signs of loss
O mystery, O sacrament most holy
On bended knees, we worship and adore

A world of sin, a legacy of hatred
He bled and died our life, our hope to claim
Enduring shame and agony relentless
For our salvation, Christ the Lord was slain
O mystery, O sacrament most holy
On bended knees we worship and adore

From age to age, this sacrifice unending
In lives destroyed by poverty and fear
His body lives in beating hearts so lowly
And death has died, in place a love so near
O mystery, O sacrament most holy
On bended knees we worship and adore

In every land, in every race and language
In hearts unborn, in faces aged and worn
The God of love, in countless incarnations
His gracious voice in endless echoes born
O mystery, O sacrament most holy
On bended knees we worship and adore

Believers all, bow down in awe and wonder
The King of Glory breaks into this place
Forgiving all our sin and lack of courage
Removing all our guilt with his great grace
O mystery, O sacrament most holy
On bended knees we worship and adore

Come Men of Christ, present your lives in service
His flesh and blood, his sacrifice to share
Our bodies broken on here upon the altar
Our blood poured out, to heal the world’s despair
O mystery, O sacrament most holy
On bended knees we worship and adore

This is the homily that opened our Forty Hours Devotion on Sunday evening

I was sitting in O’Hare on Thursday evening thinking about the end times, the Day of the Lord. It was filled with souls. An elderly couple sat indifferently at opposite ends of a banquette. A man in plaid shorts looked confusedly at the departure information located at Gate C6. A little girl in red velvet ran furiously away from her father, laughing in uproarious voice. A little boy in a Yankees hat cradled a hot fudge Sunday from McDonalds. An Asian couple fed french-fries to one another from a bag from the same franchise. A woman in a smart suit stared ahead without blinking. Two flight attendants chatted amiably. A solitary man in a wool sweater read a book about population control. A twenty something woman with long hair and a long face read a fashion magazine. A mother and daughter in matching pink coats walk arm in arm. A young man stumbled on the moving sidewalk. The moving sidewalk was ending and he did not look down. An elderly woman sat passively in a wheelchair and a middle aged priest typed furiously on a laptop.

These were/are the people of thanksgiving. These were/are the teeming masses of humanity that move fatefully from Chicago to Kansas City, to St. Louis, to London, to Sao Paulo.

These were/are the people of thanksgiving hurtling through the dark night at great speed, transcending the bounds of nature to “be there”.

And they know it and they do not know it.

They know that in their hearts they search, they seek, they inquire after a reality that they dare not, perhaps cannot name.

They know that life is difficult, often seemingly purposeless.

They know that there are disappointments, in marriages, in work, in children in the general flow of living.

They often do not know where they are heading, even as they clutch tightly to boarding passes, metaphorical or not.

They often do not know who they are, even as they share their picture IDs with strangers in order to get where they do not know they are going.

They often do not know what makes it all meaningful, what gives step to the little girl’s flight and insight to the priest’s typing.

And so it is with us all, forever, peripatetic, moving, progressing, in transit. We know and we do not know.

We know that we are here, caught up in the matrix of what is termed living.

We may not know that our lives, all of our lives, all of our brave beautiful lives are tied whirlwind into a mystery.

It is the mystery of this season and of this sacrament.

For even as the air vibrates with the finality of the last days, punctuated by the poignancy of unknown thanksgivings, the first days are already engendering themselves in the loins of Creation.

In the midst of decay and denegation, of aimlessness and restlessness, of the perpetual going nowhere, a tiny heart begins to beat faintly in the womb of a woman whose audacious yes whirls around us like the wind, and calls the birds home and renews these days with the promise of child cries echoing down the corridors of time. Child cries that ring like the triumph of the King of Kings.

Just as we are ending, we are beginning and thus we become entangled in the great cycle of Grace, God’s infinite plan of judgment and reconciliation, division and reunion

Just as the sheep are separated from goats, they are summoned back to the one flock by the call of the infant shepherd cascading across the hills.
Calling us in milk and honey tones to a new world, a new life, a new vocation, a new day.
and so

In the midst of a fallen season, we look for a brighter promise

A day when alienation is unknown and we can collapse into the apocotastasis of pure beatitude.

Now I will tell you the whole mystery: That Day is here.

The Alpha and Omega, the One who governs all things, who proceeds and gives flight to all time is here, sheltering himself in the moon of our adoration.

The Lord of the World has gathered strength and power in himself by insinuating himself into the Host who calls all pilgrims to the shrine of his purpose

The creator of history is here, having given flesh to himself in the midst of the huddled masses transported and transporting through the miracle of thanksgiving itself, Eucharistia.

The God of the universe has come to us in this singular way in these cold days and nights

In this sacrament of his love
Of his grace
Of his person
Of his history
Of his purpose

And it is this sacrament and this sacrament only that keeps the world from flying apart.

He does this and we do not know. We do not know. At least we do not know all

Brothers and sisters, here is the truth. There is nothing in this place, in this great transitional gate of life that is good and true, nothing beautiful, nothing good complete, except this sacramental presence. We are consumed by Him whom we consume. And thus we know him a little and we worship him

Down in adoration falling, this great sacrament we hail

Faith will tell us Christ is present, when our human senses fail

And so I am standing in the St. Thomas Aquinas Chapel Sunday evening and it is filled with souls. A man is worried about his final exams. A man is ridden with guilt for a past sin. A man’s stomach rumbles with more than physical hunger. A man wonders how long. A priest is concerned about the salvation of his little flock. A seminarian is intrigued by the haircut of another one. Another is consumed with doubt about his vocation. Another is worried about a sister, a parent. Another was concerned about the certainty of God’s love. Another was anxious for the outcome of his prayer. Another, his integrity, another his ability to love, another, a sacrifice he must make. Another is concerned about obedience, another about celibacy, another his health, another and another.

And they all are here. And they see the alpha and omega, the Lord of the World, the creator of history, the God of the Universe. They see him and adore.

And in this adoration we find direction to our lives.

And we become in our adoration, ostensoriae of Christ for an aimless, transitional world.