Today is the shortest day in the year. It is also the coldest, the longest, and the darkest night of the year. What can we say? Perhaps the shivering of this December day and night reflects our hearts as this year, this 2012th year of salvation draws to a close. What have we seen? What have we heard? It is the question asked of the shepherds. Perhaps it is our question as well. We have seen dissention, political rancor, cynicism rising from the earth. We have heard the cries of children and parents around the world losing sight of one another as they pass from this life often by violent means. We have heard bad news all around, in the financial world, in the social world, on blogs and in the comments sections of the news. We have seen anger, shame, bitterness, terror, fear. Has this year been any different from other years? Probably not and yet, it often seems like there is a triumph of fear, a glory of cynicism in the air. Even in our rarified seminary environment, all of us, including me, often find more to gripe about than to give praise to God for. On this Christmas Day, can we put all of that aside? Can we find a way on this shortest day of the year to put away all pain, all bitterness, all complaining? We celebrate a mystery on this day, a mystery that we should, we must, renew each day of our lives, the triumph of the God of Thunder over history and its discontents. He triumphed over the powers of this world, over evil itself by deigning to be born in the manger, by humbling himself. He became like us in all things except sin. He took on the truth of our humanity, a humanity that is prone to doubt, to pain, and to misfortune. Let us try something. Let us try to be like him. Let us humble ourselves. Let us live honorably as in the day. Let us be different men and women in the coming days and months and years than we have been before. Let us triumph over death by becoming harbingers of life. Let us drown out the cynicism and the cries of anguish we hear around us with great shouts of joy, shouts that shatter the darkness of night and wrong. Brothers and sisters, as we celebrate the birth of Our Lord in this Christmas season, let us make a firm resolution. Let us love one another more. Let us put aside all negative, critical thinking and talk. Let us be shining examples of the simplicity of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, standing as they are right now, in the light of a Christmas night, in the light of angels, in the light of the manger, in the light that encompasses every human heart, making bright the coldest, the longest, the darkest night of the year. May you and your families have a truly blessed Christmas, and a holy, happy new year.

Rejoice in the Lord always! I say it again, rejoice! Can you imagine? Can you imagine the confusion in that secluded little house in Newtown early Friday morning? Can you imagine the look on the mother’s face, a look of pure confusion and pain, then, with hope, peace? Can you imagine the fever in the boy’s mind as he collected the guns and ammunition, as he armed and armored himself? Can you imagine his mind as he made his way to the school, that place of innocence, that shrine of littleness? Can you imagine the look on the faces of the principal, the counselor as they heard the racket in the hall at 9:30? Can you imagine the teachers hearing the noises and quickly locking doors and shepherding little boys and girls into the closet? Can you imagine the fear, the anguish of standing still, stunned as shot after shot rings out in hallways filled with pictures of Santa Clauses and menorahs? Can you imagine the heat, the flash of the giant, silent man in black with the look, the look of hatred on his face? Can you imagine the moment when he turned that gun on himself, in front of screaming children and adults? Can you imagine being the police arriving at the scene knowing nothing, knowing not where to turn or go? Can you imagine the brave teachers who threw themselves in the path of danger? Can you imagine reading a story to little boys and girls to keep them calm in the face of hell? Can you imagine being a parent and hearing the news of what had happened, what was happening? Can you imagine driving or running to that school for news, some news, any news, no bad news? Can you imagine the day creeping forward and the stories that were spreading? Can you imagine the press of the media in such a time of panic and confusion? Can you imagine seeing your little boy or girl running from that school with their eyes covered so as not to see the blood? Can you imagine not seeing your little boy or girl running from that school? Can you imagine the nightmare of that fire station? Can you imagine the day drawing on as news becomes sickening tragedy? Can you imagine finding in the space of a morning a connection with places seemingly so distant, like Pakistan, Syria, Africa, and countless other places where children and innocents daily fight the fight of life and lose? Can you imagine finding your way home at the end of the day and walking into your seven-year old’s room and knowing he wasn’t coming back? Can you imagine that this day stretches into weeks and years and lifetimes? Can you imagine that tomorrow another story will take its place? Can you imagine the lives of all of those shattered forever? Can you imagine trying to speak about all of this? Now Can you imagine verdant field at 9:45 or so last Friday morning? Can you imagine a little girl wearing her school clothes neatly, newly scrubbed? Can you imagine her yellow white hair gleaming in a golden, never-setting sun? Can you imagine her toothless smile as she sees her friends around her? Can you imagine her face as she catches sight of the man in the black vest, the black vest fading away, his armor fading away, his anger fading away? Can you imagine his confused face as the little girl walks over to him in the verdant field and puts her arms around his waist, as high as she can reach? Can you imagine her saying, “It’s OK Adam. It’s over. You are loved forever here.” Can you imagine his peace as he sits down with a group of boys and girls and some grown folks, more than twenty, or more, children and grownups of every language and nation, and they say nothing, they just bask in the sun together? Can you imagine the depth of forgiveness and love needed in Newtown? I hope I can. I hope I can say today, after Friday, after Newtown and all the other atrocities. Rejoice in the Lord always! I say it again, rejoice!

First Sunday of Advent To you, I lift up my soul, O my God. In you I have trusted These are the words of the entrance antiphon for today’s Mass. They usher in for us the season of advent, a new liturgical year. They are powerful words, words that challenge us in their greeting. I don’t know about you but I have always had a kind of morbid fear about the Advent season. Perhaps it has to do with my completely irrational terror of that fat furry bearded elf that seems to be standing at every street corner today. Perhaps it has to do with the waning days, the early sunsets, the long nights that accompany the dawning of December. Perhaps it has to do with readings that are filled with a bit of gloom. Perhaps it has to do with old childhood memories. And perhaps we have some reason to feel a bit anxious in these days, even from a grown-up perspective. We know we don’t live in a perfect world. Far from it. We see daily what is going on around us, outside the protective sandstone of these walls. Certainly there is decoration. Certainly there are Black Friday specials. Certainly the economics of Christmas are thriving this year, we are attentive to our lists and to our holiday TV schedules Yet, even in the midst of so much rejoicing, so much rosy-cheeked sentiment we know: The days are coming, says the LORD, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and Judah. Is it morbid? No, it is true. In advent, if we are truly attentive not only to our Christmas lists and the television schedule, but to the readings presented to us as something new, something fresh, we realize full well that there is a time of judgment. It is not at the end. It is at the beginning of the liturgical year. The time of judgment is a time of renewal. The time of judgment is a time for waking up The time of judgment is a time to consider again The time of judgment is a time to become who we truly are and to shake off the ravenous tinseling of these times and fulfill in our hearts the promise of truth and goodness and honesty. The time of judgment is a time to put away childish things, churlish sensitivities and grow to the full stature of our discipleship. In Advent we are invited to understand more profoundly that perhaps we have done the Gospel a disservice by debilitating its raw energy, its edge, even its threat. Do we neglect to preach the Gospel if we do not preach the whole Gospel and acknowledge that sin is real, that problems are real, that poverty is real, that death is real and that there are real consequences for our actions? Advent calls us again to take the reality of God seriously A reality that does threaten our complacency Our very idea of the good and the virtuous and the perfect Our comfortability with ourselves and others Brothers and Sisters, Advent is a time for stirring the pot and shaking the branches, not just for throwing change in the pot and tinseling the branches. It is a time for serious and sober reflection on our vocations. It is a time of holy cleansing. What did Jesus say? Beware that your hearts do not become drowsy from carousing and drunkenness and the anxieties of daily life, and that day catch you by surprise like a trap. And perhaps we need to hear that message more, and feel that fire of the Holy Spirit burning a little more in our lives. Perhaps we need to pray a little more, preach a little more with our lives. Perhaps we need to give a little more, to appreciate God’s message a little more, to love each other a little more, respect each other a little more. And to complain a little less, gossip a little less, speculate a little less, harp a little less, grouse a little less, think of ourselves only, a little less. This is the message of renewal kindled deep down, in the recesses of our beings, at the heart of this community and Jesus in his advent, in his coming among us, even his violent coming among us, is that message. And there is little doubt that the coming of Jesus is fraught with violence. The violence of his traumatic birth, the signs of contradiction, the threat from outside forces. The massacre of the innocents and innocence. The violence of a life of ministry filled with difficulties and misunderstanding The violence of followers who cannot grasp the message and run away The violence of a death, a criminal’s death on a cross of shame. There is violence in the Gospel, and it is not so different from the violence that we know every day from the news websites, from our own experience. Even as the world is turning its practiced eye to the holy night of peace, the little town of Bethlehem sleeping insipiently in the glow of the golden aches and blue light specials, we recognize that we do not always live in a world of peace. But a world of war of violence of hatred of threat of death of hunger of lack of respect of bigotry of callousness WE live in a world where the poor are getting poorer and the rich richer, a world in which life is respected less each day. A world of rancor and pain. And so words of peace and pacifism, gestures of hope, signs of kindness become contradictions in themselves 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, greed, and apathy. Our respect for life, death to a culture of death Perhaps what we need to hear in this advent season is that all of this is very real. Far from traversing merely the milder byways of the human experience, our faith cuts to the core of what is true and authentic, what is meaningful and deep in us. We need to realize that we do not inhabit a cyber world, an alternative universe, but a real world, that we live in and we have a real need to express truthfully and without apology, our desire, our desperate desire, for respect, for life, for home. In this season of violent anticipation we hear again, perhaps for the very first time the voice of Christ: Be vigilant at all times and pray that you have the strength to escape the tribulations that are imminent and to stand before the Son of Man Brothers and sisters as we stand at the foot of this semester and at the head of a new liturgical year let us renew his passion within us A passion for peace A passion for self-respect and respect for others A passion for our community A passion for our vocations Our families Our country Our world The truth of this season is that it unites the threat of the coming of Jesus with the fulfillment of the passion of Jesus in a joint act of renewal, in the human condition, in the Godhead, in us. Perhaps especially in us as we become passionate again in Him. In that passion, we can we can truly say with the prophet: In those days Judah shall be safe and Jerusalem shall dwell secure; this is what they shall call her: "The LORD our justice." Until we have known that assurance, that justice, that righteousness, then all of this is merely dress up and chaff. In this season of Advent, let us resolve to take God more seriously. And to take ourselves more seriously. In this season let us resolve to know, to live Christ more deeply. Then we can say assuredly in this Mass - To you, I lift up my soul, O my God. In you I have (truly and finally) trusted.

We are a people living in the middle of the Church. What does that mean? For many in our secularizing culture today, the Church and Church membership are, at best, peripheral ideals. Many people belong to a church community. Many Catholics are nominal members of our Church. Statistics tell us that there are more ex-Catholics than there are members of any other mainline denomination. For many within the Catholic Church approaching a document such as Lumen Gentium is an opportunity to find out additional information about the constituency of the Church to which they belong. They approach the document as anything else in life, to take it up or to put it down, or perhaps more insidiously to partly take it up and partly put it down according to how well it fulfills their individual needs. The approach is illegitimate. What we find in Lumen Gentium is nothing less than a ground plan for our existence. The Church is not merely a part of who we are. The Church is who we are. Our need is to be conformed to its principals, its ideals. Lumen Gentium defines the Church as a constitution; therefore it defines her followers in a constitutive way. What is the Church? Who are we? In today’s world, these are critical questions. The document begins with a thorough consideration of the mystery of the Church and the Church as mystery. It also begins with an important evangelical assertion, something that should be of primary interest to us in the age of the new evangelization. This Sacred Synod gathered together in the Holy Spirit eagerly desires, by proclaiming the Gospel to every creature,(1) to bring the light of Christ to all people, a light brightly visible on the countenance of the Church. LG 1 The message of universality is a difficult one to swallow in our day. We live in a time in which universality is misunderstood. We live in an age in which personal appropriations of the truth are seen as normative. But the council asserts that “eternal Father, by a free and hidden plan of His own wisdom and goodness, created the whole world.” and furthermore, “His plan was to raise us to a participation of the divine life.” (LG, 2). This is a mighty charge in our age. We have just experienced the turmoil of a national election. The outcome of this pivotal social and political event must be viewed as something essential to our lives. And yet, in the aftermath of the election we (I truly believe) have to ask ourselves, what does the outcome of the election have to do with the divine plan? How does the recent election act to further the evangelical mission of the Church so that we may all be raised to a participation in the divine life? Universality is compromised in light of local concerns. If you doubt it read the blogs. Read the comments section of news stories. Do you find the message of the Gospel there? Or if it is found there, is it not soon reduced to ridicule by the Church’s free critics? Do we live in a Christian culture or a secular culture? Are we all trying to maintain allegiances to both when (at least at some level) they may prove contradictory? One thing I do know from the teachings of the Council. “The mystery of the Holy Church is already brought to light in the manner of its foundation” (LG 5). This is the centrality of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. There can be no authentic life in the world that is not modeled on the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. Do we need to be apologetic about that assertion? I think not. What does Lumen Gentium tell us? The Church, "like a stranger in a foreign land, presses forward amid the persecutions of the world and the consolations of God"(14*), announcing the cross and death of the Lord until He comes."(84) By the power of the risen Lord it is given strength that it might, in patience and in love, overcome its sorrows and its challenges, both within itself and from without, and that it might reveal to the world, faithfully though darkly, the mystery of its Lord until, in the end, it will be manifested in full light. (LG, 8) The split in the reality of individuals, particularly perhaps in this culture is evident even here. We would like to say that we are immune to the cultural wars. We would like to assert that we are agents of change. To some extent it may be true. But all of us, even the monks are inundated in the cultural reality in which we are raised and formed. Even we find it difficult to understand those whose faith is seen as “too much” or as “too radical”. But I have a question, if the universality of the Church’s faith is ever to be truly realized does it not demand a radical move from us? When Jesus, who had suffered the death of the cross for mankind, had risen, He appeared as the one constituted as Lord, Christ and eternal Priest,(24) and He poured out on His disciples the Spirit promised by the Father.(25) From this source the Church, equipped with the gifts of its Founder and faithfully guarding His precepts of charity, humility and self-sacrifice, receives the mission to proclaim and to spread among all peoples the Kingdom of Christ and of God and to be, on earth, the initial budding forth of that kingdom. While it slowly grows, the Church strains toward the completed Kingdom and, with all its strength, hopes and desires to be united in glory with its King. Moving toward that completed Kingdom must begin somewhere. I say it must begin here. And yet the cult of particularity remains. It remains in our inability to turn over our wills to the will of the almighty Father. It remains in our stubbornness, our necessity of not uniting our minds and hearts, much less our bodies to the universal Church but rather continuing to live in the morass of relativism. How can it be so when so great a gift as the Church’s history, mission and not to mention the very Body of Christ, has been entrusted to our care? If we expect to ever be effective evangelists for the Kingdom, then we must fully examine ourselves and see what in our spiritual personalities needs to be retained and what needs to be sacrificed on the altar. Lumen Gentium, in a way quite potent, asks us to consider this unity in the context of universalism, and in the context of diversity. The constitution points to three images of the Church that give us insight into the way to this new universalism. The first is the sheepfold. The Church, we are told, is a flock. That also applies here. We look to the unity found in the true shepherd, that is Jesus Christ, but we acknowledge the individualism of the sheep. And yet, under the guidance of the shepherd, we are one flock, gathered into unity. The Church is also seen as God’s field. “That land, like a choice vineyard, has been planted by the heavenly Gardener.” (LG, 6). That field, although composed of unique trees has a communal identity, a common understanding of itself because of the farmer. Finally the Church is called God’s building. Made up of many stones, each stone uniquely placed and shaped, it is nevertheless a common edifice. We make up a common edifice. This edifice has many names to describe it: the house of God (37) in which dwells His family; the household of God in the Spirit;(38) the dwelling place of God among men;(39) and, especially, the holy temple. This Temple, symbolized in places of worship built out of stone, is praised by the Holy Fathers and, not without reason, is compared in the liturgy to the Holy City, the New Jerusalem (5*). As living stones we here on earth are built into it.(40) John contemplates this holy city coming down from heaven at the renewal of the world as a bride made ready and adorned for her husband. (LG, 6). All of these images of the Church point to the same reality, we can be truly unique and at the same time primarily understood as part of a whole. We see that here of course. One of the mainstays of our formation philosophy is the cultivation of each one here as a unique personality. Then, in that uniqueness we seek the mortar that makes us the common edifice, our individualism then is not the mark of our personhood but our means of gaining access to the larger reality of the others. In some houses of formation, there is a project to make each one into a representation of something ideal. In looking like some ideal of the priest, uniqueness is sacrificed. Here we seek to bond the uniqueness of each one with a common purpose of building the edifice, planting the field, and gathering the flock. This seems to be the distinctive vision of the Church found in Lumen Gentium. As all the members of the human body, though they are many, form one body, so also are the faithful in Christ.(56) Also, in the building up of Christ's Body various members and functions have their part to play. There is only one Spirit who, according to His own richness and the needs of the ministries, gives His different gifts for the welfare of the Church.(57) (LG, 7). In the Church we also experience the fullness of the central mystery of Christianity, the mystery of the Incarnation. We find in the Church the curious admixture that stands at the crux of our ecclesial self-understanding. Just as Christ shared in humanity and divinity, so his body the Church shares the same. The Church is human and divine, as Christ is human and divine. Yet, unlike Christ, the Church shares an essential element of our humanity, simul justus et peccator, at the same time, justified and sinful. It becomes then the central image of the Church in Vatican II, a pilgrim Church, a Church on the way. The Church is already chosen by Christ, now we are called in the moment of having been chosen to live up to what we have received. Already the final age of the world has come upon us (242) and the renovation of the world is irrevocably decreed and is already anticipated in some kind of a real way; for the Church already on this earth is signed with a sanctity which is real although imperfect. However, until there shall be new heavens and a new earth in which justice dwells,(243) the pilgrim Church in her sacraments and institutions, which pertain to this present time, has the appearance of this world which is passing and she herself dwells among creatures who groan and travail in pain until now and await the revelation of the sons of God.(244). (LG, 48) Lumen Gentium begins with a rather bold assertion. Reversing the hierarchical initiatives of the usual modality of ecclesiology for the time, the document imposes a new model of Church at the onset. It is the image of the People of God. The document tells us: Christ instituted this new covenant, the new testament, that is to say, in His Blood,(87) calling together a people made up of Jew and gentile, making them one, not according to the flesh but in the Spirit. This was to be the new People of God.(LG, 9). What does this powerful image of the Church have to say about our life here? I think it says that we are called to realize, yet again, that this is not about me. We are called to suspend our judgments about how things are or should be in order to make ourselves available for the corporate, for the common good. We talk the talk of counterculturalism, but if we wish to walk the walk, we might begin by realizing this ideal of the people of God. It calls me to love my brothers, not superficially and not in name, but in the very faults that in the natural order make them unlovable. Realizing the People of God calls me to realize the beauty, the profound beauty of brokenness, not only in the other but in myself. Our brokenness unites us to the reality of the crucified Lord who engaged the brokenness of body and spirit in order to achieve the glory of the resurrection. While there is no virtue in being slumlords of our own debilitated real estate, there is not shame in recognizing my need to get better, and then getting better. It calls me to accept in peace my sinfulness in the full knowledge of my reconciliation in Christ. Those who have never experienced the power of God’s forgiveness can hardly expect to be effective proclaimers of that forgiveness in the sacrament It calls me to see in others not what commonly places them in the forefront, but what, behind the scenes they offer to humanity. It calls me to realize that the good of the priesthood does not consist in dramatic and heroic acts, but in heroically supporting the ordinary, the daily, the commonplace. The priesthood in this sense calls me to find drama in the lives of shut-ins, to find excitement in the forgotten, to find meaning in what everything in the world asserts as meaningless. Then, I am a hero. It calls me to sacrifice, really sacrifice myself for the good of the whole. How can I do this in a world that insists on a scrupulous care for my own values, by own ideals, my own views as the only thing that can be right? I cannot truly offer myself in that way, that is in the way of Christ until I turn my back on secularism, on an overindulgence of technology, on a unhealthy attention to my physical desires, on a destructive path that leads to the denigration, not of my body but of the temple of God, the temple of the Holy Spirit, the true tabernacle. The Church, indeed the whole world is calling for us, pleading with us to become involved in an eschatological drama. There is no room in this endeavor for half-heartedness, or preciousness, or guile. This is an intensely human pursuit, one that is critical for the future of human kind. And it is an intensely divine pursuit. That is, it is a pursuit for Christ who is the origin and center of all that we are. In chapter three of Lumen Gentium we find the fully countercultural assertion boldly laid out for us that: The Church is hierarchical. How can it be so in a fully egalitarian social order? The problem of this thought in American Culture is we do not observe hierarchy. We do not believe that there are some who, by their office and not their personality are called to serve through leadership. We do not believe that Christ, the eternal pastor, “willed that the bishops should be the shepherds of his Church until the end of the world.” (LG, 18). Rather than offering willing obedience, we reserve judgment, waiting to see if a bishop will meet my criteria for success, and that criterion is, of course, agreeing with me. Could the Holy Apostles have passed that scrutiny? Could any pastor? Christ is the head. He speaks through the apostles, the bishops. The bishops, with priests and deacons, take this ministry to the community presiding in God’s place over the flock of which they are the pastors, as teachers of doctrine, priests for sacred worship and ministers of government. (LG, 20). We are informed in a radical way that Christ himself is present in the midst of believers in the person of the bishop, assisted by the priest. (LG, 21). The documents of Vatican II explore the many varied relationships between bishops and priests and the clergy and the laity in many places. Three documents are given completely to the priesthood. The Second Vatican Council opened the way for a new understanding of the diaconate as more than a transitional ministry but as a permanent vocation in the Church. Bishops, priests and deacons. These clerical distinctions are essential to understanding the nature of the Church. Lumen Gentium also deals fully with the ideals of the priesthood in this context. “In virtue of their sacred ordination and of their common mission, all priests are united together in the bonds of intimate brotherhood.” (LG, 28). This is a bold assertion, particularly in a time when so many presbyterates are fragmented by various ideological battles. I often state that when charity breaks down in ideological pursuits, then the pursuit is unworthy. Likewise in the priesthood. Lumen Gentium tells us we are united as fathers in Christ. We become examples for the flock, and “we should preside over and serve the local community in such a way that we may deserve the name”. (LG, 28). There is no ideological pursuit worth maintaining when charity is destroyed, particularly between those whom Christ has called to be examples of his charity to the world. Because the human race today is joining more and more into a civic, economic and social unity, it is that much the more necessary that priests, by combined effort and aid, under the leadership of the bishops and the Supreme Pontiff, wipe out every kind of separateness, so that the whole human race may be brought into the unity of the family of God. Unity must begin at home. And I might add, it must begin here. If you are here to break down the bonds of communion in this community by the pursuit of esoteric ideological concerns, you have no place here. You have no place in Christ’s priestly service if you are only a minster of division. Lumen Gentium goes on to explore how the Church is constituted, the role of clergy, and laity, the faithful, the role of married couples, the role of sanctification in the world. Lumen Gentium calls all of us, no matter our place in the Church for one thing and one thing only, witness to the Gospel of Jesus Christ. We are called to be witnesses to the Gospel, not as a sideline, not in good times, not in bad times. We are called to be witnesses to the Gospel at all times, with every fiber of our being, with ever crumb of our subsistence, with every aspect of our talents. We are called to represent Christ in a world, a secularizing world, that I believe is desperate, indeed is dying to hear Good News. Brothers and sisters we can only make sense of what we do here if we believe that. But if we believe that, if we believe that with every fiber of our being, then we are well on the way to transforming the entirety of creation. We are well on We recently celebrated the Solemnity of All Saints. In my homily on that day, I said this: And each day as we gather in prayer, as we pause in our rooms, as we catch our reflections in the mirrors, as we take a walk in these waning days filled with browning grass and burning leaves and gentle chills. They walk with us. They pray with us. They sing songs with us. They ask us to be with them. This last line I will repeat. They ask us to be with them in a common mission, a common purpose, a common telos. Brothers and sisters, This is the Church we engage. This is the only vocation to which we can truly aspire. The Dogmatic Constitution on the Church ends with a consideration of Our Lady. She is extolled as mother of the Church and rightly so. Just as the Mother of Jesus, glorified in body and soul in heaven, is the image and beginning of the Church as it is to be perfected is the world to come, so too does she shine forth on earth, until the day of the Lord shall come,(304) as a sign of sure hope and solace to the people of God during its sojourn on earth. (LG, Our Lady, the mother of the Church teaches us everything we need to know. Obey God. Follow his plan. Leave no room for your own map of the universe. Aim patiently, but firmly toward the eternal city of God, the new Jerusalsem. She is first among us but always one of us. She leads the way. We follow her path. Some will insist that there is an aspect of this talk that is roundabout, that is contradictory, that is convoluted. Welcome to the wildness of the Church. It is a wildness brought about in the source of her life, the Incarnation, an ideal balancing on the edge of a sharp ideological knife. There is a wildness in the Church A wildness that rushes in upon our classes and our conferences, our ministries, our time of study and recreation. A wildness that invades our bones like the thrill of a quickening autumn wind This same wildness calls its ministers to a kind of wildness. It is not the wildness of normlessness, but the wildness of possibility, of constantly realizing that there is more here than meets the eye. It is the wildness of mystery and the openness to mystery. If we are not open to possibility, to mystery, to unfolding, then we have already created the space in life, the narrow space for an observance of faith that borders on idolatry. If we wish to live idolatrous lives, please walk away. If you can sustain in your hearts the adventure of faith so desperately needed in our world, you have arrived. Let us begin. In that sense we, as Church can truly be the light of the nations.

After this I had a vision of a great multitude, which no one could count, from every nation, race, people, and tongue. They stood before the throne and before the Lamb. Brothers and sisters we have entered the falling days. Browning grass is crisping beneath our feet. The heady smell of burning leaves fills our lungs. A gentle chill invades our rooms. And the earth is starting to nod off. But just as everything is falling asleep, lulling itself into a state of rest The saints of God are rising up, rising in bright array to announce another November, All Saints Day, a hallowed feast. After this I had a vision of a great multitude, which no one could count, from every nation, race, people, and tongue. They stood before the throne and before the Lamb. And of course we know these saints They are familiar to us We know them for their brown habits, their placid looks presiding over lawns, petting wolves and taming birds We know them as those green, shamrock-clutching bishops eager to drive the snakes of destruction away We know them as nuns wimpled within an inch of breath bearing the world peripherally through impossible headdresses We know them as leper lovers, as destitution, as mystical, as pious, as praying machines, as miracle makers They are old hands in the world of new creation They are new faces in the world of old habits They are native American girls and Italian girls and old French ladies and German fathers They are painted and statued and candled and insenced. They are tapestried and mosaiced They are the famous ones, the tried and true intercessors, good Catholics and good after-lifers And today’s feast takes them in, takes all of them in. All Saints But there is so much more After this I had a vision of a great multitude, which no one could count, from every nation, race, people, and tongue. They stood before the throne and before the Lamb. So many nameless, now forgotten by us but remembered for their essential place before the throne of God. All Saints Grandmothers of ample proportion, faces and aprons covered with flour running out to the golden curb to welcome the babies home Grandfathers silent and pondering their pocket watches and their pipes ready for … whatever Aunts sour faces turned to smiles still clutching their patent leather purses for dear life while searching for that half stick of gum, now miraculously transformed into a whole package Uncles laughing and singing with loud voices amplified by the celestial atmosphere into something more hearable than earth afforded Mothers clutching their lost children, tired and tear stained eyes now brightened in refined air Fathers bouncing babies on their knees in tune to music from harps played loudly and in time Sisters welcoming their brothers with tender embraces and kind words for the first time Brothers red-faced embracing sisters and being brought anew into families no longer prodigal Little children born too soon without names and without care, now entangled in arms they never felt on earth Friends clapping the backs of friends and knowing the secrets that tore them asunder for too long, far too long Classmates laughing with teachers and learning from each other the strains of the celestial hymn Kindergartners waiving violently as they line up perfectly for the first time Common folks whirlwinded to heaven by a lady named Sandy and ready to set up housekeeping in crystal houses unshaken by earthly tempests Neighbors tearing down fences and returning borrowed things that might never have seen home again Caregivers given care by patients now whole and renewed in the wonder of beatitude Cranks smiling from ear to ear and chirping, shouting, crying out: Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord of Hosts Messes made clean in the waters of Lethe lined up with combed hair and bright, white tunics Monks with wild hair and habits newly made whole Nuns re-arranged in careless choirs ethereal Angels freshening up their new wings, shaking off the feathered remnants of old ways Seminarians bright faced and alert at 7 0’clock in the morning Priests unburdened Old devils newly transformed The homeless lounging in mansions The clean of heart justified The merciful given mercy The peacemakers marching to the martial tunes of quiet The afraid no longer shaking The cowardly fearless The brave braver The poor in spirit rich in grandeur The mourners dry and upright The meek bold All Saints All Saints who from their place in heaven shine with splendor before the throne of God Men and women and children with halos and crooked halos. And each day as we gather in prayer, as we pause in our rooms, as we catch our reflections in the mirrors, as we take a walk in these waning days filled with browning grass and burning leaves and gentle chills. They walk with us They pray with us They sing songs with us They ask us to be with them All Saints In bright array and in dark, conservative suits, in habits, in dress clothes, with hair slicked back and new breviaries, students and teachers, friends and companions, enemies, perhaps a few Saints, all saints in God’s eyes and in his plan. We strive, we gather, we propel ourselves into beatitude. We stretch out our hands to receive the Lord of Heaven in the act of communion and we are one with them, we are truly one with them. After this I had a vision of a great multitude, which no one could count, from every nation, race, people, and tongue. They stood before the throne and before the Lamb And they … we, are found worthy.

A 5-year old little boy is playing in the field with his friends. He is cut on his mouth. Just rough housing. An infection from a degenerative bacteria. Within a few days, his parents are preparing for his funeral. A last ditch effort is made to save his life with a relic of St. Kateri Tekakwitha. A sister brought the relic to the sick room. He is cured. He lives. That is the power of the saints Sharon Smith had a bad reaction to an anti-rejection drug she was on for a kidney transplant. She developed pancreatitis with severe complications. Tissue throughout her abdomen was being ravaged by infection. Operation after operation proved unsuccessful, until a hospital worker placed a relic of St. Marianne Cope on the patient. She was healed. She lived. That is the power of the saints. A woman in the Philippines suffered a setback during surgery. She was dead for two hours. There was nothing left to do but prepare for her funeral. Then her doctor uttered a seemingly useless prayer pleading the intercession of Pedro Calug-sod. Within hours the woman was fully restored to health. It was a miracle. She was cured. She lives. That is the power of the saints. Obscure people in obscure places whose lives have miraculously, and really, almost accidently, or so it seems, intersected with the saints of God. The saints of God demonstrate their power around the world. They show themselves, not for who they are but for who God has made them. and the lives of the saints intersect our lives in skewed ways. Today Our Holy Father, Pope Benedict XVI has canonized seven men and women to the dignity of the altar. Canonization does not MAKE a person a saint, rather it recognizes what always was, always is. The saints are men and women, boys and girls whose lives go on, even after the physical aspect has been extinguished. They go on not in ways that are productive for themselves, but rather in many and varied ways are productive for the Church militant. That is what they teach us. That is the power of the saints. Today in the Gospel Jesus admonishes the ambition of the disciples saying: Whoever wishes to be great among you will be your servant; whoever wishes to be first among you will be the slave of all. He calls us to the same thing. The same thing as the saints. He calls us to service To be his servants now and in the age to come. What is a saint? Look to the first reading: If he gives his life as an offering for sin, he shall see his descendants in a long life, and the will of the LORD shall be accomplished through him. What are we called to? We are called to realize our only reason for living is that the will of the Lord might be accomplished through us. We are not called to make it on our own, to suffer life for our own accomplishment We are not called to the radical individualism that is sometimes so vociferously preached to us We are not called to be our own masters, to guide our own destinies. We are not called to heroism in the conventional sense We are called to be saints. God’s friends, God’s vessels, God’s instruments. In obscure ways, in skewed ways. As priests we are called to the altar to minster day after day to those who come beleaguered and struggling searching for answers to life’s perplexing puzzles. That is the power of the saints We are called to the nursing home to dry the tears of the forgotten and the lonely, the confused and the abandoned. That is the power of the saints We are called to the funeral home to heal the struggles of those who remain, to heal old wounds, old grudges, old debts. That is the power of the saints We are called to the school to the bullied little boy or the bashful little girl to show them in the morass of grade school politics that their little voices matter, that their little lives are important too. That is the power of the saints We are called to the apartment of the shut in, to listen to old stories for the hundredth time, to review old images and take on old pains in the midst of loneliness and despair. That is the power of the saints We are called to the chapel to see and know the seminarian struggling with vocation, to right wrongs and fight for justice when there seems to be so little in the world. That is the power of the saints We are called to the confessional to announce God’s healing for little sins, built up over time, little sins that weigh upon a soul so vulnerable. That is the power of the saints. We are called to the seminary, a skewed place to live with men too rough or way too sensitive, too bullying or too faint of heart, too, well. too, to be anything but good. Because you are good, even when you think you’re not, God finds you good. He finds you good and he loves you in obscure ways, in skewed ways that we learn, in time, in long time to read as grace. We are called to be saints in skewed places, in obscure places, in hidden places We are called to be saints in secret. That is the power of the saints A little boy is playing in a field A woman has a drug reaction A woman in the Philippines suffers a heart attack and dies. St. Kateri, St. Marianne, St. Pedro. And perhaps even more, the sister who helped the little boy, the hospital worker who prayed for the woman, the doctor whose heart was touched in the Philippines. The saints are living among us. They are here The saints are here because God is here. The saints are here because a people who believes is here, a people who struggle is here. We are here. We are. God is here because God cares, He cares for us when we like the disciples are selfish, self-seeking, self-aggrandizing He cares for us when we are stupid and silly and too sensitive He cares enough to give us the Body and Blood of His Son as food for the perilous journey we call life. No one said that anything on this journey would be easy. It is not easy. But it is worth it because here today, everyday, we witness miracles, the greatest of which is the transformation of simple things into divinity. That is the power of the saints.

What God has joined together, let no one divide. Our readings today are filled with various images of relationships: Man and woman created from the dust of the ground Husband and wife joined together in a primordial bond Brother and sister, commonly invoked in the message of salvation God and us, present as partners throughout the ages Of course, our lives are also filled with various images of relationships Many of them are wonderful A father bounces a year-old child on his knees amid peals of laughter A mother comforts her daughter in the devastating loss of first love A sister gives assistance to her cantankerous older brother A brother assures his sister of his great affection, albeit in secret ways A husband miraculously remembers Valentine’s Day and shows up with way too many flowers and too much candy for any credibility A wife smiles and nods and assures her stupid husband that the flowers and candy are just wonderful A child looks with admiration on his parents, full of hope, full of need, full of gratitude. Our lives are filled with joyful moments, suspended snapshots in human encounter Our lives are also filled with relationships that are more troubling A couple estranged by infidelity, failing to speak to each other after twenty years of marriage A minister struggling to find some fidelity in the midst of scandal and confusion A brother needing someone to turn to as the frightful spiral of drug abuse takes its final toll A sister looking for some brotherly support in the final days of life A parent longing to help a lost child Sometimes even our relationship with God can be troubled We live in a world of between, trying desperately to find our way to heaven while still striving through the thorns of earth We live lives sometime thwarted by sin, by habitual sins that we cannot seem to conquer, by tiny sins that weigh so heavily upon us in their cumulative effect. I think, however, that the message of the Gospel today is less about this or that and more about God’s plan, God’s ideal, God’s intention. What God has joined together, let no one divide. Like a good Father, God wants to see the best in us, the brightest in us, the most perfect in us God wishes to see our tears wiped away, or at least to see our tears water a garden of plentitude in the human emotional landscape God hopes for what will come rather than what has been, what is God plans for triumph, God anticipates greatness, and arete God achieves miracles in the face of disaster, goodness in the face of ill will, beauty in the face of adversity God sincerely desires us to be not who we often end up being, but who we are meant to be, created to be, dreamed to be. And this is the wonder we call life Life is messy, life is confusing, life is troubling, life is joyful, life is miraculous, life is awesome, life is inspiring, life is puzzling, life is unifying. It guides us into the great web of being that folds over the universe and joins us into one. What God has joined together, let no one divide. Today we celebrate respect life Sunday. It is about the lack of respect certainly The way in which we in sin Cut short Cut off Cut out Cut away But it is more than that. It is, very hopeful, very meaningfully about what we are called to be, a celebration of God’s gift for us, the gift of breath and life. It is a reminder that God intends with every action to show us how the great matrix of life, the interweaving of relationships is drawn together in a vast web that unites: Father and mother Husband and wife Parents and children Brothers and sister Friends and friends. In triumph and in tragedy We might be led to believe that these readings today are not about us, but they are Faithfulness is universal God calls us to something today and everyday He calls us to realize What God has joined together, let no one divide. God has joined us together. He has found the vehicle for uniting us through the suffering and sacrifice of His Son. The sacrifice of Jesus has changed the face of human relationship for ever. The sacrifice of Jesus has shown us what it means to live for others The sacrifice of Jesus is the touchstone of who we truly are, who we are called to be, who we must be. We gather at this altar to celebrate life, the living sacrament, the sacrament living in us. Christ living in us. What God has joined together, let no one divide.

Yesterday, I was finishing up Dr. Hogan’s book, The Six Deadly Sins of Preaching. As in any good examination of conscience, I found myself guilty of all of them. In-authenticity, self-absorption, greediness, trendiness, exploitation, self-righteousness, you name it; I do it. Well, maybe not. I thought what Dr. Hogan had to say was very fine, but it didn’t help me with the presenting problem: What can I preach about today? The first thing I thought of naturally was my holy patron St. Denis. It would have been a wonderful homily on his many virtues, his saintly preaching and mostly, his heroic and slightly unusual death. After being beheaded on Montmartre, an area of Paris where many today would not be caught dead, he picked up his severed head (with the miter still on it) and walked to St. Denis, where he dropped and where, of course they built a magnificent church in his honor. I thought about telling you the story of St. Denis but, then I thought, Dr. Hogan would not approve. The next thing I thought about was, of course, Blessed John Henry Newman, whose feast we celebrate today. What was interesting was that Newman was my second thought since, as most know, he is usually my first. Now there is so much I could say about Newman, about his heroic virtues, his conversion, the illative sense, but I won’t. I will save that for later today and, besides, Dr. Hogan would not approve. Under the ever-censorious eye of Dr. Hogan, or at least with the cover of The Six Deadly Sins of Preaching staring me in the face so boldly, I decided to do what a good preacher ought to do and turn to the readings, but Oh Paul. St. Paul is in the testy mood. The Galatians are difficult to deal with and St. Paul is trying to prove himself to them as an apostle. As to what I am writing to you, behold, before God, I am not lying. Of course, we never thought he was. St. Paul is in the proving mode however, establishing his connection with, at least a few, of the apostles, but mostly claiming his heroic virtues through his willingness to suffer trials, persecution, misunderstanding and finally beheading. Then I thought, good, I will put him together with St. Denis, but the headless forms of these two saints wagged their fingers at me and spoke to me in Dr. Hogan’s soothing voice: Don’t even try it buddy. What’s next? I thought, I could try the psalm. Deacon Mullek was very successful preaching on the psalm a while back. Yes, the psalm: Guide me Lord along the everlasting way. Very good, very good. But then, almost immediately I could hear the ugly roar of the crowd: He copied from Mullek. Or, the psalm seriously? And then I thought of the song, Lead Me, Guide Me No psalm and then, I realized I’m in a homiletic spiral and frankly, Ain’t nobody got time for that. So to the Gospel I went and found there the hectic Martha O Martha, Martha, you are anxious about many things. And of course she was. And of course we are. And of course, I am. Anxious about school and home and dioceses, and monasteries, and visitations and dedications and money and happines and weather, and leaky pipes and whether the bushes will grow and what color that little pond is going to end up being and what color the lounge will be this week and what flavor frozen stuff they will have in the coffee shop and how I can possibly write 5 pages on the Canterbury Tales, and where the dish cart is today, and why this napkin will just not go into the ring thingy and Well, yes. It goes on and on. We are anxious about many things. One thing only is needed. Sit at the feet of the Master. Learn from Him Listen to Him Care with Him Cry with Him Laugh with Him, particularly at ourselves Suffer with Him Rise with Him Be transfigured with Him Be with Him. Mary has chosen the better portion. The better portion, indeed. The subtitle of Dr. Hogan’s book is “becoming responsible for the faith we proclaim”. I think that’s right. That’s what Mary did. That’s what we need to do today and every day. Become responsible for what we proclaim and realize, always realize that the best seat in the house is at the feet of Jesus.

Whoever receives you receives me, and whoever receives me receives the one who sent me. Today God has given us a tremendous gift in our ability to gather on this wonderful day for Saint Meinrad. It is tempting to spend the little time I have been given today speaking about our newly renovated buildings, the beauty and functionality of new spaces and new opportunities. It is tempting to praise those who have so valiantly worked planning and constructing and re-planning and reconstructing in recent years. It is tempting to honor our development office for the diligent labor they have given not only for this weekend but for so many projects of Saint Meinrad that go unseen and unheard. It is tempting to praise and acknowledge the monastic community for its historic and present vision, its mission of serving the Church now for over 150 years with dignity and holiness in the amalgamation of prayer and work. It is tempting to draw together the threads of praise in the Church, to see in our common labors and common concerns the pressing forward of common goals and common ends. I say it is tempting, but I don’t want to talk about what is happening with the brick and mortar of the buildings. It is tempting to take a tour, but that can come later in the day. I have something else in mind today. I have in mind the passage we have just heard proclaimed from the Gospel of St. Matthew: Whoever receives you receives me, and whoever receives me receives the one who sent me. There is power in these words; it is the power of connection between us and God. A power not unknown, not unfelt. A power that hovered over the vast abyss at the very dawn of time, in the calling forth of sun and moon and stars, in the stirring of the mighty waters and the raising of hills and mountains, the furrowing out of rivers and streams. A power that stirred in the bosom of old Abram and his old wife Sara, a power that moved nations to migration, that pulled generations from the loins of decrepitude. A power that issued forth from a dying couple to raise a nation, a people of the Word. A power that flickered in the heart of Moses, emanating from the heat of a burning bush, a talking, burning bush, compelling him to serve a mission of liberation. Tell Pharaoh to let my people go. And on he went fortified by the manna of vocation, the food of angels. A prophetic power that kindled itself in the hearts of Elijah, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Amos, a power to speak words of praise and words of conviction, the power to speak God’s words, which we receive in the fullness of time, in the readiness to serve enkindled also in our hearts. A power that insinuated itself into a little room in a little house, in a little town, in a little country, among a little people. A power pouring out in the life of a virgin named Mary and in her pimple-faced husband, a poor carpenter named Joseph. Brothers and sisters --- It is the power of the Word itself, the eternal Word, the Incarnate word Whoever receives you receives me, and whoever receives me receives the one who sent me. These words of Jesus in the Gospel today show us something essential, the force of hospitality in the new dispensation. In the force of hospitality, we find a theology, a salient connection between the guest and God. How can that not give us a better perspective on what we celebrate today? We see buildings but we cannot, perhaps need not see the stories that are lived out in those spaces, have been lived out in those spaces over time, lived out in the spirit of divine hospitality. We hear, we see, we experience … The stories of monks, faithful and stalwart, building in brick and stone an edifice of divine purpose, a school of the Lord’s service, monks who have devoted their lives to building up the Kingdom one brick at a time. The stories of workers converted hammer blow by hammer blow as stories and stories rise from the dust of the earth to an edifice for God’s people. The stories of teachers, drilling, cajoling, testing, understanding, repeating, dissecting, analyzing, encouraging, conjugating. Amo, Amas, Amat The stories of students. boys with short hair running red-faced in cassocks, playing basketball, football in black skirts, smart alecky, smoking behind the building, getting up and pulling on their surplices to serve the too-early masses, and then, long haired, smart-alecky, arguing, fighting, and then, short haired and long haired and arguing and praying, and praying, and loving, and studying, and conjugating. Amo, Amas, Amat I love, you love, he loves … He really does. The stories of young people trying their vocations or learning what God wants of them, listening to the rhythm of God’s voice in the intoxication of chant and tunes pounded on a piano and plucked from the obscurity of a guitar’s depth, singing loud and strong. The stories of guests, weary and wary men and women, searching for some semblance of meaning in lives so often filled with heartache, pain, indifference, even violence, hatred, but also love, also emotion, also loss, also affection. Confused lives made easier for a moment by the invitation to rest a moment, rest here a moment. The stories of strangers who are not strangers any longer, friends who are more than friends, benefactors who receive more than they give, overseers who are overseen by the mighty eye of the Almighty, gazing lovingly, admiringly at all through the fall leaves, across a hillside vantage point in Southern Indiana. The stories of men and women whose lives for a day, a year, a lifetime have been caught up in the mystery of Saint Meinrad. And Saint Meinrad is a mystery It is unfolding, different today than yesterday, different yet somehow, beautifully the same. Unfolding daily in plans and schemes by old rectors and new to make something vibrant out of old stones and staid processes. In those who teach and learn In all who make their way to this place of peace dedicated to the martyr of hospitality Saint Meinrad is a mystery that goes beyond walls and rooms, corridors and places. Brothers and sisters, today we dedicate the new-old buildings but Saint Meinrad is not about the buildings. It is about names and faces, some now far away, some just peeking out of composite pictures of classes long dead, some still here, radiant with the dawning of each new day. Saint Meinrad is a mystery. It is a mystery that goes to the heart of the Gospel and to the heart of each one, each one gathered here today. Whoever receives you receives me, and whoever receives me receives the one who sent me. Saint Meinrad is the realization that our God is close He is close as the consoling hand of a brother or sister in time of need He is close, as close as the healing touch of father or mother in time of hurt He is close as close as a trusted friend in time of doubt and confusion He is here. Now he unfolds himself for us, in words and proclaimers of words, in anxious faces, in the bread and wine transformed as we are transformed. Whoever receives you receives me, and whoever receives me receives the one who sent me. Happy are we to be called here, to this place, to this supper of the Lamb.

I remember vividly a day almost thirty years ago, praying in a Church in Memphis before a statue of St. Therese of Liseux. In my heart, I heard a voice asking me a question, a question for a soul that was tormented with the idea and ideals of vocation and priesthood. It was a simple question: How far are you willing to go? What will you give up? Of course, it is a question that each of us, at least at some level has had to ask. How far? How much? It is a question, as I learned, that can take years, perhaps even a lifetime to answer. It is a question that can perhaps never be fully answered this side of the beatific vision. How far are you willing to go? What will you give up? We think that this place is about building on strengths. It isn’t It’s about weakness. It’s about vulnerability. It’s about the power of Christ. The power of Christ is weakness The power of Christ is hurt and pain The power of Christ is the cross The power of Christ is my ability to connect to that which I despise, reject, disdain. most especially in myself. St. Therese knew this She knew what power was, though she had none She knew what influence was though she exercised none She knew what reputation was though she lived a cloistered life She knew what strength was though she was enveloped in the weakness of the body. She knew that power and influence and reputation and strength were only meaningful if the power of Christ was in you, if the influence of God was your influence, if the reputation of Christ was your reputation, if the strength that comes through suffering and weakness were all yours, all you had. Brothers and sisters, who here is willing to give up everything to serve the Divine Master? Who here is really willing to give up everything? My attitude My ideal about what should and should not be My plan of formation that supersedes what the decades of experience here wish to offer My realities about the Church and its members My conception of power and its products My future My past Who here is willing to come to this altar like a child, to come with the brokenness of Job? Who here is willing to starve near to death on the world’s rich fare so as to be fed at this table? If you are, then happy are you, blessed are you. But we must beware, beware of being little boys who think they are little men, when real men are those whose lives are transformed into those of boys, full of discovery, full of wonder, full of insight. Are we willing to become as children? If you are not then the parking lot is near to hand. I can assure you that the Church no longer has need for narcissists, and power mongers, and ideologues, and know it alls, and stupid priests. But if you are ready to accept the call and become as children for the sake of the kingdom, blessed are you. Blessed are you indeed to be called as his little ones, his little flowers, to the supper of the Lamb.