October 1, 2021
Very Rev. Denis Robinson, OSB

My brothers and sisters, there can be very little doubt that some are in and some are out. Jesus has been traipsing around the Holy Land, picking up people, 72 of recent vintage and seemingly, picking up grudges as well. Jesus’ bad mood today is hard on the cities of Judah. For nine chapters he has preached. For nine chapters he has performed miracles. For nine chapters he has transfigured himself and tried to let people know some Good News, but their ears are blocked. Even Capernaum, home to his buddy Peter and Peter’s delightful mother-in-law gets the cold hard stare of Jesus’ disdain. Sodom was better off than Bethsaida, Tyre and Sidon, those swamps of Gentiles, better off than Galilee. It’s a common trope in Luke’s Gospel. The Jews are on the downturn, the Gentiles, including the 72 have set their faces with Jesus to go to Jerusalem. It’s all over now but the shouting, the shouting and 10 more long chapters in the Gospel. Some are in and some, well, are out in the New Covenant. 

Some are in and some are out. How do we deal those cards here? There is no doubt that we put people in categories. This group, this one is too, I don’t know what. These folks don’t think like me, act like me, talk like me, so they must be wrong. Woe to you first philosophers. Woe to you deacons. Woe to you overseers. Well, perhaps we are overreacting. Woe is strong, but the message of the Gospel is strong as well. That message is a hard message, and it is a cleansing message and there is no doubt that this community, like all communities needs to be cleansed. This familiar town may need to clean its act up, wash out its mouth a little bit, straighten its act up. Only a pastor can say that. Only a father who loves you can say that, but every town, every seminary, every parish, every diocese could equally hear that message. 

We are living in chorizon. We are inhabitants of Bethsaida. Capernaum is our home, but these fragile locations are also a place of call. When Jesus called those 72, the people of the Way became, muddled, mingled, multiform. Folks began to traipse around with Jesus that looked foreign, they spoke crazy languages, they had strange beliefs. They were aliens but unliked the 9-chapter Jews, they heard the Word and they put down their lives and they followed that crazed Word wherever he wanted to lead them. They might have been from Tyre and Sidon, even from Sodom, but they were strangers and aliens no longer, they were Christians, men and women of Christ and by extension children of the most high God. They were out but now they are in.

What about those who are here? Are we in or are we out. What about those who show up day by day in our every-damning lists of who is acceptable and who is not. 

We think we are in but we might be out.

We think we are smart but we might be dumb

We think we are dumb but we might be quite intelligent

We think we are important but we might be lowly

We think we are nothing in the eyes of this community, but we might be something beautiful

We think we are hot but we might be not

We think we are cool, but we might just be lukewarm

We think we are saved but we might be damned

We think we are damned, but I would be willing to bet that we are saved. 

In fact, I know it is true that the last shall be first and the first shall be last. 

Brothers and sisters, Jesus is calling us out of Tyre and Sidon, and out of Corazon and Bethsaida,

The almighty God is calling us to pitch our tents closer and closer to the River Jordan

The God of thunder is calling us to be his own inheritance.

The God of plenty is calling us to dig in

The God of love is calling us put aside our judging and put away our self-importance and fall in love with Him again today. 

Sinners to saved

Sinners to saved 

September 14, 2021
Very Rev. Denis Robinson, OSB

He emptied himself,

taking the form of a slave,

coming in human likeness

I wonder what it must have been like for God, the God of ages and more than ages, the God of creation and beyond creation, the God of time and no time. I wonder what it must have been like for God the all-knowing, the all-powerful, the all-present, to come down to earth and take our form. True enough, he created that form, but that wonder he had called forth from the dirt of the earth had itself become dirty. He came in the likeness of human persons. The tiny baby of Bethlehem, compromised by the filth of the human condition. The radiance of God, dimmed by concession and shame. What did he take on, our lowliness, our abjectness, our destiny, the destiny of death? He did, indeed.

He emptied himself,

taking the form of a slave,

coming in human likeness

Found human in appearance,

he humbled himself,

Becoming obedient to death,

even death on a cross.

His human likeness mirrors us, ever since the fall we have struggled to walk. Ever since the tower, we have tried to construct our way into dignity. Ever since the Law, we have clamored against the Law. Our lives in this world had resolved themselves into chaos. Even now, even after he emptied himself, we know that chaos, the cries of lost innocence, the pleas for life in places like Kabul or Chicago, the sinister whisper of danger that greets us often, even every morning as we rise from the comfort of our pillows. When he humbled himself, it was no symbolic subjection. We were grimy. We were lost. We were stupid and the taint of that awfulness continues into the corners of our lives like faint mists suddenly rising up over the morning’s still breath. It is the steam, the stench, the stigma of death, symbolized so powerfully for us by the intersection of two pieces of wood. 

Because of this, God greatly exalted him

And yet: There is another story here, the continuation of shame has become the cause of exaltation. The symbol of death has become the tree of life. In the sacrifice of Jesus, our exile becomes home. We were doomed in the Fall to wander the earth, in the exaltation of the cross, we are privileged to wander the earth in the evangelization of peoples. God’s plan in the cross pays off in the ransom of souls. God’s plan in the cross, exalts the head crowned once with thorns but now with immortality. God’s plan in the cross is that the serpent raised in the wilderness of Sinai should become the sign of life to those formerly soaked in venom. Jesus is that exaltation. Jesus is that piercing cry of hope. Jesus is our only hope of being cured of the death we ourselves brought into this world.

Because of this, God greatly exalted him

that at the name of Jesus

every knee should bend,

of those in heaven and on earth and under the earth,

and every tongue confess that  Jesus Christ is Lord,

to the glory of God the Father

What is there left for us to do but worship? Our worship is our response to that kenosis, that emptying. That is Good News for us. That is all our hope, all our promise that in so loving the world, God gave us the only precious thing he had, his Son. The trouble in the world has become the blessing of the world and we proclaim it, we confess it. Jesus Christ is Lord. That is our rallying cry in a world so compromised. That is the cry of this community as we war against the temptations that surround the sons and daughters of God. That is the cry we exude from our hearts, our minds, our skins as we glory in the cross of Christ. Brothers and sisters, we are a people saved by God and that reality must surely bring us to our knees. God has given his broken body for us in this Eucharist, the exaltation of the cross is the rising of his body above the sepulcher of this altar. Every tongue must now confess it: Jesus Christ is Lord. 

September 12, 2021
Very Rev. Denis Robinson, OSB

St. Peter is in a pickle. Perhaps that is not unusual, it seems that Peter is always at least flirting around the briny lip of the pickle jar. The first pope has all of the answers of course. You are the Christ. No futzing about with Elijah, Moses or the Prophets. It is straight and simple. You, Jesus are the anointed one, the One sent by God to save not only Israel, but the wretched Gentiles as well. You are HIM and I, Peter, recognize you as such. But there is more to the story. Peter is also the impetuous one, the one who tries getting out of the boat, getting into the boat, walking on water, bumbling around with the other disciples. His profession of faith is profound, but just seconds later, the Rock has become the stumbling block, Satan. His proclamation of the reality of Jesus is on target, but it won’t be long 

We know that in the future Peter will deny the Lord three times in the heat of the passion, a denial that will cause him bitter regret.

We know that that denial will come with the inquisition of a slave girl. We know that the rooster’s crow must have signaled the initiation of Peter’s being haunted every morning for the rest of his life. 

Peter is in a pickle because of his inconstancy, his lack of resolve, his cowardice.

We know that Peter’s confession at the end of Saint John’s Gospel, his reconciliation likewise is not without compromise. We are told Peter’s feelings were hurt because Jesus asked him a third time if he loved him, a question that seemed apropos to the man who denied he even knew his Lord. 

Peter was a messy person. He was a braggart. He was a stumbler. He was an ear chopper. 

Peter was and is in a pickle. 

And you know what? That’s fine because we are in a pickle quite a bit of the time too.

We’re in a pickle

Peter presided and presides over a messy Church, a sometimes braggart Church, an often weak Church.

We wish that we could express the pristine quality of the Church, a perfect institution without compromise to its fabric, without stain to its reputation.

But truly we live in a Church often smeared with controversy, with scandal; financial scandals, sexual scandals, power scandals. 

We hope that the future of our Church, a future that lies certainly in the hands of the Lord, but also uncertainly in human hands, our hands, will find a more sacred path, a more sanctified way through the world, will be for others what it truly must be, a beacon of hope in an ever-darkening landscape, the landscape of the human condition.

But really we know that we are also full of sour, pickley contradictions, each of us, in our lives we know that tension, that compromise of Peter that hears one minute the call of Jesus and in the next puts conditions on accepting that call, conditions of our own reckoning, our own construction. 

We aspire to heights of achievement, to academic success, spiritual success, pastoral success, we want to be good, and true, and kind, we really do.

But actually we find ourselves forever visited by ghosts who haunt the back rooms of our lives, ghosts with names like doubt, despair, indifference, the PAST.

And we might give in, we might give up, we might give over until, unless we realize in one shocking moment of insight and revelation that this is the faith we celebrate.

It is messy faith, a faith impinged with the barbs of imperfection, like little shells in the scrambled eggs.

It is a human faith, divine certainly but also very human, built upon the faulty towers of our dreams and hopes, hopes and dreams that sometimes line up like soldiers on the divine battleground, but sometimes falter because they are the dreams and hopes that we wish to see, like Peter, rather than the hopes of Christ, the dreams of the savior. 

Ours is a faith infused with the quality of divinity but parading itself across the meadows of this world in borrowed uniforms, glad rags.

Who are you? Who am I?

We are flawed, but striving for perfection

We are exhausted but searching for rejuvenation  

We are mediocre but always aspiring to that arête, that excellence which stands at the heart of the Church’s mission, a mission founded on the confession of Saint Peter, a mission renewed daily in this chapel, renewed today for people in a pickle.

We are in a pickle

But, back to Peter for a moment. 

Peter is also called. The pickled one is called and that, brothers and sisters is very good news. 

Peter went on 

Peter went on to move past his sin and move past his doubt and move past his weakness

Peter was called, called to the wonder of that Upper Room where a stymied and heartsick group of men and women mourned and lamented the decimation of their hope, the loss of their beloved on the cruel hill of Calvary, but Peter was called with them to hear that wondrous news, bourn by breathless women: He is alive. He is risen.

And Peter was called, called to that same Upper Room, on the day of Pentecost, called to open his mouth to receive the mighty wind of the Holy Spirit, to speak boldly in tongues to people longing to hear Good News, longing to hear sound doctrine, longing to hear the infallible voice uttering from the mouth of a flawed fisherman.

And Peter was called, called to proclaim the news of Jesus, the crucified one, the risen one, called to proclaim Him to the four corners of the world, called to be that messenger, that evangelist of the Truth.

And Peter was called, my brothers and sisters, to lay down his life in the Circus of Nero, on another hill, called Vaticanus, and from his tomb, from his very body the Church’s heart continues to beat today. 

Peter was called. He is called

And so, are we. We are called, we pickled people. We are called.

We are hoping, loving, giving, desiring, fulfilling AND stumbling, faltering, cowering, but always called in Christ.

This is the faith of our mothers and fathers, those men and women who conquered bravely in the eschatological battle

This is the faith of that countless multitude of saints; unsung, unnamed that have gone before us living lives of fortitude, of strength in the Gospel of Jesus, proclaimed by Peter, proclaimed in a pickle.

This is the faith of sinners and cowards who yearn for better lives, better days, more holiness, more gratitude.

This is the faith of seminarians, teachers, students, doubters, wonderers, lovers, who know their weakness and their failures and are able to build upon the rock of those weaknesses and failures a solid understanding not only of who they are but who they must become to serve the weak, the fallowness of those yet-unseen vineyards that will comprise their fertile, evangelical fields.

Brothers and sisters,  we are drawn here to this hill to celebrate the faith of Peter, not in observance alone but in participation, to push ourselves, to challenge ourselves to greater heights of love, greater breadth of service, greater depth of learning.

Drawn here to this place to understand what God has in store for each of us, a plan that outshines the feeble offerings of a world inundated in self-loathing that masquerades as self-love.

Drawn here to appreciate that the entirety of our lives, our futures, for generations to come depends upon our ability to answer a call that emanates today from this chapel, from this altar upon which is presented that Sacrament we worship and adore.

It is the cry of those oppressed for justice.

It is the sigh of those lying in the rubble of the twin towers of bigotry and evil conceit. 

It is the plea of those deprived for life.

It is the appeal of those in need, those suffering, those multitudes of which we are of their number, who yearn for dignity, for bread, for hope.

Drawn here and standing on the promises of God, my brothers and sisters we pray with Peter:

Lord I believe, help my unbelief. 

Brothers and sisters, Peter was the rock, but we are also the rock; Peter was the firm foundation upon which the hope of the world is built, the hope of our lives is constructed. And we are also that firm foundation, resting today on the confidence we have in this place, Peter was in a pickle, so are we, but therein lies the very core of faith. Flawed but saved and that is a sure hope.  

September 3, 2021
Very Rev. Denis Robinson, OSB

The fifth chapter of St. Luke’s Gospel comes halfway through what might be termed, Jesus farewell tour of Palestine. Well, frankly, it’s also his inaugural tour of Palestine.

Jesus was baptized by John and he hits the road. He has a message to share and, at least he knows, there is precious little time to share it.

He tries to take his Good News to the Jews, tries to convince them of the Truth of what he is preaching but the wine of discipleship is too new for their old skins. 

Their wine is rich and nuanced, but it is overwhelmed with the tannins of the Law, it has become too mute through too frequent decantations. 

St. Luke’s great dilemma in the Gospel is placing Jesus at the intersection of old and new wine, the ancient message of Israel and the new message, often catered by Gentile sommeliers. 

The old wine of Judaism, at least in Luke’s appreciation, might well be so old that it is starting to sour, the old skins into which it has been poured, too diffuse and unrecognizable to be carriers of the heady stuff of heaven. There is no doubt that Judaism, for Luke is careening on the descent and a new wine is rising into its power. 

Jesus is inviting a new viticulture. He is making a turn.

The nouveu bojoulais is in the house. 

There is new wine to be had

New wine, dripping with the intoxicating aroma of promise where there was only ever disappointment.

New wine, steeling itself against the spiritual palate which longs to taste the headiness of wonder and awe

New wine, tangy on the tongue with notes of surprise, notes like love, patience, compassion, kindness and generosity. 

New wine that sparks the recklessness of threatened intoxication with the subtlety of ironic Godhead.

New wine that is transformed into his blood as the disciples recline in the upper room.

New wine, living wine that flows from his bruised brow on the hill of shame, on Calvary. 

Brothers and sisters what about us?

Intoxication and wreckless discipleship are the order of the day. Are we willing to be new skins?

Take it in, breath it in. 

Jesus the vintner is coming to us new this day. He is opening his heady stores for us. He is promising something so new that we can scarce imagine it.

Will we let him in?

Will we split the skins of our hearts to be bathed in this new wine?

I know we will. 

The old is passing away, and behold I make all things new.

Come with joy into the presence of the Lord. The journey continues. 

August 24, 2021
Very Rev. Denis Robinson, OSB

The Gospel today is a little tricky in that there is something unnerving about celebrating the Feast of St. Bartholomew and everything in the Gospel is about some fellow called Nathanial. 

It’s all about Nathaniel sitting under a fig tree

It’s all about the prediction of Jesus that he (Nathaniel) would see angels ascending and descending, which presumably is better than being known for sitting under a fig tree. 

It’s all about Nathaniel, but today is the feast of St. Bartholomew

What do we know? Who knows? And ultimately what does it matter.

As is often the case with lesser-known apostles, Bartholomew had a colorful afterlife, missionary work in India and martyrdom by flaying. His iconography, including the wonderful image on the wall of the Sistine Chapel, includes him showing of his flayed skin in heaven.

You can visit him today in the Church of St. Bartholomew on the Isola Tiburtina on the former site of the temple of the Asclepian cult. If that doesn’t please you, it is possible to visit him in several other places as well. 

Do we know all of these things? We do and we don’t.

What do we need to know? We NEED to know this. Bartholomew was one of the Lord’s chosen. 

Like the others, he left everything and followed Jesus until the end.

That is us, is it not? 

Do we need recognition? Do we need to be well-known for everything we do? This is probably the wrong calling for those who do. 

Do we need our name in celestial lights? We might spend a lot of time trying to erect a billboard, but chances are our electricity will be cut off before we get to light the thing up. 

 Or are we content with obscurity. Are we happy with just being the little workers who use our skills and our pastoral oil cans to keep the great machine of discipleship in motion? 

Do we need for others to know what we do? I don’t think so, in fact I hope not. 

We are Bartholomew. Let us rejoice in that. 

Anonymous but faithful.  

March 24, 2021
Very Rev. Denis Robinson, OSB

Covid quarantine does strange things to us. It changes us, or perhaps makes us more of who we really are.

Many of my accustomed habits for each day, getting up early, office reading at precisely, novel reading, everything to the ready, shower, shave, ear hair cut, teeth, meds, all strangely strangled by ironically having MORE time to do things.

One of the really odd habits I have picked up during CQ is watching YouTube videos. I’m a bit addicted to them in fact. Is there such a thing as YA meeting? I don’t know, I’ll look it up on You Tube.

The videos I love are animal rescue videos.

After living under a dumpster for 11 months this dog gets rescued and goes from sad to happy.

Puppy is so malnourished it might not live, then a miracle happens.

Bernard the poodle had no hair and was blind a family takes him in and loves him.

Maya the cat has Down ’s syndrome.

There are so many rescue videos you can really wile away the whole day with them. Sometimes I have.

What do these rescue videos teach me, or show me.

Perhaps it is that there are good people in the world.

Perhaps these poor pets stand in for human beings, many suffering, many starving, many without love in our world.

I wonder for every poor dog found under a Winnebago, how many children or men or women there are suffering in our cities, in our “centers of civilization”?

Perhaps I can watch pets but I could not stand in any way to see a baby suffering from deprivation, or abuse, or neglect.

I don’t understand how a person could mistreat a poor animal.

I understand even less how an innocent child could be in pain at the hands of a parent or anyone.

After all of this stuff is over, how much healing will we need to bring one another back into focus?

Now, back to Hope for Paws, my favorite pet site.

The most important part of saving the dogs or cats is getting them to trust you, and here you really have to creep up on them. Whether they are hiding under a porch, or in a sewer as Winn and Dixie were last night before the flood, they need to establish trust. 

They are afraid, broken, hurt, and a bit skittish, sometimes a little violent.

It seems to me that is a great metaphor for us.

And that insight is not new.

The angel Gabriel came to Mary.

She was a nobody, the daughter of a conquered people, a girl without husband (yet) or anything else. She must have been roughhewn. She must have worn scraps for clothing. She must have worked hard day and night to help support her aged parents.

She must have been careworn and brown, even for one of tender years. She must have been a sight not to behold. She must have smelled. She must have been, I don’t know, poor. She must have been poor, living in a mud house, working day and night, no hope, no future, no plans to be made other than the carpenter.

She must have been like a frightened beast, after all wasn’t everyone essentially a frightened beast before the coming of this day.

Then the rescue …

The frenzy of beating wings, of feather dust.

A whirlwind of light.

The angel called out to the lowest of the earth, the slave of men’s expectations and in that place of squalor a feast of insane beauty was carried out.

Hail full of grace, he said to the girl with rough hands and rougher life

Hail full of grace, Mary …

He knew her name and then he whispered in her ear the secret she had been prepared to hear from the first stirring in her own mother’s womb. She had been prepared to hear it but could the vessel hear the news of what was to be poured into it?

Will you change the course of human history?

Yes, of course, this is why I was brought into the world.

Yes of course, this is God’s dream.

Yes, of course, this is the endpoint of my very soul.

And God sighed and the breath of that sigh completed the Virgin’s yes.

The breath of that sigh, held so long throughout the time of our collective pain breathed forth full and welcome.

It poured forth like water to a parched earth, like breeze in the arid desert in the farthest outpost of civilization.

And I wonder, on that day, if the dust of the desert around that town stirred up?

I wonder if the dirt rang out in joy like a rescued puppy.

I wonder if God ran around heaven filled with happiness at seeing his rescue plan come to fulfillment in the poor scared vessel.

Brothers and sisters,

That is the only promise of Lent, that in the middle of this season of confusion and doubt, there is a certain promise. But Mary’s answer is a certain promise as well.

You know he had a name, a name which resounds over the hill country of Nazareth and echoes around the world, it’s syllables penetrate the folly of human enterprise, it bounces off the walls of human edifices of power, it seeps through the cracks of quarantine and, like the angel’s beating wings, it portends joy.

Now, perhaps we can find a way to get that onto the You Tube.

March 11, 2021
Very Rev. Denis Robinson, OSB

Whoever is not with me is against me. 

Trials 

Stark words, final words, penetrating words from the mouth of Christ.

I would never have thought when I preached to the deacons last year that what would have followed would be days and weeks and months and now a year filled with such trials. 

At every turn, we have had to make decisions that might have affected not only people’s sense of well-being, but their, our, very lives.

Last year at this time I would never have imagined quarantine and the long slog toward summer, then fall, flowing down into winter and now rising into spring. 

I would never have imagined that a year later we would be thinking about, preparing for truncated events, glorious events reduced, reduced, reduced. 

I would never have wanted you, beloved deacons to have spent the past year like this, wrapped up in a cocoon of chronic care that sometimes, perhaps often, seems like a straitjacket. 

As a father, I would have never wanted my sons not to feel the cool, clean air of freedom sweeping over them. I would never want paranoia, retreat, crippling fear. 

I would never have wanted any of that for you, but by God’s grace you have what you have. 

And that, my brothers is a pattern that you will follow. That is the design of the months and years to come. Not of COVID, God willing, not of illness, contagion, and contention, but a pattern of unpredictability. 

None of us can anticipate the days ahead. None of us can know where we will be assigned just a few months on, none of us can know what kind of people we will be called to care for.

None of us can know what dramas we are going to enact, what passions we will experience, what little deaths we will know. 

None of us can anticipate the future, but all of us can anticipate our response to whatever that future brings. 

Whoever is not with me is against me.

Jesus draws the line clearly. That line defines us, it tells us what our lives as priests is about, and, perhaps more importantly it tells us what our lives as priests is not about. 

All this business here, all these wordy promises, all these signings and sealings is about who we are and who we are becoming apart from those moments in which we are so carefully wrapped up in vestments and chalices and wish lists and catalogs and comfort. 

Because brothers, this vocation is hard, and it is cosmic.

This vocation is not about comfort. It is not about you settling in with some degree of job security and doing the least you can do to draw your measly paycheck.

This is not about going out and getting around, investing your goods in the glorious splendor of the local Walmart or Mexican restaurant.

This is not about golf, or the rust accumulating on your clubs.

This is not about fine tuning your social skills by escaping to the wilderness of inappropriate places and activities on your day off.

This is not about bells ringing, dinging, tinging at the appropriate moment during the Mass.

This is not about lace, this long, or this long on your sleeves and hems.

This is not about texts that are always transitory and truncated.

This is not about finery and finagling. 

Brothers, these promises tonight, these promises so sterile and forced are setting you up for another kind of life. 

This vocation you have sought after and prayed over and fought for for years, 

This is about a battle for the human soul. 

It is about a battle for your soul. 

This is about pain.

This is about suffering.

This is about perseverance.

This is about fighting.

This is about bruises.

This is about wounds.

And it is not your pain, your suffering, your perseverance, your fighting, your bruises, your wounds.

It is about the pain that comes from rising and falling from the same sins again, again, and again and bringing to you as confessor the same struggles.

It is about the suffering that comes from seeing real hunger and real abuse every day, hunger and abuse that so transcend the boundaries of your pleasant rectory. 

It is about perseverance when the obstacles are so difficult to overcome, when people tell lies about you, when people slander your good name, when people cause you pain because of their selfishness, when they stab you in the back.

It is about the fighting that you find in the confused face of a tiny child, caught in a dirty room, bruised by his parents, beaten by his father, concussed by his mother. 

It is about the bruises that are hidden under too-voluminous clothing of the wife whose drunken husband beats her up every night just for the hell of it. 

It is about the wounds handed on from generation to generation that fester in your parish whether it is in the hills of Appalachia or the suburbs of Little Rock. 

And this is the life of Christ that you now seek to have in you, to be all of you, to control you, to define you, to penetrate you, to absorb you until there is nothing left of you and there is only Christ, only the Lord, only the suffering savior, only Jesus.

That is what you are promising tonight.

Whoever is not with me is against me.

In ourselves, there still battles two forces.

There is evil of course. What does it look like?

It looks like your pride seeping out and torturing you in the resentment of a celibate life that creeps up on you and that you curse. You never knew you said. You knew. 

It looks like your selfishness that wants some little comfort, some little solace when there is none.

It looks like your willingness to turn the blind eye.

It looks like nothing, a priesthood that become nothing.

There is evil but there is also the force of good. You are called to be the force of Good.

What does it look like?

It looks like your emptiness in the face of Christ’s fullness.

It looks like the life of a man whose promises are fulfilled.

It looks like your willingness in the face of Christ’s acceptance of pain and death. And to accept them with joy, 

It looks like your singlemindedness in the face of Christ’ determination to drive the sins of men and women, sins placed upon your shoulders in the burden of the priest, the determination to drive those sins to the Cross and in suffering and in endurance to drink the last drop of that bitter cup of gall. 

It looks like your willingness to pound the pavement of a cold, hospital parking lot at 3:00 in the morning because someone you have never heard of is dying in the ER and needs the Sacraments of the Church, needs YOU, the agent of those Sacraments. 

It is the force of good that looks like your love, crawling to the altar from sheer exhaustion, and welling up with tears in the face of your utter helplessness, your helplessness without God.

That is the force of good. Brothers, let us strive after it. 

Whoever is not with me is against me.

What force will you bring to the altar tonight?

I know you, I know it will be the force for good.

Now, bring it all my brothers and you will want for nothing. 

Make your promises tonight and keep them.