23 March 2024

Homily - 24 March 2024 - Palm Sunday of the Lord's Passion

Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion (B)

Dear brothers and sisters,

As we enter into this holiest of weeks, we hear the great cry of “Hosanna” (Mark 11:9, 10)! Not only do we hear it, but we shout it ourselves. Though the Gloria and the Creed are sometimes omitted from the offering of the Holy Mass, the exclamation of “Hosanna!” is never omitted.

This word itself is not unknown to us; we sing or say it, as we said, every time we participate in the Holy Mass, but today “Hosanna!” takes on a special significance. Yet, what is this word? What does it mean and why we still shout it today?

“Hosanna” is a combination of two Hebrew words: hosa, meaning “save”, and na, meaning “now” or “please.” It began not as a command but a plea, a cry for salvation. It is not the imploring of salvation far off in some distant future, but the imploring of salvation immediately, right now. Today, we join the crowd in their shout of “Hosanna!” Save us, Lord, now!  Save us, Lord, please!


The use of this word is recorded in the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and John (cf. Matthew 21:9; Mark 11:9-10; and John 12:13). It is found in the Old Testament only in verse 25 of Psalm 118, a hymn of thanksgiving, where our English translation renders it, “Lord, grant salvation! Lord, grant good fortune,” a definite plea for help (Psalm 118:25)! Curiously, though, it very quickly took on a rather different meaning and became a shout of praise, a cry of jubilation and hope. In the very next verse, the Psalmist sang of the pilgrim entering the gates of the Temple, “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord,” a definite cry of gladness (Psalm 118:26).

With the shouting of these two verses by the crowds as Jesus rode into the royal city, 

…we find an expression of the complex emotions of the pilgrims accompanying Jesus and of his disciples: joyful praise of God at the moment of the processional entry, hope that the hour of the Messiah, and at the same time a prayer that the Davidic kingship and hence God’s kingship over Israel would be reestablished.[1]

Because of this change in meaning over the course of time, Saint Augustine called the word “rather a state of mind than having any positive significance; just as in our own tongue we have what are called interjections, as when in our grief we say, ‘Alas!’ Or in our joy, ‘Ha!’ Or in our admiration, O how fine!’”[2] In short, it became an exclamation with multiple meanings, encompassing both a cry for deliverance and an expression of gladness.

We take up these same two verses at every Mass to raise of plea for salvation, for help, and to express the confident hope that our help and salvation has already come and is present among us in Jesus Christ, present in the Eucharist. It is as if every day were Palm Sunday.

Though at first filled with a fervent excitement at Jesus’ arrival, the crowd soon changed their opinion of him when it became clear he came not as a conquering king, but as a humble servant of love. They did not recognize him for whom they longed; they did not know him in whom they already rejoiced.

Just as Christ Jesus entered into the city of Jerusalem, so he wishes to enter into each one of our hearts.

In his hour, Jesus reveals that he is a Messiah who becomes weak because of love.

 

He does not eliminate frailty and weakness, but makes them the site of the greatest revelation of his love.

 

For all of us, inconstant and unable to let ourselves be loved in this way, Jesus enters Jerusalem, not turning back, just asking us to look up to see how far goes the love of the King who chose peace.[3]

In this Holy Week, let us welcome the Messiah into our hearts. May we look and see what love looks like. And may we both cry out for salvation and shout for joy, “Hosanna to the Son of David” (Matthew21:9). Amen.



[1] Joseph Ratzinger / Pope Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth: Holy Week: From the Entrance into Jerusalem to the Resurrection (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2011), 7.

[2] Saint Augustine of Hippo, Tractates on the Gospel of John, 51.2.

[3] Pierbattista Cardinal Pizzaballa, Meditation, 24 March 2024.

17 March 2024

Homily - 17 March 2024 - The Fifth Sunday of Lent - On the Glory of Saint Patrick

The Fifth Sunday of Lent (B)

On Saint Patrick

Dear brothers and sisters,

Were today not Sunday we would be celebrating the memorial of Saint Patrick, whose image is enshrined in this sanctuary. Given that many of you have Irish ancestry, it is fitting for us to give thanks to God for the bright light shining through the example of Saint Patrick’s life.


People have put on their green, drunk their beer, and will likely dine on corned beef and cabbage for dinner (though the Irish do not eat this). Many Americans will do this to celebrate a fabricated Irish heritage more so than Patrick himself. An authentic heritage of Ireland, given to the Irish people by illustrious saint, is a well-lived Catholic faith.

The Church celebrates the lives of the Saints because in them we see the light of Christ refracted in a great array of colors showing us the many paths on which we may walk in our daily life to follow in the footsteps of Christ Jesus. In Saint Patrick, we see one in whom God created a clean heart and one who, by his teaching of the faith, led many sinners to God (cf. Psalm 51:12, 15).

Much of the life of Saint Patrick remains shrouded in legend. He seems to have been born around a.d. 385 in Britain. We do not know when he was ordained a priest, a bishop, or even when he died, but we do know – because he told us - his father, Calpornius, was a deacon and Roman official with an estate worked by slaves; his grandfather, Potitus, was a priest.

Despite the clerical orders of his father and grandfather, Patrick was not raised in an especially religious family and when he was captured by Irish pirates before his sixteenth birthday he “was indeed ignorant of the true God.”[1] He was taken captive to Ireland as a slave and worked tending sheep for six years.

It is both curious and enlightening to ponder what Patrick must have experienced during these years of enslavement.

To the son of a decurion conscious of his Romanitas and position in society, the status of a slave was deeply humiliating. He may not have been aware of it during his captivity, but for the rest of his life Patrick grieved for the education he had not had. Barely articulate in his own tongue, he was forced to adopt another. Nostalgia for his own country, people, and kin, plus loneliness and poverty and exposure to the harshness of the climate brought him that degree of denudation where God alone is to be the sole, inalienable treasure of the spirit.

 

Prayer became Patrick’s sustenance. He declares that the call to prayer was so insistent and such a source of joy that he would willingly face frost, snow, or rain to pasture the animals while he gave himself up to it.[2]

“More and more,” he says, “the love of God and fear of him came to me and my faith was being increased, and the spirit was being moved.”[3]

Here is one lesson of the Christian life we can take from Saint Patrick: it is in solitude and times of difficulty that, if we are open to the Lord and humble enough to seek him, his Spirit will stir in our hearts. Is this not why the Psalmist prays, “Give me back the joy of your salvation, and a willing spirit sustain in me” (Psalm 51:14)?

After six years as a slave, Patrick heard a voice in a dream say to him, “It is well that you are fasting, soon you will go to your own country.” A short time later the same voice said to him, “Look, your ship is ready.”[4] Patrick ran away and some 188 miles later found a pagan ship anchored and ready to depart. Patrick again prayed and boarded the vessel, hoping to introduce the pagans to Christ Jesus.

They sailed for three days and landed in a deserted area. Patrick walked for twenty-eight days and at last found himself among his own people; the dream of his heart had been answered. His people begged him never to leave them again, but his time with them was not to last.

In another dream, a man by the name of Victoricius came to Patrick bringing letters from Ireland.

The voice of the people who had first enslaved him invited him to walk among them once more; this time, though, he would consciously and freely enter a different form of “slavery” — the self-imposed exile of Christian mission. He notes: “Now, in Christ, I am a slave of a foreign people, for the sake of the indescribable glory of eternal life, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”[5]

In giving his life in service to the spread of the Gospel among his captors, Saint Patrick followed the words of the Lord, who said, "unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit. Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will preserve it for eternal life" (John 12:24-25). Patrick went so far as to call himself “a slave in Christ for that remote pagan people.”[6]

Saint Patrick gave himself entirely for the people of Ireland so they might know “the gift so great, so salutary, to know or to love God wholeheartedly, but at the loss of country and kindred.”[7] Here is a second lesson we can learn from Patrick: something must be given up, laid aside, or left behind to help others encounter the Lord. What are you and I willing to part with to lead others to Christ Jesus? Our time, money, career, sports, the esteem of others, family, even everything we know?

A third lesson to learn from Patrick is a simple one, but one always in need of repeating: “What remains constant is the truth exemplified by St Patrick’s career: one lamp lights another. That should encourage us in our own efforts to spread the faith by using whatever gifts we have.”[8] They example of a faith well-lived, with joy and serenity, is attractive. A simple, personal invitation is often all it takes to bring someone to Jesus, to help the Church and the parish grow. Do not be afraid to let the light of your faith be seen by others. This is what made Saint Patrick’s missionary efforts among his former captors so successful; this is what can make our efforts to spread the Gospel successful, as well.

Today, then, in honor of Saint Patrick, rededicate your family to living the Catholic faith well and to invite others to do the same. If you do, then what Saint Patrick wrote to his readers may come true in us: “Would that you, too, would strive for greater things and perform more excellent deeds. This will be my glory.”[9] Amen.



[1] Saint Patrick, Confessio, 1. In Patrick the Pilgrim Apostle of Ireland: An Analysis of St Patrick’s Confessio and Epistola, Ed. and trans. Maire B. de Paor (Dublin: Veritas Publications, 1998), 221.

[2] Teresa Rodriguez, Butler’s Lives of the Saints, New Full Edition: March (Collegeville: The Liturgical Press, 1999),169

[3] Saint Patrick, Confessio, 16.

[4] Ibid., 17.

[5] Salvador Ryan, “Remembering the Historical Patrick,” National Catholic Register, 17 March 2018. Accessed 16 March 2024. Available at https://www.ncregister.com/commentaries/remembering-the-historical-patrick.

[6] Saint Patrick, Letter to the Soldiers of Corocticus, 3. In Patrick the Pilgrim Apostle of Ireland.

[7] Ibid., 23.

[8] Aidan Nichols, Year of the Lord’s Favour: A Homiliary for the Roman Liturgy: Vol. I: The Sanctoral Cycle (Leominster: Gracewing, 2012), 42.

[9] Saint Patrick, Confessio, 47.

09 March 2024

Homily - 10 March 2024 - The Fourth Sunday of Lent

The Fourth Sunday of Lent (B)

Laetare Sunday

Dear brothers and sisters,

It has become such a commonplace in our minds and hearts that Jesus was “lifted up” on the Cross that his having been lifted up no longer gives us pause for thought (John 3:14). Why was it that the only Savior of mankind had to be lifted up? And not simply lifted up, but lifted up and suspended upon a Cross?      

Many preachers have rightly pointed out that crucifixion was considered the most ignoble of deaths in the ancient world, and that the Romans had perfected this gruesome and excruciating method of execution. Condemned as a traitor to Caesar, this form of death was appropriate under Roman law and also fittingly demonstrated the extent of Jesus’ love for us.

This is all true, but I cannot help but wonder if the answer to why the Son of God had to be lifted up is that simple. Consider this: “When you want something to be seen well, to be seen by all, even those who are far away, you put it on high. So it is with Jesus.”[1] He allowed himself to be nailed to the Cross, to be lifted up on the Mount of Golgotha, suspended between heaven and earth, to show to all the fullness of his love; his love was not to be hidden.

This is why we hang crucifixes, whether in our churches or in our homes, high upon the wall or even suspended from the ceiling; we do so to let everyone see what love looks like. We even mount a crucifix to a pole and carry it in procession so all can see. And yet, how often do we look upon the crucifix? I do not mean to ask how often we glance upon the crucifix, but how often do we actually spend time contemplating the crucifix and what it says?

Christ on the Cross, c. 1380/1390, by Andrea di Bartolo

We lift Jesus up to glorify him, to exalt him, to praise him, yet

Jesus does not put himself on high as one who has power, as one who wants to demonstrate his superiority. Jesus sets himself on high so that everyone can see Him and His love for every man. The cross is what Jesus wants to grab our attention with: we cannot know him except by looking at him, raised on it.[2]

Perhaps the crucifix no longer grabs our attention because we have seen it so often. Perhaps the crucifix no longer grabs our attention because we have lost a real awareness of the reality of sin and its devastating effects. Perhaps the crucifix no longer grabs our attention because we have made it safe, an image that no longer shows the tortured agony of the martyred body of the Son of God.

We need to look anew upon the crucifix and see it for what it is: the image of “the culmination of that turning of God against himself in which he gives himself in order to raise man up and save him. This is love in its most radical form.”[3]

Reflecting on this passage of Saint John’s Gospel, Saint Augustine asked what it is we see when we look on the image of the Lord’s death. This was his answer:

A death is gazed on, that death may have no power. But whose death? The death of life: if it may be said, the death of life; yes, for it may be said, but said wonderfully. But should it not be spoken, seeing it was a thing to be done? Shall I hesitate to utter that which the Lord has deigned to do for me? Is not Christ the life? And yet Christ hung on the cross. Is not Christ life? And yet Christ was dead. But in Christ's death, death died. Life dead slew death; the fullness of life swallowed up death; death was absorbed in the body of Christ. So also shall we say in the resurrection, when now triumphant we shall sing, “Where, O death, is your contest? Where, O death, is your sting” (I Corinthians 15:54)?[4]

This is the great wonder of the paradox of the Cross: sorrow and joy are mingled together. There is sadness in the Cross because we see the death of the Lord, yet joy streams forth from this sadness because we see death give way to unconquerable life. How can joy not come from looking upon crucified Love?

This mingled sorrow and joy, which marks the heart of the faithful Christian, can be yours, too, if you follow the spiritual guidance of Saint Bonaventure, who advises us to

Turn, O soul, Christ on the cross with head bowed waits to kiss you, his arms are extended to embrace you, his hands open with gifts for you, his body extended to cover you, his feet affixed to stay with you, his side open to let you enter.[5]

This is why Christ Jesus allowed himself to be lifted up upon the wood of the Cross.

In these remaining days of Lent, dear brothers and sisters, look upon the crucifix each day and say to Jesus:

Tell me, I pray, my beloved Lord, tell me, since once one drop of your most sacred blood would have sufficed to redeem the whole world, why did you suffer so much blood to flow from your body? I know, Lord, I really know: you did this for no other reason than to show me how much you love me.[6]

Amen.



[1] Pierbattista Cardinal Pizzaballa, Meditation for the Fourth Sunday of Lent, 10 March 2024.

[2] Ibid.

[3] Pope Benedict XVI, Deus caritas est, 12.

[4] Saint Augustine of Hippo, Tractates on the Gospel of John, 12.11.

[5] Saint Bonaventure, Soliloquium, I.39.

[6] Ibid., On the Perfection of Life, VI.6.

25 February 2024

Homily - 25 February 2024 - Announcement of a New Assignment

The Second Sunday of Lent (B)

Announcement of the Appointment as

Director of Campus Ministry at Quincy University

Dear brothers and sisters,

Because the Lenten journey can be a difficult one if it is lived with intentionality, the liturgy today offers us something of a reprieve from our penances. I say something of a reprieve because it is very brief; we are invited to pause for a moment to behold the luminous Face of Christ Jesus with Saints Peter, James, and John and then to return with them to the ordinariness of daily life (cf. Mark 9:2).

We have all heard preachers say Jesus converses with Moses because he represents the Law, and with Elijah because he represents the prophets. Moses does something more, though: he, the great lawgiver, stands in for the Law, which was given to the Hebrews to teach them how to love God and neighbor in minute technical detail. Elijah likewise stands in place of all the prophets, who continually reminded the Hebrews of the consequences of not properly loving God and neighbor. Jesus stands in between Moses and Elijah in his own divine person, united to his divine and human natures, because he is the summation and fulfillment of the law and the prophets.

The Transfiguration, attributed to Peter Paul Reubens, c. 1600

Living as we do in the midst of the flatlands, we might miss the importance of going up to the summit of the mountain, as Jesus did with those three chosen Apostles; he did not do so simply because he wanted to admire the Galilean landscape, breathtaking as it is. No, there is something more about mountains for those in regular contact with the spiritual realm, as both Moses and Elijah knew very well.

In salvation history Moses and Elijah are the two greatest witnesses that God revealed Himself through. They, too, went up a mountain one day and came to know God more closely (cf. Exodus 19:33-34; I Kings 19); and they began to understand precisely something that has a close connection with Jesus' Passover.

 

On the mountain, Moses came to know that God's name is mercy, that he is slow to anger, that he forgives the guilt of his people, that he does not destroy them when the people fall into temptation and turn away from God. Moses has known that God reveals himself basically for one purpose, which is always to save us.

 

On the mountain, Elijah after a long flight, knew that God reveals himself in meekness: not in the great signs of power and force, but in the humble silence of a breeze, a breath.[1]

With Moses, you and I must learn again that God longs to save us. However, as Saint Augustine reminds us, “God who created you without you, will not save you without you.”[2] And with Elijah, you and I must learn again and again that God reveals himself to us in solitary silence and stillness, not in frenzied activity.

Saint Peter had not quite learned both of these lessons when he said to Jesus, “Let us make three tents” (Mark 9:5). The rock wanted to remain suspended in this moment of joyful exuberance, to continually look upon the majestic glory of his friend and Lord. Who can blame him? Yet such is not to be the way of the Christian life this side of eternity, which is why Jesus brought them back down the mountain; he returned to the ordinariness of daily life in order to teach the Apostles that he might be seen there, too.

It was not enough for Peter to simply unite his joys to the joys of the Lord Jesus. No, he had to learn also to unite his sorrows to the sorrows of the Lord Jesus, as well. And just as Peter had to learn this both on and off the mountain, so, too, must we learn to do. This is why Mother Church teaches us to offer ourselves, with our joys and sorrows, on the paten and in the chalice each time the bread and wine are offered to the Father in the Holy Mass; it is not only bread and wine that are to be offered, but you and I, as well. In this way, it might be said we both ascend the summit of the mountain and descend to the plain each time we participate in the Eucharistic banquet.

We also ascend and descend the mountain repeatedly throughout our lives, particularly in moments of change and transition. This weekend, Bishop Paprocki is making a long-planned pastoral visit to the parishes in Arenzville, Beardstown, and Virginia. At a joint meeting last evening with the pastoral and finance councils of those parishes, Bishop Paprocki announced a coming change that will also affect St. Augustine Parish here in Ashland: On July 1st, I will begin serving as Director of Campus Ministry at Quincy University, while continuing with my teaching duties, as well as my responsibilities with the Diocesan Chancery.

I am very excited about my involvement with campus ministry. Already through my classes I have been able to have many deep conversations with some of my students about faith and the spiritual life and the Lord has used me to open eyes and hearts to his merciful love. College students today, in my experience, do not demonstrate an antagonism toward the faith as much as they do a complete ignorance about it. I am looking forward to the opportunities that abound to help the students of Quincy University come to know Jesus as he truly is.

As you have probably guessed or already heard, there is another change to take effect this summer. Probably about August 15th, Father Paul Habing will have the pastoral care of only St. Alexius Parish in Beardstown; this will allow him to more effectively provide for the diverse needs of that bustling parish.

When this change occurs, St. Fidelis Parish in Arenzville, St. Augustine Parish in Ashland, and St. Luke Parish in Virginia will come under the care of a single pastor while remaining distinct parishes. At this time, I will cease to be your pastor. This is, for me, a very bittersweet moment.

Serving as your pastor has been the longest appointment I have had as a priest. I remain profoundly grateful for the kindness you have shown me these past seven years and, as I have tried to do until now, I will do my best to shepherd you well these next several months. My successor here has not yet been determined; let us pray to the Lord that he will be one who will shepherd you after the Lord’s own heart (cf. Jeremiah 3:15). In the past few months, two weddings here at St. Augustine’s have very happily been added to my calendar; I will gladly return to witness these weddings and will do what I can to assist with their preparation.

My time among you has had some sorrows, to be sure, as is the nature of life and all of our relationships; but it has also had many joys, chief of which in my mind was the enshrinement of the Holy Face of Jesus in this beautiful church which you so tenderly love. In the Holy Face, we see both the Lord’s compassionate love for us and his merciful judgment of our sins. In that Face we can contemplate the luminously glorious Face Saint Peter saw on the mountain and so behold another foretaste of heavenly beatitude to which you and I are called, where, we pray, we will all meet merrily again.

Together, then, let us seek to unite ourselves to the Lord and the mystery of his Cross. Let us place ourselves spiritually with the bread upon the paten, so the wheat of our sufferings and sadness may be ground into a pure bread for the Lord. Let us place ourselves spiritually with the wine in the chalice, so the grapes of gratitude and joy may be crushed into wine for the Lord. Then, feasting on his Body and Blood, let us remember his promise to be with us always and to save us, if we remain close to him and live in his love (cf. Matthew 28:20; John 15:10). Amen.



[1] Pierbattista Cardinal Pizzaballa, O.F.M., Meditation on the Second Sunday of Lent, 25 February 2024.

[2] Saint Augustine of Hippo, Sermon 169.13.