More Than a Contender

Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time
July 9, 2023 — Year A
Readings: Zec 9:9-10 / Ps 145 / Rom 8:9, 11-13 / Mt 11:25-30
by Rev. Mr. Barry Welch, Guest Homilist

“You was my brother, Charley. You should have looked out for me just a little bit. You don’t understand. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody. Instead of a bum.” Anybody recognize that? It’s Marlon Brando, the actor, and he’s portraying Terry Malloy in On the Waterfront, a movie from 1954. If you haven’t seen that film, why not?

Terry is striving to be somebody. And his route is boxing. Fighting. Winning. His goals: money, fame, respect, accolades, honor. Maybe he could have been a contender. Maybe he could have gotten that title fight. But we know that he put his faith in these goals, the money, the fame, accolades. And he put his faith in those people wrapped up in that world, including his brother Charley.

I don’t want to spoil the movie for you, if by some miracle you haven’t seen it. But his faith in these goals? Well, they let him down. The enticements. The allure. They became false burdens on his soul. And their contradictions labored his moral sense. He hitched himself to glory, and the weight took him down.

You’ll have to watch or rewatch it to learn of Terry’s redemption, but for now, I could have been somebody. I want to be somebody. Deacon Barry, I want to be somebody. All of us want to be somebody. It’s in our nature. And so we strive and we work. And we work and we push, and we push and we learn, and we learn more, then we strive again. Progress, progress, progress. If we’re not doing it, if we’re not progressing, we’re going backward.

And for what? The end game is money. The recognition. To reach the top or the pinnacle. To get all the accolades, the attaboys. That’s what our culture wants. Our culture affirms these as our primary goals. Our culture wants us to become a contender, at the very least. And our stories are how we are becoming somebody or how we became somebody.

But I’m telling you now, today, right here in this homily: You are somebody. You’re absolutely somebody. You are somebody because Jesus loves you, and He wants you to be with Him. He knew you before you were stitched in your mother’s womb. In last week’s gospel, we heard that even all the hairs on your head are counted. Do not be afraid.

You and I, we have a terribly difficult time realizing just how “somebody” we are to Jesus. And even at times when we realize it, we forget it. And we hitch ourselves right back onto Charley and the glory and the things of this world in our rise to be a contender. And that carries a heavy, heavy burden. In last week’s gospel, we also heard: Whoever does not take up his cross and follow Me is not worthy of Me. Whoever does not take up his cross.

That sounds hard. I want to say, Oh Jesus, please take me, but without a cross. Give me a mission or project. A goal, something I can strive and push and push and learn and strive again to achieve. But not a cross. That sounds like a burden.

But this week in the gospel we hear: The burden is light. His yoke – His cross – is light. That is not a burden. My burden is light. What a relief. My burden is light. How liberating is that? We don’t need to reach; we don’t need to strive to become somebody. Really, it’s the closer we get to nobody, the more we become who we’re truly meant to be: this somebody that Jesus knows and loves and wants to be with. When we stop trying so hard to become somebody, that’s when we become who we truly are.

Letting go of pride. Letting go of ego. Let go of the striving and make room. Create some space for Jesus to enter and pick up the weight with His yoke and remove the burden.

Who is Jesus talking to? Who’s this message for? He says we have hidden these things from the wise and the learned and yet revealed them to the little ones. Of course, His message is for every human who ever existed. Everyone. But we are so full of ourselves. So caught up in this worldly striving for power and honors, the message is hidden, it’s out of reach. We’re like know-it-alls, not open to the spiritual and mystical and the unseen.

But the little ones, the little ones are his disciples, those that have chosen to follow Jesus, those that are childlike. Seeking wonder and open to the amazing. Low and humble in their hearts. Let go. Surrender to His will and make ourselves low. Jesus did it. God on Earth did it. The creator of everything became the servant to everyone. And He’s our example. He said meek and humble of heart. Die to self, become nobody. Strive to become nobody, and as we approach “nobody,” we gain everything. And recognize deeply that we are somebody.

The paradox, let go and let God. Let go and let God. Then life becomes a miracle. Everything, every day, every person becomes a miracle. My burden is light. I am the light of the world. Light from Light, true God from true God. Take heart, dear friends, for you are somebody. When you empty room for Jesus and you are more than a contender, so much more than a contender, for the victory is already won by Him who conquered death.

Faith in Him, faith in Jesus Christ. That is the victory. That is the victory that overcomes the burden and labors of the world. Amen.

Fully Present

Solemnity of the Body and Blood of Christ
June 11, 2023 — Year A
Readings: Dt 8:2-3, 14b-16a / Ps 147 / 1 Cor 10:16-17 / Jn 6:51-58
by Rev. Mr. Barry Welch, Guest Homilist

I believe.  Help my unbelief.

You heard all the talk and all the witnesses about this amazing man from Nazareth. Their healings, teachings with wisdom and authority. I’ve even heard He’s performed miracles. He’s going to be in the area for a big talk. Lots of folks plan to go there and hear Him, to see Him. I’ve got to see this. Could He be the one?

I get there and wow, there are a ton of people, hundreds, maybe thousands. What a great day. His words, so inspiring, so deep and meaningful. It gets late. Everybody is hungry. He’s praying over a small basket of bread, and now they’re beginning to share it down front. That’s not going to last long. It’ll all be gone soon. My belly growls. They’re still passing around and there are baskets now. And the folks, they seem to all be getting plenty. Finally, the basket gets to me and it’s full, completely full of fresh bread and it smells amazing. I can’t believe it.

Where did Jesus go? He disappeared somewhere. Nobody’s sure where He went. I really would like to see Him again. I think we’re going to head into town, into Capernaum. I hear He’s been hanging out a lot there. Maybe He’ll be there, maybe I’ll see Him again.

There He is. I found Him, and He’s talking again. I can’t wait to hear what He’s saying now, and it’d be great if I got some more of that bread.

You’re here for more food, more bread. Not because of My signs. You need food that endures for eternal life. Not manna like Moses, but true bread from Heaven. I am the bread of life. Come to Me, and you will never die.

All I’ve got to do is come to Jesus. All I’ve got to do is follow Him and He’ll feed me bread all that I want. That bread was the best, oh boy. Whoever believes has eternal life. I am the bread of life. Your ancestors had manna but died. This bread you eat and do not die. I am the living bread, the bread I give is My flesh for the life of the world.

Wait a minute. What did He just say? That’s weird. Did He say flesh? That’s right, that’s what I just said. Amen, amen I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood, you do not have life within you. Whoever eats My flesh and drinks My blood has eternal life and I will raise him on the last day. For My flesh is true food and My blood is true drink.

OK, I’m not sure about this. I don’t think I like where this is going. It’s really getting disturbing. I can tell you’re not understanding; you’re not getting it. I’m talking about eating My flesh. Gnawing. Chewing. Really, truly eating My flesh. Then I will remain in you. If you feed on My flesh, you will have life. This is the bread of life. Whoever eats this bread will not die.

All right, guys, it doesn’t look like we’re getting any real food here. Let’s pack it up. Grab your stuff, we’re getting out of here. I think we ought to get into town before the crowd comes. Everyone is leaving.

What would you have done? If you were there, what would you have done? Better question is what will you do now? Will you walk away and put some distance between you and Jesus and this hard teaching, spiritually and physically? Or will you believe and follow?

My friends, my dear friends, when the priest in the person of Christ calls upon the Holy Spirit during the liturgy of the Eucharist, the Epiclesis, when you see him put both his hands over the gifts and the Deacon drop to his knees behind the altar, it’s a spiritual sonic boom. The fabric of space and time is shattered, and Jesus Christ Himself entirely body and blood, soul and divinity, becomes substantially present in the bread. He said it Himself, folks. What God says, becomes.

In this bread of life discourse which is only a part of Chapter 6 of John, Jesus refers to Himself as bread eleven times. He says to eat and then later escalates that to the word for gnaw on his flesh seven times. He says to drink His blood four times. It’s frank, it’s repetitive, it’s urgent, and it is insistent. Jesus is not messing around; He’s not mincing words. He really, truly, really, really means it.

And get this, He doesn’t go chasing after the crowd who’s leaving and say, wait, everybody. I didn’t really mean it. I meant to say eating is like eating my flesh, that eating the bread and drinking the blood is like. He didn’t say it’s a metaphor or it’s another one of My parables.

They went, and there He was, remaining with just the few. And did He say to them, it’s a shame they’re all leaving, guys? Because I was just kidding. No, He did not say that. He says, so are you leaving too? Are you going to leave too, because I’m not changing anything I said.

Where are we to go? For You have the words of everlasting life, was their answer. What is our answer? What is our prayer? Our prayer is, I believe that You, Jesus Christ, our God, omnipotent and all powerful. And for you, nothing is impossible. Jesus, if You can take the waters of that baptismal font on this young baby, or on me as a 41-year old adult and wash away my sins completely, then by God, You can become fully, substantially present in the Eucharist.

For our salvation. For eternal life. I wasn’t there when the thousands were fed. But I’m here now and You’re here now. I believe. Help my unbelief.

The Woman at the Well

Third Sunday of Lent
March 12, 2023 — Year A
Readings: Ex 17:3-7 / Ps 95 / Rom 5:1-2, 5-8 / Jn 4:5-42
by Rev. Mr. Barry Welch, Guest Homilist

For a few moments I’d like for you to put yourself in the place of the woman at the well in today’s story.  Imagine you’re her and you’re there.  It’s dusty and it’s hot, even in the shade.  The dust and the wind are hot, and they’re sticking to you because you’re sweaty.  You’re a long walk from the village. You’re alone.  The jars are heavy even when empty.

I am the woman at the well, and I swim in dirty waters.  I exist and I swim in the waters of this world, this culture. It can be a cesspool really. The world doesn’t love me; it doesn’t care about me. Society, the culture, they wish for my power as their own. I’m worth what I produce for it. My dignity is ambiguous, my morality is ambiguous, dependent on what others might see in me or gain from me, so I behave the same. This culture that corrupts me by bombarding me with its messages: consume, it’s your truth, love whomever you’d like, if it feels good do it, the baby is not a person, the old man is a burden. This culture that has shaped me is the same that will condemn me, shun me, ignore me, separate me whenever it seems helpful to it. Governments, business, academics, art, media, these can’t save me. I am the woman at the well, and I swim in dirty waters.

I am the woman at the well, and I am a cast away, rejected, shunned, alone with my sin and my pain. There’s a reason I’m at the well far outside of town, alone with the sun at its peak and the heat. I am a cast away. That’s because no one will be there, no one carries heavy containers of water in the heat of the day; they go in the early morning or the late evening when it’s cool. But me, I go when no one will be there, no one to deride me, no one to judge me, no one to make me feel worse about myself than I already do. No one can help me, no one cares, no one loves me. Do I even deserve love anyway? I just need to exist. I just need to get by. I am the woman at the well and I am a cast away.

I am the woman at the well and I doubt Him. Why talk to me? Why care about me? I am a woman, I am from Samaria, I’m a pagan. You don’t know me; You can’t know me. Everything about me is the antithesis of what someone like You would value. I float in sin. I doubt You can help me. You don’t even have a vessel, a container for the water, and my darkness is deep, too deep for You to reach. How could You sustain me for even a few moments, let alone eternally? No, this doesn’t make sense, this must be some trick. You must want something from me or wish to gain something by this encounter. I am the woman at the well and I doubt Him.

I am the woman at the well and I accept Him. Wait, He does know me. He really, truly, knows me. He knows my heart, hardened and despairing as it is. I’ve never met Him, and yet He softly identifies everything about my darkness. He dips deeply into my well of shame and loathing and somehow accepts it, accepts me. He accepts who I am. His grace is bigger than my past, much bigger. He’s met me in the dark and barren places of my heart where I am and offered me His love without requiring anything. And yet, I feel I want to return to Him somehow. I want to acknowledge this immense gift. I welcome His gift. It’s what I’ve unknowingly been seeking. He has risen me to pure living water. I’m unsinkable. I live. I am the woman at the well and I accept Him.

I am the woman at the well and I know Him. I’m not even going to haul the water back or the containers. I’m lighter than air now. I’m restored. My burdens lifted. My guilt and shame washed away. I’m floating. But what about the others? They don’t know, they can’t know. They swim in dirty waters. They are castaways. They doubt love. If they knew Him, they might be light. I must share. I must let them know, because even me, and all my darkness and brokenness and doubt, even me He loves and wants to save. You’ve got to meet Him. There’s nothing greater, nothing more important, nothing more beautiful. He is the living water, salvation, the Christ. I am the woman at the well and I want you to know Him.

Raise the Bar

Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time
February 12, 2023 — Year A
Readings: Sir 15:15-20 / Ps 119 / 1 Cor 2:6-10 / Mt 5:17-37
by Rev. Mr. Barry Welch, Guest Homilist

I was at lunch several years ago with a very kind priest, and we got to talking about a young man we knew who started missing Mass and avoiding church and the sacraments and prayer life. In fact, he was openly disagreeing with many of the Church’s teachings. I said, “Father, even so, he’s a good guy; he’s nice and thoughtful, kind and generous,” and as I was saying that, the priest started getting visibly agitated. And pretty strongly he said, “Deacon, I’m tired of hearing ‘He’s a good guy, or a good boy, or a good girl.’ We’re not called to be good; we’re called to be holy.”

So, I had to kind of think and take it back a little bit; one, it was uncharacteristic of his demeanor, but two, it made me think quite a bit about it. And in a way, in today’s gospel, Jesus is saying something similar.

Does it work for me to say, “I’m ok, I’m a good guy, I haven’t killed anyone.” That’s our goal? That’s our standard? That’s the bar that we set for ourselves in our moral and spiritual lives? Just to simply avoid the major obvious sins, and I’m ok, I didn’t kill anyone, haven’t cheated on my wife, haven’t bad mouthed God. I haven’t lied, at least no big ones, just little white ones.

No, brothers and sisters, that’s not the goal. Jesus says today, “I have come.” That’s pretty important, the Son of God has said, “I have come.” What’s going to follow? I have come to fulfill the law and the prophets. I have come to fulfill, to extend, to complete, to make perfect. I have come. I have come. He’s come to call us to something higher, something better, something more noble, something heaven-like.

He shows us that worldly dominance passes the closer we get to God, and it’s replaced with humility, and love, and mercy. He sets the bar higher and calls us, not only to recognize that bar, especially the thou-shalt-not bars, but to look the other way for our goal: to look the other way from that bar, and to look inside for the ideals, inside of us where He planted His Holy Spirit at our baptism.

Do I look at that boundary, that thou-shalt-not-kill, that murder boundary, and just see how close I can get to it in my life without crossing over it into moral badness, if you will? I stay safe on this side: I really want to hurt the guy, but I’m not stepping over the line.

Or do I hold in my heart the love of my neighbor, the love of the other, and of their God-given true dignity? Do I work to remove my anger, or my resentment, or my jealousy, and replace it with love? Love, wishing the good of the other, wishing for that person to join me in the kingdom?

The ideal is a high bar and it’s not defined by a list of borders, a list of boundaries, a list of what’s morally good and what morally isn’t. It’s not contained in two lists: Here are the do’s and here are the don’ts. The bar is a change in our hearts; it’s a modification of the direction of our lives and our love.

What must I do to follow Jesus, to be a good Christian, to become holy? Every now and again in my spiritual life I ask myself that question, and I imagine some of you have asked it as well; what am I supposed to do to be a good Christian? And oftentimes when I’m talking with folks in RCIA who are considering coming into the Church, they have that same general question: What do I do to be a good Christian, and follower of Jesus?

And in moments of clarity, very rare moments of clarity, I can give them an answer: If you want to be a good Christian, doing what Jesus asks is a good start. Pope Francis had a similar answer, and he didn’t ask me for any help when he came up with it. He explains, “So if anyone asks what one must do to be a good Christian, the answer is clear: We have to do, each in our own way, what Jesus told us in the Sermon on the Mount.”

We’re in the third out of four weeks of going through the Sermon on the Mount during this ordinary time. Two weeks ago, we did the Beatitudes: “Blessed are they…” Last week we were salt and light. We’re still salt and light this week too. Next week we have another reading from the Sermon on the Mount.

So Pope Francis says, “Just do what Jesus told us in the Sermon on the Mount.” That’s pretty easy, isn’t it? Pretty simple? Well, it isn’t quite so easy when we probably have to hear the message over and over. Let’s read about it, let’s pray over it, let’s meditate over the gospel of Matthew, chapters five through seven. Wash, rinse, repeat. Read it again.

Let it sink into our hearts, so they’re pointing the opposite directions of those boundaries, those borders, the “I didn’t kill anybody.” Because the message is love centered on Christ, and it is directed toward others, wishing, praying for the good of the other. It’s our relationship in the world. It’s salt and light, and it’s mercy, forgiveness and mercy.

Now remember, mercy doesn’t mean leniency. It doesn’t mean morally compromising. It doesn’t mean lowering the bar. When Jesus is giving His teaching today, you don’t see Him lowering the bar, He’s extending the bar into the heart. He’s not appeasing the social norms or the civil norms or the governmental norms of his day, He’s not doing it then, He’s not doing it today, because the ideal is high and we as Christians are bound to Him and our goal is heaven, our goal is to be a saint. That’s my goal, I pray that it’s your goal as well. It’s a very high ideal.

Mercy is there, mercy is available, sure, when we fall short of the ideal, when we miss the mark, which is another way to say when we sin. But Jesus and His Church don’t lower the bar, because it’s that important. Instead, we are called to extend His love, and extend His mercy, to live a moral life. We can’t do that alone; we cannot do it by ourselves; we need help.

And we get help, praise God we get help, because we’re washed of our sin and filled with light at our baptism, the light of Christ at our baptism. So that Jesus accompanies us and assists us because he becomes our moral compass and He is our only goal, He is our moral bar, and our earthly wish is to carry Him always in our hearts, because we don’t want to just be a good guy or a good girl or a good woman or a good boy. We don’t want to be just a good guy, but we want to be saints.

At the beginning of every mass, we have this opening prayer, when Father says “let us pray” after the Gloria. It’s called the “Collect.” That’s when we’re all collecting together and beginning the Mass, and that prayer is a summary of the purpose of today’s Mass. I want to repeat it because I think it’s beautiful: “O God who teach us that You abide in hearts that are just and true, grant that we may be so fashioned by Your grace as to become a dwelling pleasing to You.” Isn’t that beautiful? Praise God and amen.

The Visitors’ View

The Epiphany of the Lord
January 8, 2023 — Year A
Readings: Is 60:1-6 / Ps 72 / Eph 3:2-3a, 5-6 / Mt 2:1-12
by Rev. Mr. Barry Welch, Guest Homilist

At 8:22 PM on November 23, 1949, a bright light appeared in the Blue Ridge.  It flickered on and off for a few seconds, just before lighting up for good.  There were two hundred twenty-five mayors from all the surrounding areas who traveled from afar to watch and witness this spectacle, along with many locals and media.  Originally meant to be just a seasonal Christmas decoration, it has become a symbol of the region and one of the most recognized icons in Virginia, as well as one of the most photographed.  I’m talking about the Roanoke star.  It attracts visitors from all over to walk beneath its paths and to relax while enjoying the incredible view.

My family moved back to the area in 1994.  I have to confess that even though this star is so attractive and draws so many visitors from all over, I had not gone up to see the Roanoke star until 2015, some twenty-one years later.  What drew me there then was a high school graduation party we had for our oldest son.  We thought it would be a great place for our out-of-town guests to come and get an iconic view of what it is like here.  They were coming from New Jersey, New York, Richmond, and numerous other places.

It’s funny how we tend to take things for granted, like the incredible gifts available to enjoy right in our own backyards, like the Roanoke star, the Peaks of Otter, and from where I grew up, the mighty New River, Smith Mountain Lake, D-Day Memorial, Appomattox Courthouse and many others.  Very often, it takes out-of-town guests, outsiders, to illuminate this beauty and joy.  Outsiders, coming from afar, like the Magi in the Epiphany story we’re celebrating today, help us recognize the gifts around us every day.

We can become a little like the chief priests and scribes in the gospel today, because they had this beautiful thing occurring, but they had become complacent.  They had become bland and comfortable in their situation there in Jerusalem with their own things to do, their own busy-ness.  Herod probably didn’t care a whole lot about the Jewish religion and prophecies, but those around him were steeped in Hebrew scriptures, especially of the prophets, and Herod had access to that.  They all would have known the prophecy of the coming Messiah.  They knew that Bethlehem was to be the location of this future ruler.  They knew of the glory and joy about to come in this future leader, a savior, the Messiah.

This knowledge, however, wasn’t urgent or important.  The scribes knew about Jesus, but they did not seek Him.  It took out-of-town visitors, out-of-town guests talking about a rising star, to illuminate for them this new beauty and joy to be given to the world.  These Magi, astrologers, wise men gazing at the stars, looking at their charts, sought Jesus without really knowing, like the scribes did, who He was.  The scribes missed Him entirely.  They took Him for granted, even eventually becoming critical and working against the Messiah.

We, too, can become complacent and comfortable, even to the point of ignoring and criticizing lots of great things in our lives.  When guests come around, however, we see things anew.  That’s human nature.  It happens to all of us.  We become complacent and self-satisfied, missing what is important, even when it’s right in front of our eyes.

This happens with our faith life, in our church, with our faith, our doctrines, and in our own parish.  Sometimes it takes outsiders coming in, guests coming to visit, or people interested in RCIA, to bring out the noble and humble welcoming parish that we want to be.

We notice, then, that sometimes we don’t see what is important.  We can get to where we argue, complain, or just go about our busy-ness, forgetting Who is here, Who has come and why.  When a visitor comes asking questions, seeking illumination, then our light begins to stutter and flicker.  Then our love of Christ, His Church, and this parish begin glowing and we begin to brag about her, like we do of our children.  We forget about our dislikes and disagreements.  In a parish that could be disagreements about decorations, music, homilies, etc.  Instead, we beam with the honor of serving such a wonderful and loving king as our Jesus is and we are happy to share our love of Him and His Church, and our parish.  We forget about her human flaws, and we see more clearly her mission.

No matter where you are, visiting anywhere in the world, your parish is home, where the important thing, the reason the Church exists, the reason we are all here, comes.  We are here for an encounter with Him, our Lord and Savior, the Messiah, Jesus Christ.  Every time we are at Mass and participate in the Eucharist and any of the sacraments, we have a personal encounter with Jesus Christ.  That encounter is attractive, effective, beautiful, and joyful every single time.  We want to cherish it, savor it, and make it last.

The Epiphany story gives us a subtle clue of what life is like once you have this encounter with Jesus, once you truly let yourself go and let sink in the significance of that encounter.  It becomes your own Epiphany.  Afterwards, nothing is the same.  You find that your journey has been altered.  The journey of the Magi was altered as well.  After their encounter with the baby Jesus, they departed for their country in a completely different way.  Life was different.  Their trajectory, your trajectory, is different.  Everything is different.  Your new path is illuminated now by Jesus.  You are carrying with you a light to shine upon others.  (“Shine upon” is an ancient meaning of the word, epiphany.). You are carrying a light to shine upon others.  You are the epiphany.

Rejoice!

Third Sunday of Advent
December 11, 2022 — Year A
Readings: Is 35:1-6a, 10 / Ps 146 / Jas 5:7-10 / Mt 11:2-11
by Rev. Mr. Barry Welch, Guest Homilist

Today is the third Sunday of Advent.  It is known as Gaudete Sunday.  Gaudete is taken from the first word of our entrance antiphon.  Because we had a beautiful opening hymn, Father didn’t say the entrance antiphon, but I’m going to say it to you now.  “Rejoice in the Lord always.  Again, I say rejoice.  Indeed, the Lord is near.”  Isn’t that a beautiful entrance antiphon?  So, Gaudete – rejoice! 

Some seven hundred and fifty years before Jesus’ ministry, Israel was in captivity.  They were exiled from their precious homeland and far distant from their beloved holy temple.  Generation after generation after generation of families had lived this existence, this exile existence in Babylon.  It was there that the great prophet Isaiah spoke to the people, telling them that change was coming.  He had a beautiful vision of the people being reunited with their place, a new Jerusalem to be rebuilt and reinhabited. 

“Rejoice,” he writes, “rejoice with joyful song.”  The first line we heard from Isaiah today says, “The dry, parched desert will exult,” which also means rejoice.  He will come to save you, the weak will be strong, the blind will see, the deaf will hear, the dead will rise.  Those whom the Lord had ransomed will return and enter Jerusalem, singing and crowned with everlasting joy.  Rejoice! 

As with most prophets, Isaiah’s message in this prophecy has more than one meaning.  The first meaning is that, yes, the Jews will be released from exile.  Yes, they will be allowed to return to Judah.  Yes, they will be allowed to rebuild the temple and to resume their religious practices.  All these things, because of a new ruler, Cyrus the Great, who conquers Babylon two hundred years after Isaiah made that prophecy. 

But Isaiah’s message has a different meaning as well.  It foreshadows a future Savior even further than those two hundred years, whose reign is forever; his message is of true everlasting joy. 

So, let’s fast forward to what I proclaimed in Matthew’s gospel and in Jesus’ time, where Jesus affirms John the Baptist and confirms that He himself is the Anointed One, fulfilling the prophecy.  Now how does He do that? 

We hear that in prison, John has heard about what Jesus is doing and what is happening in the world around him while he is in prison.  And so, he sends his two followers to go and talk to Jesus and to ask Him a question:  Is he the one to come, or should we be waiting for somebody else? 

Jesus does not give a simple, straightforward answer; He doesn’t say, “Yes.  Next question.  What else you got?”  He doesn’t give a simple answer, and He also doesn’t declare openly, “Yes, I am the Messiah.”  He doesn’t do that either.  What does he do?  He proclaims the kingdom.  He proclaims the Kingdom of Heaven with this prophecy.  And just like John the Baptist proclaimed, he says, “Go and tell John what you see and hear, the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers cleaned, the deaf hear, the dead rise.”  Does that sound familiar?   We just heard that in Isaiah. 

Through His actions, through what He has done and is doing, His works of love and mercy, He is fulfilling that well-known prophecy that we just heard from Isaiah, written seven hundred and fifty years before.  He’s also saying that that prophecy wasn’t pointing toward violent overthrow of civil government.  It was pointing to Jesus.  And you can trust this because of His work of love and mercy, which were spoken of by Isaiah so many years before. 

And also, “Messenger, when you go back with this message that I’m giving you from Isaiah’s prophecy, you are also saying John, you can believe in yourself, because you too are fulfilling that prophecy.”  Amazing!  As the messengers are leaving and are going to return to John the Baptist with what they’ve heard and what they’ve seen, Jesus honors their master, saying that he is the awaited messenger.  That’s affirming.  He is the one foretold by Isaiah – remember the voice the one who cried out in the wilderness, preparing the way of the Lord?  That’s the one! 

And because of this, he is the greatest prophet of all.  And yet, the least of the Kingdom of Heaven is even greater than he.  That’s a curious statement right there at the end; it kind of threw me as I was reading it.  I think I know a little bit about what that means.  Each of us Christians, we followers of Jesus, we believers are more blessed than John, because we get to live in this age brought on by Jesus.  We are blessed to live on this side of the resurrection and so we can be part of His mystical body, a part of His community of believers, and truly be a part of the Kingdom of Heaven.  The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand, and we get to be a part of that kingdom.  How awesome is that? 

Gaudete!  Hallelujah!  Rejoice!  Amen.

Where True Power Resides

The Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe
November 20, 2022 — Year C
Readings: 2 Sm 5:1-3 / Ps 122 / Col 1:12-20 / Lk 23:35-43
by Rev. Mr. Barry Welch, Guest Homilist

Today we celebrate the Feast of Christ the King.  Why is this Feast Day of Christ the King placed at the end of the liturgical season?  Today we finish with the Liturgical Year C, reading from the Gospel of Luke.  We begin Year A next Sunday with the first Sunday of Advent and will switch to the Gospel of Matthew. Why Christ the King today?

Some background thoughts on the reasons for and need for this Feast:

Godless, atheistic nations and states rising in power, threatening their neighbors.  God and Jesus forced out of the public forum and leadership, forced out of politics.  Society and culture diminishing God.  It’s not safe in some places to talk about Jesus.  He’s kept in a small box at church or in your living room.

I’m not talking about society and the world today.  I’m talking about 1925.  In 1925, Pope Pius XI was looking out over the world in a post-World War I environment, and these are the evils that he saw.  He, along with the Church, decided to create a Feast, a Feast to remind the faithful and the world where true power resides, where to place our allegiance and devotion.  As we’re ending this cycle, this Liturgical Year, we’re punctuating this ending and transition time with this Feast of Christ the King.

But why not Christ the Risen or Christ Ascended or Christ the Shepherd?  Christ the King is what the Church chose.  It makes the point Pope Pius wanted to precisely make.  Jesus is Christ the King, and He supersedes all worldly views of power and influence.

But He doesn’t look like a king.  Imagine this scene from the gospels.  There are people gathered around.  Rulers were there, as were soldiers.  Jesus was hanging there on the cross with criminals.  The inscription above His head was, “This is the King of the Jews.”  Almost all of these people were deriding Him, poking fun at Him.  They were taunting Him with, “If you are the Christ, if you are the Chosen One, if you are the King of the Jews.”  These three taunts mirror the three temptations that the devil gave to Jesus in the desert.  (“If you are the Son of God, save yourself by turning these stones into bread, etc.”).

Remember also that the people of the Roman government of that day thought their methods were good, noble, kind, advanced, progressive, and fair.  Jesus didn’t look like a king.  He was a criminal, actually a slave.  At that time, if you were not a Roman citizen and you did something against the state, you became a slave.  He had no rights.  Convicted slaves, for a crime that warranted it, were subject to the painful and humiliating death by crucifixion.  (On the other hand, Roman citizens like the Apostle Paul were given a more humane sentence of beheading.)

Jesus was there on the cross as a slave with the criminals.  He was poor, beaten, humiliated, crushed.  He did not look like a king.  He did not act like a king either.

We know that God is all-powerful.  We know that Jesus is God.  In Paul’s letter to the Colossians that we heard today, he describes Jesus: “He is…the firstborn of all creation.  For in Him were created all things in heaven and on earth, the visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or principalities or powers; all things were created through Him and for Him.  He is before all things and in Him all things hold together.”

Do you think He was scared to death of Pilate?  Do you think He worried at all about what the emperor of that day might do?  He is all powerful.  Everything that exists, exists because of Him.  He could care less about the emperor, or the governor, or the president, or the czar, as these are merely a speck of dust in time.

Jesus had and has infinite power.  He could have annihilated everything in existence in the flick of a second while He was there on that cross.  He could have called a host of angels to save Him and everyone that was hanging there.  But He chose not to exercise that power.  We think that kings portray force, power, superiority, dominance, and violence.  But Jesus didn’t choose to lord power over us.

Even His closest disciple, Peter, did not comprehend what was going to happen.  Jesus told His disciples that He was going to go to Jerusalem, going to suffer and die, going to rise again.  Peter pulled Him aside and started to rebuke Him, saying that he would allow no such thing to happen.  Jesus said, “Get behind me, Satan.  You are thinking as humans do, not as God does.”

Jesus did not choose power, but rather mercy.  He allowed Himself to become powerless, to become a slave.  He allowed Himself to become the sacrificial lamb.  Why?  To atone for our sins and to save all of us.  His mercy is unbounded.  The good thief, the one who recognized what was happening, only asked to be remembered: “Jesus, remember me when You come into Your kingdom.”  In His unbounded mercy, Jesus granted that thief eternal paradise with Him right then.  His mercy is far beyond anything that we could comprehend.

Jesus did not act like any other ruler or king.  But He’s the king I choose to follow: a king that loved me so much that He gave up everything.  He suffered for me.  He took all those insults and humiliation for me.  He died, just for me and for you.  That is my king and yours.  Live that.  Be His living example in a fallen world.  Our society, our governments, think they are good, noble, kind, advanced, progressive, and fair, just like the Roman empire did.  They are far from it, and they need our help.

Go in peace, glorifying God by your life.  Serve our King in this world.  Our baptism demands it.  Jesus won’t be kept in a box, or here at church, or just in our living room.  As if He could be.  He can’t be contained.

This is the end of the Liturgical Year.  I am here on Pope Pius’s behalf, to give an annual reminder that Jesus Christ is King.  He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and His kingdom will have no end.

Just as He Promised

Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time
October 16, 2022 — Year C
Readings: Ex 17:8-13 / Ps 121 / 2 Tm 3:14-4:2 / Lk 18:1-8
by Rev. Mr. Barry Welch, Guest Homilist

Something that I learned this week I found pretty interesting: That is, from a really early age, some studies say that, as early as three years old, children exhibit an understanding and a sense of fairness, of justice.  At the age of three! They’re barely able to walk and talk, and yet they understand fairness.

How many have heard this: “That’s not fair!” “He got more ice cream that I got!” [Invites those watching the livestream to post comments about what’s not fair.] It’s not fair that both Virginia Tech and UVA have horrible football teams at the same time. ONE should be good, right?

Here’s a secret also, because just a few years later, at the age of around eight, children begin to understand something that many of us, if not all of us, in this room already know all too well: Life’s not fair. At the age of eight, just five years after they figured out fairness and justice, they’re learning that life isn’t fair.

And when has life ever been fair? Throughout all of history, pride and power and politics, war, wealth, sickness, accidents, natural disasters, school, work, play, taxes, death. Life isn’t fair. It’s just not.

But we learn, we adapt. We deal with it, but sometimes this unfairness, this lack of justice just builds up and beats us down. It seeds discouragement; we lose heart. We become weary. It’s just not fair.

In this parable that we hear from Jesus, He talks about this judge. This is not a good guy. This judge is about as far away from fairness and goodness as you can get. We hear from Jesus that we’re supposed to love God with everything we’ve got and love our neighbor as ourself.  And yet, this judge even repeats himself, “I do not fear God nor respect any human being.” He’s pretty much the opposite of good and just. He’s only out for himself. He’s corrupt. He couldn’t care less about justice. If someone of influence or means, or had a good bribe, or someone who’s a friend, or a friend of a friend, someone that could do him a favor, that’s where his decision is going to be swayed. That isn’t fair.

What about this widow that we hear about? Jesus chose this character of a widow very carefully and wisely, because a widow in that society was about the lowest status that you could possibly be. With the loss of her husband, she had zero status. In fact, all of the inheritance that was owned by her husband would have been claimed by his family. If there were children involved, they would have to go to court, and we just heard about the judge. In that society, life is completely and totally against a widow.  In fact, she shouldn’t really even be speaking to a civil authority. She isn’t worthy enough in that society for that. Talk about unfair. That isn’t fair.

So what’s the point? This is an unusual situation with parables that Jesus gives, because Jesus tells us what the point of the parable is before He tells us the story of the parable. He told us that it is about the necessity to pray always, without becoming weary.

We can get confused about this parable.  Jesus isn’t saying that if we nag God long enough, hard enough, often enough, we’ll eventually get Him to do exactly what we want Him to do. No way.

He’s contrasting God with this judge. He’s talking about how God is different.  If an unrighteous and unjust judge with limited power would give in to persistent petitions, how much more so would a righteous judge and just judge with limitless power hear the cries of those who call to Him?

The point, Jesus is telling us, is to pray always and not get weary. But Jesus is also teaching us something that goes a little deeper.  Typical Jesus. There’s something a little bit deeper: Life’s not fair, and it never will be until Jesus, the just judge, returns. Jesus, Son of the Creator, who came to be with us and one with us.  He lived, suffered, died, and rose, and He ascended, justifying us for our salvation, even though we aren’t worthy of that. He cleared the path for us to live with Him in love eternally, and He promised He would come again in glory. He promised, and He will do it. That’s the point.

All of our prayer, like the widow, our relentless prayer and petitions, in spite of discouragement, in spite of weariness, in spite of setbacks and trials and burdens in our life, the prayer of the chosen ones is to bring us justice, to bring us to the world that is to come. To bring us to the kingdom that is to come, forever and ever. That’s the prayer that will come speedily and when we least expect it. That’s the prayer we long for. That’s the prayer we want to pray for incessantly. That’s the point.

That’s not to say that we don’t want to pray for a cure to cancer, or world peace, or to be appreciated and loved, or health for ourselves and for our family members and for our loved ones, strength and wisdom to our leaders, and a good parking spot at the mall. Of course, we want to pray for these things, and of course our loving God hears these prayers.

But the point of this story, this parable, is an eschatological one. That means it’s of the kingdom to come. It’s for life everlasting. It’s for a just God bringing about a just end and a just life everlasting, just as He promised. That’s the point.

But…When the Son of Man comes, will He find faith on earth?

Amen.

Share the Abundance

Twenty-sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time
September 25, 2022 — Year C
Readings: Am 6:1a, 4-7 / Ps 146 / 1 Tm 6:11-16 / Lk 16:19-31
by Rev. Mr. Barry Welch, Guest Homilist

The parable we heard today is certainly an indictment of the rich man.  But the rich man didn’t really do anything wrong.  He didn’t kill anybody; he didn’t harm Lazarus; he didn’t call the cops and have him sent away.  He didn’t really do anything wrong, but still he was indicted here, and he was indicted because of what he did not do.  In the beginning of the Mass, we recite the Confiteor:  Forgive me for what I have done and what I have failed to do.

When Jesus was giving this parable, the people who were present probably all had a rich man in their hearts – especially the Pharisees, because that’s whom he was directing His message to.  At the very beginning it says “He said to the Pharisees…”

Frankly, there is probably a little bit of the “rich man” in all of us today.  In this message, we have the “literal” or surface meaning:  It’s pretty clear that Jesus is calling out greed, self-importance, selfishness, gluttony, all of those things that are clearly ailments of our current society and culture.  That surface message is a strong lesson for all of us to pray about, meditate on, and to consider in our lives.

Also, this severe contrast between the very rich and the super poor spotlights God’s love for all human beings and also our role in bringing about His love and His kingdom.  I think the riches, the superabundance, the sumptuousness that we see on the rich man’s table in this story represent the grace of God, overflowing.  And it’s available to all.  But do we all know it?  Do we all sense it, feel it, and believe it?

Israel, the people of God, in a very special way were called apart and gifted with the knowledge of this grace of God.  God spoke directly to them; He walked with them, and talked with them, and brought them out of slavery in Egypt, crossed the Red Sea, and eventually brought them to the Promised Land.  Ultimately, he made salvation available to everyone through the Chosen People, in the person of Jesus Christ.

The rich man had all of this showered upon him in his house:  the food, the abundance, the overflowing table representing God’s grace every single day – not just Sunday – and yet, he keeps it to himself.  He’s comfortable.  He’s fine.  He’s taken care of.  He’s secure.  Or so he thinks.  But we’re not called to gorge on God’s grace for ourselves.  We, too, have these things, like the rich man had:  We have Moses and the prophets; we have the Word of God; and we have the One who rose from the dead.  We also have the Church and her sacraments.

In the story, Lazarus was close to the feast.  He was right there: he could have picked up the scraps.  There are probably Lazaruses even here in this gathering space or at home on Facebook, poor in spirit and desiring but a small scrap, not really knowing Jesus and His love for them, but do we see them?  Do we even get close enough to know their names, the way Jesus knew Lazarus’s name?  Note that this is the only parable Jesus told in which someone was named.  In all the others, it’s “the father”; it’s “the women”; it’s “the blind man”; it’s “the virgin”.  In this one, Jesus named him, because it’s important.

Then there are those brothers.  There are those who are out there that may not be “close to the feast” of God’s grace:  our friends and family, children and grandchildren, co-workers, fellow students.  After we’re gone, it’s too late; we can’t reach them then.  They have the prophets, they have the Word, they have Moses, they even have someone who rose from the dead, but do they know?  It’s your job now — your job and my job.

We go through our lives in this material world and this Western enlightened culture with it baked into us:  individualism.  It’s all about me.  I have a right.  And consumerism.  I, me, mine.  I worked hard for this; this is mine.  It trains our brains toward selfishness, even with grace, and the knowledge of salvation and the forgiveness of sins.

But here we are, we’re called to come.  We’re here to worship.  We’re not here to worship the priest, or the deacon, or the choir, or the altar servers.  We’re not here to worship each other, or the architecture, or the décor.  Don’t get me wrong:  All of those are very, very important, because every single one of them either represents Jesus Christ or points us toward Him.  They’re all very important.

But why are we here?  We’re here to worship our Lord and Savior:  the One who willingly sacrificed and died on the cross.  We’re here to receive that abundant, sumptuous, overflowing grace poured out on this altar, on this table.  We feed on that sumptuous altar with the Word and the Eucharist.  And then we go out, and we take it out into the world where our brothers and sisters are.  That’s why, at the end of Mass, the very last element of the Mass is “the Dismissal”.  The Dismissal is so important that the Mass itself gets its name from the Latin word for dismissal.  The Deacon, when present, gets the privilege of executing the Dismissal: “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”  “Go in peace glorifying God by your life.”  “Go and announce the Gospel of the Lord!”

Think about that:  At the end of every Mass, we’re given that Dismissal; that call.  Think about how important that Dismissal is.  Because we’re to take those graces – that overflowing abundance of graces – and not hoard them for ourselves but take that abundance and that love of Christ out into the world to our brothers and sisters to make them aware of the knowledge of salvation and the forgiveness of their sins.

There are lots of ways we can do it:  We can do it by words, smiles, hugs, encouragement, our actions, with our love and care for every human, with our charity, and with our prayers.  Please pray – It works!

Certainly, we can help – and we are called to help and assist – everyone in need with physical needs, material needs, medical needs, all of those things.  We’re always called to do that.  Always!  But foremost is to bring them the grace of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.  They have Moses, and they have the prophets, and praise God, they have you.

Difficult Times

Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time
August 14, 2022 — Year C
Readings: Jer 38:4-6, 8-10 / Ps 40 / Heb 12:1-4 / Lk 12:49-53
by Rev. Mr. Barry Welch, Guest Homilist

Jesus makes a very striking statement to His disciples in today’s gospel: “Do you think that I have come to establish peace on the earth?  No, I tell you, but rather, division.”  Why would Jesus say this?  Isn’t He all about peace?  We hear so often:  Peace be with you.  One of His titles is Prince of Peace.  Peace is one of the fruits of the Holy Spirit.  From the Beatitudes, we remember, “Blessed are the peacemakers.”  And yet, He is bringing up division.  Why is it that He says this?  I think there are two primary reasons.

The first is the practical advice He is giving to His followers.  Many of His followers were thinking that they were with the Messiah now.  He was expected to usher in a whole new era of God’s Kingdom.  All the tribes would come back together; there would be peace in the land; the Holy City would be returned.  Serenity, tranquility, harmony.  Everyone getting along, etc.

Jesus lets them know that this is not the way it is going to be.  He says that some will love Him, some will follow Him, some will join Him, but others will not.  Not only will some not love Him, they will also despise those who do.  According to Jesus, that is not His will, but it is the will of those who do not believe, their own free will.  So He is letting His followers know that there will be division, and it will put strain on relationships.

I’ve said in homilies before that the moment you make a big step, a big commitment, a vow toward Jesus Christ, you will be challenged.  Obstacles will present themselves, fear being one of them.  Satan himself, or the lies that he has planted in the world, will be against you, even in your own household and among those you hold most dear.  Jesus is clarifying that for us in this gospel.

Secondly, as is often the case, Jesus also has a deeper meaning when He is saying something, especially if He is saying something that may be a little confusing to us.  His meaning may not be as readily understandable to us today as it would have been to His original listeners.  Jesus is revealing something about Himself as He quotes from the prophet Micah.

Micah was a contemporary of Isaiah, whom Jesus also often quotes.  The general idea with Micah is that he is making a movement in his prophesies and proclamations from judgment, trial, testing, into confidence in God’s salvation.  In chapter 7 of the Book of Micah, the chapter quoted by Jesus in today’s gospel, he starts with this theme of trials and testing.  Here are some excerpts:

“The faithful have disappeared from the land, and there is no one who is upright.…Their hands are skilled to do evil….The official and the judge ask for a bribe….The powerful dictate what they desire and therefore pervert justice….Put no trust in a friend.  Have no confidence in a loved one…. Guard the doors of your mouth.”

Here is the part that Jesus quotes:  “For the son treats the father with contempt.  The daughter rises up against her mother, the daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law, and your enemies are members of your own household.”

Whenever Jesus or any of the teachers of His time are quoting ancient scriptures, there is a whole theme and message that they are referring to, not just the individual quote.  Up to this point Micah has delivered a theme of trials and tribulations signified by even division within families.

But then, Micah continues: “But as for me, I will look to the Lord.  I will wait for the God of my salvation, my God will hear me.  As in the days when you came out of the land of Egypt, show us marvelous things.  (The Exodus, pointing to the new Exodus.)  You will cast all our sins into the depths of the sea.  You will show faithfulness to Jacob and unswerving loyalty to Abraham, as you have sworn to our ancestors from the days of old.”

In no uncertain terms, Jesus, in the message He quotes from Micah, is proclaiming to His listeners, His disciples then, and His followers today, that He is the fulfillment of that prophecy.  He is the one to achieve the new Exodus to the heavenly kingdom.  He is the one to free us from slavery to sin.  He is the one to answer the oath sworn to our ancestors.  He is the one to bring about the hope for salvation.

He is also saying, in this quote from Micah, that before salvation, there will be difficult times.  Before salvation, we will experience that time of trial and tribulation.  The upside-down world despises Him.  Why wouldn’t it despise us as well?

In the gospel today, Jesus reveals that He is ready to purify the world through fire and the Holy Spirit, as predicted by John the Baptist.  The most wonderful part about all of this is that Jesus takes on all of those trials, all of our debts, all of our sins, upon Himself in the baptism of His passion and death, which He said He must endure before the resurrection.  He restores what is broken and beaten.  He reconciles us to the Father.  He recreates us new and brings about salvation.

Before that, however, as we heard in the letter to the Hebrews today, “Let us rid ourselves of every burden and sin that clings to us and persevere in running the race that lies before us while keeping our eyes fixed on Jesus.”