For this week’s homily, please play the video below:
by Orlando Hernandez
On those special times, when in silent meditation, I feel so close to Jesus that I imagine I can hear Him, I often hear Him asking me what He asked the man in Mark’s Gospel, who had come to have His son be cured… “Do you believe?” A little dismayed, all I can answer Him is, “I believe, help my unbelief.”
This Wednesday, we listen to the conclusion of Mark’s Gospel. Before His Ascension, Jesus tells His disciples:
“These signs will accompany those who believe: in my name they will drive out demons, they will speak new languages. They will pick up serpents with their hands, and if they drink any deadly thing, it will not harm them. They will lay hands on the sick and they will recover.” (Mk 16: 17-18)
Last week Fr. Victor wrote about the way that Jesus is still with us through “signs”. These signs can be events that are so filled with spiritual energy that we cannot but feel the presence of the Divine among us. Last Sunday, before Mass with our Charismatic Prayer Group at the Passionist Monastery in Jamaica, Queens, I approached one of our most enthusiastic members. She was sitting with her head down; she was feeling weak and disheartened. Perhaps her malaria had come back that weekend and it was taking a toll on her. She thought it was maybe the medicine. I tried to console her with optimism and confidence: “You’ll see, you’re young and full of faith. Rest and pray. You’ll be fine in no time. And besides, I know that during this prayer meeting so many graces are going to fall upon you, that you won’t know what hit you!” We smiled, but I was worried about her.
The Mass, and the singing and praising that followed were filled with much devotion. I felt so united to everyone else. We even joined in a devotional Jewish-style dance around the altar that was loud and boisterous. At the conclusion of the song, still holding hands, we proceeded to lose ourselves in spontaneous praise, with many of us “speaking in tongues.” We could not stop ourselves. Some of the members of the group placed the young woman at the center and began to pray for her healing, for her release from the “spirit of infirmity”. I was aware of this, so I praised all the more avidly, for I had been told that “the Glory of God is in the praises of His people, and where the Glory of God is, signs and wonders begin to take place.” I felt the power of the Spirit of God fall upon the twenty to thirty people in that circle, the beams of His wild power ricocheting from person to person. It was overwhelming. I just knew that our friend was going to get better, but I also believed that all of us were being healed in different ways, poisonous symptoms dissolving, reptilian evils crushed, sicknesses improving. It was a marvelous experience, and it went on for quite some time. As we were leaving we felt dazed and energized at the same time. The young woman was telling us that she was so much better. Her whole attitude changed.
On the way home I still felt the tingling sensation of the experience. But, for an instant, I wondered if it had all been an episode of “mass hypnosis”, or “group hysteria”. Was it real? Or just our imagination? Can miracles really happen that easily? Where was my faith in the power of prayer, specially in community?
It is comforting to read what the German-American theologian Paul Tillich says: “Doubt isn’t the opposite of faith; it is an element of faith.” In defense of Thomas the Apostle, Msgr. Joseph Calese wrote in the Catholic newspaper The Tablet: “Without the existence of doubt, faith would not be faith, but knowledge. Thomas is not alone in striving for holiness while still wishing for something touchable, something proven….. The motto under the image of Divine Mercy is “Jesus, I trust in You,” an act of faith based more in the heart than in the head. It does not imply that we have all the answers, but simply that our belief in God’s love and power is stronger than our doubt.”
In this Wednesday’s Gospel the Lord did say, “ These signs will accompany those who believe.” Like a little child, all I ask my Heavenly Father is, “Dear Papa, I know that You love me. Please strengthen my faith. Keep our Prayer Group united and strong. And please could I have a little more of that?!”
Orlando Hernández
The Gospel of Mark, the first of the gospels to appear in written form, presents Jesus going to death in utter desolation, draining the cup of suffering given him by his Father. His enemies viciously reject him; his disciples mostly betray or desert him. Only a few remain as he goes on his way. His cry from the cross is a cry of faith mingled with deep fear and sorrow: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
This gospel, taut and fast-paced, brings us into the dark mystery of suffering that Jesus faced. We face it too. The Passion is a book that leads to life, a risen life. Our liturgy tells us that today. Like a “well trained tongue” our readings from Isaiah 50,4-7, Philippians 2, 6-11, Psalm 22 and Mark’s Passion narrative call us to hope before the enemy death.
The desolation Jesus faced took many forms, some quite hidden from our eyes and understanding. Yes, the cross brought physical pain, but the gospels, even the gospel of Mark, the darkest of them, do not describe physical sufferings in great detail, as Mel Gibson does in his The Passion of the Christ. The sufferings Jesus endured were primarily spiritual and psychological, all indicated in the cry “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me.”
Paul of the Cross spoke of this to a priest of his community who was experiencing the cross of spiritual desolation. God’s grace would lift him up to bring life to someone else, the saint assured him. The mystery of the cross never ends in death.
“From what you tell me of your soul, I, with the little or no light that God gives me, tell you that the abandonment and desolation, and the rest you mention, are precisely preparing you for greater graces that will help you in the ministry for which his Divine Majesty has destined you either now or at some other time. Of that I have no doubt.” (letter 1217)
Lord,
Speak to all of us today of joy and gladness,
let the bones you have crushed rejoice…
Restore in us the joy of your salvation. Ps. 51
For this weeks homily please play the video below:
Christ lives in the Eucharistic Prayer.
He listens carefully.
The Father listens too.
We listen with Them.
The Holy Spirit speaks.
He speaks a great silence.
He listens to the listeners.
We collectively hear.
God.
Three Persons.
His Entire People.
All Creation.
The Sound of One Breathing.
The Sound of Life.
Communion.
—
Amen.
(Jan/4/18)
Can’t keep it neat
Bunched-up cloth
Shifting sand
An avalanche of gifts
Those toward the outside move the most
The trough is fixed in place
“The world turns, the Cross stands still” *
Manger, manger, what happened to you?
Sprouted roots
Began life as a tree
…..A table
……….A sawhorse
……………A wagon wheel
Dusty bumpy road
Excitement of a coming feast
Not quite yet
To and fro
Which place is home?
Bethlehem, Nazareth, Jerusalem
The land of Cana
A wedding toast
Now a wooden throne
Plenty of wine to go around
“The world turns, the Cross stands still” *
Manger, manger, what happened to you?
Sprouted roots
Began life as a tree
* this line is a loose paraphrase of the Carthusian motto: “Stat Crux Dum Volvitur Orbis” (The Cross Stands Firm, While The World Turns)
by Howard Hain
Rembrandt, “The Angel Appearing to the Shepherds”, 1634
Now there were shepherds in that region living in the fields and keeping the night watch over their flock. The angel of the Lord appeared to them and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were struck with great fear.
—Luke 2:8-9
Perhaps the scariest thing to those of us who cling tightly to the things of the world is to accept the job that the Lord assigns us.
Oh, how so many of us are so quick to long for greater adventure!
Yet, when it comes to those humble, little shepherds to whom the angel of the Lord appeared, we are perhaps even quicker to long to be one of them—sitting quietly upon a gentle hillside, effortlessly tending to a passive flock, while the always-full moon provides a soft, ever-so-appropriate illumination from above.
But we are liars. For there’s nothing less romantic in each one of our daily lives, or more mundane. We simply have to be honest, or at least consistent. It all depends on how we look at it. If we see the shepherds in such a delicate light then we also need to see ourselves in the same. For before the angel appears, the shepherds were hardly posing for picturesque landscapes. Perhaps it is for this very reason—their realness, their authenticity, their holy simplicity—that the Lord chose them to be present when He revealed His glory.
It is exciting. We have a wonderful choice, then. Either our “boring” lives make us just the kind of people to whom God prefers to reveal Himself, or our lives are a lot more “exciting” than we ever imagined. Either way, what is vital to making such a decision is true sincerity and genuine gratitude. We need to thank God for who He has made us, for where He has placed us, and for what type of task He has assigned us.
A faithful, humble heart dreams and believes and sees great things among the most ordinary circumstances. Just look at the young virgin and the upright carpenter to whom the shepherds “went in haste” to find in a stable, adoring a child born within the company of the “lowest” of men.
If we spend our time dreaming of being someone else, living somewhere else, and doing something else, we miss the opportunity of being exactly who God intends us to be—and when that happens—we are always in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and most tragically, doing that which matters very little.
For to be the first on the scene, the first to “lay hold”, the first to adore the New Born King, is as good as it gets—even for those whose “normal existence” isn’t standing around all alone—day after day in the scorching sun or biting cold, while picking fleas from matted-down fleece or scaring off hungry wolves.
The angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for behold, I proclaim to you good news of great joy that will be for all the people…”
So they went in haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the infant lying in the manger. When they saw this, they made known the message that had been told them about this child. All who heard it were amazed by what had been told them by the shepherds.
Then the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, just as it had been told to them.”
—Luke, Chapter 2:10,16-18,20
I wonder. Did God ever catch a cold?
Did Mary look at Him while He slept, watching carefully His chest rise and fall?
Did Joseph pace around their small home, looking upward, his right hand touching his brow?
I wonder. Did they wince in sync when Jesus coughed from the bottom of His soul?
Was there a day, a single hour, from the moment Jesus was conceived that Joseph and Mary weren’t concerned?
Concerning all this there’s not much to wonder.
Jesus is human.
Of course He experienced “cold” in all its forms.
Of course Joseph and Mary felt they’d rather die than see their child in pain.
And Jesus is divine.
Of course He was homesick.
Of course He longed to return.
Between Mary’s womb and heaven the desert is awfully dry.
He climbed up high, seeking out mountain views.
He returned to the sea, seeking out salt air.
He stopped to hang out with the little ones, seeking out angels.
Jesus is just like you and me.
Only He allows Himself to be loved.
And that led Him to love to the utter extreme.
All flowed from and toward a family reunion.
His pain, His grief, His hope, His love were perfectly ordered.
Even when He coughed or sneezed or tossed and turned, Jesus did so while in the company of a promise.
And He’s extremely contagious.
Joseph and Mary became homesick too.
There’s only one place they could want to be.
With their only child.
Clinging to Him, to their God with all their might.
A man named Paul lives in my home.
He’s an excellent house guest.
He never imposes.
He’s never and always alone.
My daughter and I talk of him often.
He brings wisdom to our kitchen table.
I’m not exactly sure when he moved in.
But it wasn’t so long ago.
Before and with him there are others.
Theresa, Francis, Bruno, John…just to name a few.
But Paul for some reason never seems to leave.
The others, they kind of come and go.
Paul on the other hand always hangs around.
But then again, I could say the same about the rest.
Is it cliché to say it’s a mystery?
Yesterday I witnessed a “dress” rehearsal for a live nativity. The cast was made up of first and second graders, and the audience was mostly composed of residents of a retirement home for religious sisters, Franciscans. It was spectacular.
Last week I was at Radio City Music Hall to watch the Rockettes in their “Christmas Spectacular”. It was quite a production.
Sitting in the dark this morning I cannot help but contrast the two.
I also cannot help but relate to the seven-year old who played the part of The Little Drummer Boy.
As that child walked so slowly toward the foot of the altar, where the rehearsal was being staged, I saw my vocation in an entirely different light.
The children were all singing their hearts out, and many of the eighty and ninety year-old sisters were mouthing the words. The boy with the drum didn’t utter a sound. He just kept walking, slowly, extremely slowly toward the altar, every once in a while ever so slightly pretending to tap two tiny sticks upon a toy drum. He was beautifully awkward.
There was no greater spectacle on earth at that very moment. Shall I dare to say, no greater event that heaven or earth has ever known?
For a child was born. We were all being born.
———
Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum
A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum
Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum
To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,
So to honor Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
When we come.
Little Baby, pa rum pum pum pum
I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum
I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum
That’s fit to give the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,
Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum,
On my drum?
Mary nodded, pa rum pum pum pum
The ox and lamb kept time, pa rum pum pum pum
I played my drum for Him, pa rum pum pum pum
I played my best for Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,
Then He smiled at me, pa rum pum pum pum
Me and my drum.*
* Little Drummer Boy was composed by Katherine K. Davis, Henry Onorati and Harry Simeone in 1958.
Howard Hain is a contemplative layman, husband, and father. He blogs at http://www.howardhain.com
The Victor's Place 