Camille Pissarro, “Entrée du village de Voisins”, 1872
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Waiting and waiting, for exactly what I’m not sure.
The sun to rise.
The day to end.
The water to boil.
Mass to begin.
The cock to crow.
Christ to return.
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A new day is here.
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Father, thank You.
Jesus, I love You.
Holy Spirit, have Your way.
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—Howard Hain
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Thomas Wilmer Dewing, “Tobias and the Angel”, 1887 (The Met)
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Since my daughter’s earliest days, we have played this little game:
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I look at her and say, “Sometimes you love someone so much...”
And she softly responds, “…it makes you cry.”
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We both get glassy eyed and gently smile.
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Love
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What is it?
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“It” is a person
His name is Jesus
His skin is many colors
He is 33 years old, and also 7, and also 84, and also 40…
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He is God. He is alive. He lives in you and me.
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Tell Him that you love Him.
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It is Jesus.
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“Sometimes you love someone so much…it makes you cry.”
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—Howard Hain
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http://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/10749
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Pablo Picasso, “Mother and Son with Handkerchief”, 1903
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If there was a man named Silence, what would he say?
If there was a man named Trust, what would be his worry?
If there was a man named Hope, what would he miss?
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If there was a man named Love, what would his mother’s name be but Mary?
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Yesterday I met a mother who just buried her son. Just the two of us on a city sidewalk. The cars, the buses, the children leaving school, even the woman close by and working in her garden…they all kept moving.
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If there was a man named Hug, what else would he do?
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—Howard Hain
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Last night at St. Theresa’s Church in Woodside, Queens, New York City, I spoke about the gift of prayer and the simple prayers we know, like the Sign of the Cross and the Our Father, which can be our teachers of prayer. God gives us, saint and sinner alike, the gift of prayer.
Tonight, I spoke about the saints as our teachers. What can we learn from St. Theresa of Lisieux, the patroness of this parish? A doctor of the church who was 24 years old when she died, one of three women who have that honor. St. Theresa of Avila and St. Catherine of Siena are the others.
Theresa added two titles to her name after she entered the Carmel. She was Theresa of the Child Jesus and the Holy Face. I spoke about her spirituality of childhood this evening. She received a grace on Christmas night when she was 13 years old:
“Jesus, the gentle little child of one hour, changed the night of my soul into rays of light…On that night of light began the third period of my life, the most beautiful and filled with graces from heaven. What I had been unable to do in ten years, Jesus did in one instant, contenting himself with my good will, which was always there. I could say to him as his apostles did, ‘Master, I fished all night and have caught nothing. More merciful to me than he was to them, Jesus took the net himself, cast it, and drew it in filled with fish. He made me a fisher of souls. I greatly desired to work for the conversion of sinners, a desire I hadn’t experienced before. I felt love enter my heart, and the need to forget myself and pleasing others. Since then I’ve been happy.” Chapter 5, Story of a Soul.
In the gospels, Jesus told us to become like little children to enter the kingdom of heaven. I reflected on a definition of spiritual childhood given by St. Leo the Great. To be a child means to be free from crippling anxieties, to be forgetful of injuries, to be sociable and to live wondering before all things.
At our mission tonight at St. Theresa in Woodside, New York, I’ll continue reflecting on the gift of prayer.
We all have the gift of prayer. We can pray. God gives that gift to saints and sinners alike, though we may tend to think only saints and “good” people can pray. But that gift is given to all, because God is Father of saints and sinner alike. Prayer is a gift of God’s mercy.
Prayer is a gift given to all; it’s meant to be used continually. Like the gift of faith growing like a mustard seed, the gift of prayer is meant to grow.
We’re reading all this year at Mass from Luke’s Gospel, which is called a gospel of prayer. It’s called that because the evangelist offers many examples and teachings of Jesus on prayer. Now, at this point in the liturgical year especially, our readings at Mass seem to be devoted to prayer.
Last week, for example, we heard the desperate prayer of the ten lepers: “Jesus, Master, have pity on us.” Today we heard the parable about the widow and the unjust judge. Next week, we’ll hear the humble, almost hesitant prayer of the publican: “O God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” Later on in Luke’s gospel, when Jesus dies and enters his glory, we’ll hear the cry of the thief: “Lord, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” All these readings tell us God gives the gift of prayer to everyone, the sinner, the desperate, everyone.
Yet, prayer tries our patience. Like the poor widow facing the powerful unjust judge, whom we read about this Sunday, we may not see our prayers answered quickly. We can then grow weary praying. In his parable Jesus says our prayers are answered “speedily,” yet we have trouble understanding that word “speedily.” It doesn’t match our timetable or our expectations. We don’t like waiting.
We also can make prayer too small and limit it to things entirely personal. Today, some would reduce prayer and meditation to ways to gain inner balance or to bring your blood pressure down. Prayer is bigger than that. It’s asking for “God’s kingdom to come, God’s will be done.” Prayer is meant to open us to new horizons, new undertakings, to see the world with the eyes of Christ.
Far from leading us away from the world, we are led in prayer to face a world crippled by violence and strife. Only God can help us. Please Lord, come and assist us.
I’m going to pose some questions to those here at the mission:
What prayers are you attracted to?
Are there any places that lead you to prayer?
Any trying times in your life that you found yourself praying?
Then I’m going to reflect on some of our common prayers, like the Sign of the Cross and the Our Father. After that, we will have Benediction.
Pablo Picasso, “Woman in White”, 1923 (The Met)
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The fewest words possible.
It is hard to imagine why we speak any at all.
Nothing comes out right.
There’s never enough said.
What is uttered is always incomplete.
The vow of silence seems awfully attractive at times.
But how long would that last?
I remember taking early morning walks years ago.
I would see the sky, the horizon, the landscape, the fields, the trees, the rocks, the grass, the birds…
I would get so excited.
I would want to run home and tell my wife, to show her, to bring her to that very spot.
But I couldn’t.
By even thinking about doing so something had happened.
The sky, the horizon, the landscape, the fields, the trees, the rocks, the grass, the birds…they were all still there, but it was gone.
By wanting to run and show someone else, by desperately wanting to share—to not be alone—I was again the only one standing on that vacant road.
God of course was still there, and His holy angels and saints—the cloud of witnesses—but I was no longer home.
For I was no longer there.
I was in the land of wanting, of wanting something else but “here and now,” of wanting something else besides a glimpse of eternity—of wanting more than the kingdom truly being at hand.
For even the beautifully-human desire to share with others sometimes gets in the way.
What is needed is more faith.
What is needed is belief—the belief that the gift of God’s presence, when graciously and generously and humbly received, gives more to our family and friends, gives more to the entire world, than we could ever show or tell each and every one of them individually—even when our “receiving” takes place when we are completely and totally “alone.”
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—Howard Hain
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http://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/488711
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Father Enzo, one of our Passionists in Haiti, went recently to Dame Marie, La Serengue and Jeremie, places devasted by hurricane Matthew, where the St. Luke Foundation for Haiti has schools and clinic.
“The duration of the flight to Dame Marie is one hour by helicopter. Half way to Jeremie today rain was hitting the windshield of the helicopter, and we started to worry that we had to abort again, but fortunately we were able to go through. The raindrops on the windshield seemed to me like to many teardrops and while we were flying, I was thinking of how many tears Hurricane Matthew had provoked.
“Just before arriving to Jeremie, the helicopter turned slightly inland to reach Dame Marie, where the eye of the hurricane passed. I remember visiting previously the past two years, and remember that compared to the rest of the country the province of Grand Anse had very lush vegetation. What struck me immediately as soon as we turned inland was to see how Hurricane Matthew chopped acres and acres of trees.
“The province of Grand Anse is particularly isolated, and paradoxically one of the most vegetated places that remained in the country, which has otherwise been so heavily deforested. The hurricane is always a natural disaster, no doubt. But with our human hands we can increase the disaster by not treating the earth as the common home given to us by God, through deforestation, pollution, poor building construction, lack of urban planning, so often the result of poverty.
“When we arrived to Dame Marie, we saw houses spread throughout the vegetation without their roofs, and rivers grown three times their size. It was heartbreaking. When we were approaching Dame Marie, it was hard to understand even what we were looking at arriving by helicopter. From the air we could see the roof of the parish church blown away and so of the houses, but we saw many colors. Getting closer, we saw that it was clothes hanging everywhere to dry after all those days of rain.
“We landed on the football field. The pilot was afraid to land, thinking that the people would assault us in search for food, and just wanted to go from one place to another by air. We are well known in the area, and Nebez is originally from there, so we landed. The pilot gave us 15 minutes on the ground because of the weather conditions. As we landed we were surrounded by hundreds of people who began to clap hands, sing and praise God for our arrival. It was almost like they were visited by God. More than bringing food, blankets, clothes or water, I think today it was very important to them to know that they were not abandoned, they are not alone and that they belong to a bigger family.
” We visited the community hospital and that’s when I cried as I saw people laying on the floor crying and abandoned. I was impressed while we were walking with the Bishop how people stopped him saying, “praise God that the Lord has visited his people” and asking him with concern how things were in Jeremie. On our way back to the helicopter it was amazing to see women washing clothes, cooking, drying the corn or the rice in the sun, to see the notebooks and books of the children drying in the sun hoping to go back to school as soon as possible.
“Once at the helicopter, it was beautiful to see the children playing on the field doing cartwheels around us. Before we left, the Bishop prayed with the people he said that our houses have been destroyed, our lives have been disrupted, our tress and crops have been chopped off, but we are all alive, and this is already a grace. All the people began to shout “Amen, hallelujah!” The next few weeks are going to be critical, and we are thinking not only to bring supplies, but also to set up a hospital tent. It is worth mentioning that we were first people to reach Dame Marie after the hurricane.
“While we were flying over Jeremie before landing we saw the cathedral completely open on the top. The roof had been blown off, and was heartbreaking to see. But mostly it was heartbreaking to see the people with houses destroyed, built so poorly and with such poor materials to begin with. When we landed in the football field, the people recognized the Bishop and started to run towards him. It was beautiful to see. What came to mind was when Jesus said “I am the good shepherd; I know my own sheep, and they know me” (Jn 10:14). But again, I saw more a lamb than a shepherd, who was ready to carry on his shoulders the burden of his people. We had to leave him quickly, but promised him that we would return to help him and his people.
“I would like here to talk about the resilience of our Haitian brothers and sisters. They are like a boxer in a boxing ring. Knocked down, and the count to ten is on, but they are always able to stand up before the final countdown. Not even the hurricane can knock them out. It makes me think too of what is now a prophetic image of Our Lady of Sorrows, the patroness of our congregation, that we had painted on the side of our new residence which bears her name that will face the entrance of the new St Luke hospital.
“Our Founder, Paul of the Cross used to compare Our Lady of Sorrows to a rock on which the waves slam but cannot move her. As I contemplated this, I saw Our Lady holding Christ’s shroud firmly but gently as a mother holds her child. The wind and the waves batter her as she appeals to God on behalf of the Haitian people. There is sorrow in her face but confidence too. Why else would she be on that sharp rock but for her faith!
“On our way to Jeremie the sky was full of rain drops that reminded me of tears. On the way home the sky was clear but my eyes were full of tears. It is an obligation to have been the eyes and ears on behalf of our friends and supporters who are so concerned for those affected by this disaster, and now to be their voice to you on their behalf. These are people who are already so vulnerable of being invisible to the outside world, and I am humbled today to have had the chance to help share their story.”
Fr Enzo Del Brocco
St Luke Foundation and
Passionisti Haiti Mission of Our Lady of Sorrows
To listen to this week’s homily, please select the audio file below:
Some years ago, I visited the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, DC with a cousin of mine who fought in that war. We were passing along the wall where names of those who were killed in that war were inscribed, when he stopped and pointed to a name.
One day, he said, his artillery unit was ordered to a forward position; he was the officer in charge. Just as he was ready to get into the helicopter, word came that he was wanted for a meeting at headquarters, so he got out of the helicopter and told a junior officer to take over; he would join them as soon as he could.
That day the unit took heavy fire; the name he pointed to on the wall was the officer who took his place.
“Why am I living and he’s not?” That’s a question he keeps asking, he told me. “Why am I alive?”
That’s really the ultimate question in today’s readings. The lepers who were cured by Jesus were facing death. There was no cure for their disease. Leprosy was so frightening then that those affected by it were driven from their homes and families to live in isolated places and forbidden to go near anyone. Jesus gave them the miracle of life.
It didn’t matter if you were rich or poor. Namaan, the Syrian general, whom we read about in our first reading, was one of the most powerful people in the world, but he had leprosy; it was a death sentence. In desperation he went down to Israel looking for a cure, a miracle. Washing in the Jordan River, he received the miracle of life.
The ten lepers were cured, our gospel reading says, but only one was truly thankful. The other nine seem to take the life they were given for granted. Do those nine represent most of us? The one who was thankful was a Samaritan.
Namaan, the Syrian, was also thankful. He went to the prophet Elisha after being cured and offered him gifts. No, the prophet said, life is God’s gift, not mine, and he wouldn’t take anything from the Syrian.
“Then at least let me take some dirt from this place, ‘two mule loads of earth,’” Namaan says, “so that I can take it back with me and stand on it and remember and give thanks to God for what I have received here. “ He won’t forget the gift of life and how to use it.
That’s the great challenge we all face–not to forget that life is a gift and it’s been given to us by God to live well every moment, each day, as long as God gives it to us.
Our church is a place of thanksgiving. Above all, our church is a place where we give thanks. Our Mass is also called Eucharist, an act of thanksgiving. “Let us give thanks to the Lord our God.” “It’s truly right and just” that we do this. In this place we remember the God of Life who gives us life. Here too we receive a promise of life beyond this, greater than this, through Jesus Christ.
We have been given the gift of life, a precious gift. Don’t take it for granted. We thank God for it and try with all our strength to live it as we should.
Martin Johnson Heade, “Hummingbird and Passionflowers”, (ca. 1875-85) (The Met)
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The delicate little bird that resides within each of us.
It hops to and fro. It stands startlingly still.
Very often we are the very ones who chase it away.
But it doesn’t fly far.
Just to the closest branch, that’s just beyond our reach.
And it looks back at us, as if to ask, “Why are you afraid?”
The tiny head of a tiny bird, slightly cocked to the side—a question mark floats from its beak.
It longs to return, to live within us, to build a nest, to raise its young.
But it doesn’t rush back.
No, it waits.
It waits for us to ask for it to return.
It’s a patient creature, that tiny bird.
One may be tempted to say it’s not very smart, but that’s not it at all.
It’s simple. It’s holy. It knows who it is. It’s not afraid of the fall.
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—Howard Hain
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http://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/11052
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George Cole, “Harvet Rest”, 1865
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A painter has a great advantage, as does a writer I suppose. He can scratch out, erase, and paint over. He can throw out and start again. He can expand the landscape or focus in on a detail. There is great freedom in creation. Yet none of it has any value unless it comes from and leads back toward God.
The great sweeping landscapes painted throughout the years. I want to dive into so many of them. To run toward the distant hills, to sit beside the babbling brooks, to hitch a ride on the hay wagon making its way round the bend. But most of all I want to join the peasants, working the fields or gathered around the base of a giant oak for a bite of second-day bread, and perhaps even a sip of slightly watered-down wine.
I want to hear the simple strings of a Spanish guitar, the worn-out wood of a French violin, the voice of yet another “Maria” toiling beneath the Italian plein air.
The pleasant thought of resting beside a river bed—of catching a not-so-quick nap within the shade of God’s ever-expanding and contracting canopy of leaves.
Even the bark of an English Foxhound could not interrupt thee!
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I don’t want to be told that this isn’t reality. I don’t want to be told that it’s a bit romantic.
I want to live simply. I want to work an honest wage. I want to stop at noon to give the good God rightful thanks and praise.
I want to visit the graves of the dead with a bouquet of hope and faith.
I want to truly retire each night.
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Love is enough.
It is enough for you and for me.
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There is never enough if that we fail to see.
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—Howard Hain
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The Victor's Place 