Unfortunately, not all of us are as lucky as Stephen, the first martyr.  Like him, we are filled with the Spirit; but most of us don’t get the chance, as he did, to “look up intently to heaven and see the glory of God and Jesus standing at the God’s right hand.”  Perhaps it is just as well; for if, as Stephen did, we could actually peer into heaven and see Jesus as Lord, risen and ascended, and reigning at his Father’s right hand, then we might be moved like Stephen to speak that Good News aloud.  And like Stephen, we might then become martyrs in the literal sense; because there are certainly people in our own day and time who would find our confession blasphemous, or at least absurd.

Curious thing, Stephen’s confession of faith from his vision: it is the thing that incites his persecutors to become his executioners; but at the same time, it is the truth that enables Stephen to embrace the death that comes his way in peace and joy, utterly free from fear.  How can he do it?  Because he understands that by faith, he can hope to share Jesus’ destiny in glory; and he knows well that Jesus himself had to pass through death on his way to that eternal destiny.  Like his Lord before him, Stephen does not look for suffering and death; but when they find him, he is unafraid.

Having tried always to follow Jesus in his heart and in his life, Stephen now sees one last earthly chance to follow his Lord in faith – even through the gates of mortal death.  And Luke, in writing Acts, leaves no doubt that this is exactly what Stephen is doing.  Just as Jesus commended his spirit into the Father’s hands from the cross, so Stephen commends his spirit into the hands of Jesus.  And just as Jesus asked his Father from the cross to forgive his persecutors, because they did not know what they were doing, so Stephen with his dying breath asks Jesus to forgive his own tormentors.  In other words, Stephen is a faithful disciple till the end, clinging to and bearing witness to the truth of his faith in Christ, even as he suffers and dies.  After all, the root meaning of the word “martyr” is witness…

Yet interestingly, the text of Acts does not say that Stephen dies.  Rather, it says that he “falls asleep.”  I find that significant, because it is not a euphemism to avoid the truth.  Rather, it articulates what we Christians actually believe about bodily death.  As we say in the first Preface for Masses for the Dead:  “Indeed for your faithful, Lord, life is changed not ended, and, when this earthly dwelling turns to dust, an eternal dwelling is made ready for [us] in heaven.”

For us who believe, death is as much a beginning as it is an ending; it inaugurates a new chapter, a new volume, in a life that will be eternal.  No wonder, then, that we speak of it as a “falling asleep,” as we do in the second Eucharistic prayer when we ask God to “remember our brothers and sisters who have fallen asleep in the hope of the resurrection”

I return to the challenge, however.  Most of us are not privileged to peer directly into heaven as Stephen seems to have done; we don’t get to see the risen and now ascended Jesus as King of glory and Lord of the Universe, interceding for us at his Father’s right hand.  We don’t get to hear and see him, as did the visionary author of the book of Revelation, reassuring us directly: “Behold, I am coming soon.  I bring with me the recompense I will give to each according to his deeds.  I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end.”  So where does that leave us?  Are we reduced to “blind faith.”  Must we simply trust Stephen, and the author of Revelation, and other saints, and take them at their word?

Luckily, not.  Blogger Joe Kay, a professional writer living in the Midwest, reminds us: “Anyone who tries to change the world experiences crucifixion in some way. There’s always a pushback against those who try to make their societies more compassionate, their countries more peaceful, their religions more tolerant. Those who advocate compassion and cooperation will cross paths with those who prefer hatred and violence, and they will invariably end up bleeding. They may not necessarily lose their lives, but they may lose their popularity, their friends, their security. There is a cost involved, a price to be paid for progress. And they pay it.  Moments of crucifixion happen every day.

“[But] So do moments of resurrection.  [Because] every act of love is an act of resurrection. Every act of kindness is an act of resurrection. Every embrace is a moment of life renewed and celebrated. Hope, patience, forgiveness, inclusiveness, sharing — those are the heartbeat of the resurrected world.

“Sometimes it feels like those who live by power, privilege, violence and greed have the upper hand. It appears they can use their weapons or their clout to wound the spirit of love. They think they can confine that spirit to a burial cloth and consign it to the cold darkness of a tomb. They roll a stone in front of the tomb’s entrance and decide their victory is complete.

But as they walk away, they glance back over their shoulder and get a surprise. The stone has already been rolled away. The tomb is empty.  Again. And always.”

So I invite you, sisters and brothers, in this last week as we journey toward Pentecost and the end of the Easter season, to open your eyes and hearts to moments of resurrection.  See where God is rolling away stones, whether great or small, in your life.  I challenge you – and myself, of course – to notice and experience our faith in resurrection, rather than thinking and talking about it.

Christian writer Bernard Martin, in his book If God Does Not Die, writes about a pastor who was called away from a children’s party at the parish religious ed program to visit a young woman whose world had collapsed into an acute depression following the death of her husband in an auto accident. She had withdrawn from everyone and shut herself in her bedroom with the blinds pulled, and she didn’t communicate with anyone, including her children, because she said they reminded her of her dead husband.

Before the pastor left the party, the children there had thrown confetti at him. He brushed it out of his hair and from his coat as best he could as he prepared to call on the depressed woman.  When he arrived at her house, he entered the darkened bedroom and told her who he was, but got no response. He could faintly see her pitiful form lying motionless on the bed; and he tried to carry on a conversation with her, but she was unresponsive. He reached out to touch her hand, but it lay lifeless in his. So he just sat with her in the dark silence for a time.

Finally, at a nudge from the Spirit, he decided to act.  He wanted to see the woman face to face, and to pray with her; so he turned on the bedside lamp.  The woman blinked and stared at him blankly.  And as he took out his New Testament which he carried in his jacket pocket and opened it, confetti fell from it all over the bed.  After an anxious and flustered moment, the minister burst into laughter.

And that did it.  First a smile appeared on the woman’s face, and then she broke into quiet laughter. She reached out her hands to the priest in the joy of resurrection. They prayed together and she left her darkness to return to the light.  It can be that simple, that ordinary – and that miraculous, brothers and sisters.

If we notice and believe what we experience, then the joy and peace in our hearts will be reflected in our faces, and in the spring of our step.  Discouraged people, hopeless people, will wonder what we know, and how we find the courage to believe in meaning and purpose – how it is that we can face life’s challenges bloodied but unbowed.  So let’s not get tired of the resurrection as this Easter season comes to an end, sisters and brothers.  Instead, let’s look for the evidence of it breaking into our days, and let’s find renewed joy in our faith.

I will end with one last story.  A great conductor was leading the final rehearsal of his chorus for their production of Handel’s “Messiah.” The chorus had sung through to the point where the soprano soloist takes up the refrain, “I know that my Redeemer liveth,” and the young woman sang the aria with perfect technique—faultless breathing, accurate note placement, and impeccable enunciation. After the final note all eyes were fixed on the conductor to catch his look of approval.

Instead, to their surprise, he silenced the orchestra, walked up to the singer with sorrowful eyes, and said, “My dear, do you really know that your Redeemer liveth? Do you?” “Why, yes,” she answered, flushing, “I think I do.” “Then sing it!” he cried. “Tell it to me so that I will know, and all who hear you will know that you know the joy and power of it.”  Then he motioned the orchestra to begin again.

This time the young woman sang the truth as she knew it and had experienced it in her own soul, and all who heard wept under the spell of it.  After she finished, the old master approached her with tear-dimmed eyes, and said, “You do know, my dear, for this time you have told me.”

© 2013 Fr. Daniel M. Ruff, S.J.

I suppose, were she anyone else, that we would not be so surprised; Cornelia Farrell was, after all, 94 years of age when she went home this week to the Lord whom she loved and served so long and so faithfully.  But I guess, in Cornelia’s case, we never could quite believe her age; she made 94 look so vigorous, so elegant, so attractive!  I, for one, half believed she was immortal…

On Sundays at 11:30 Mass, she was frequently the only person seated in the balcony – always on the St. Joseph side of the sanctuary, and toward the front.  My secret suspicion was that she wanted everyone to know that those steep stairs were no challenge for her.  In case we doubted, she would prove it by gamely scampering down to receive communion and then going back up for the remainder of the Mass!

Who among us will ever forget the striking outfits (always in exquisite good taste), the perfectly coiffed hair, the marvelous and ever-present hats, and the gentle whiff of her signature Chanel No. 5?  And the heels!  Fr. Terry Toland – himself but a few years younger than she – used to scold her about walking in this neighborhood on cobblestones and brick sidewalks with those heels.  Cornelia would just laugh!

I wondered myself whether she might make a concession on those heels in the spring of 2010 when she fell and broke her pelvis.  Not a chance!  I visited her back then at Lankenau Hospital where I found her propped up in bed, wearing her own elegant nightgown and peignoir, reading the biography of St. Robert Bellarmine.  (A Jesuit saint, of course – among her many distinctions, Cornelia was the most frequent and avid user of our parish library…)  On the floor beside the bed, perfectly aligned, were her elegant gold bedroom slippers.

I was, of course, received graciously and warmly.  Cornelia’s sense of humor was obviously intact; and we bantered as was our wont.  She did allow, however, that this unplanned hospital sojourn was cramping her style a bit.  Fortunately, it was shortly before Easter, so that many of her grandchildren were in town, and their frequent visits were keeping her somewhat entertained.  I got the strong sense that she was pooh-poohing her doctors, who seemed to think that a cracked pelvis was a fairly serious thing for a woman her age, and that the recovery should be a slow, patient one.  They were talking six weeks; she was already threatening to escape when no one was looking!  My recollection is that she reappeared at daily Mass in less than four weeks – and with heels, of course!

During my five years as her pastor, I knew and treasured Cornelia mostly for her elegance, her humor and warmth, her generosity to the Jesuit community at Christmas (usually fruitcake and fudge from Gethsemani Farms), and her understated but obviously deep faith.  Many parishioners, however, remember a much more hands-on Cornelia.  Apparently, for instance, she was still tending the flower beds in our courtyard – on her knees, if you please! – until shortly before my arrival in 2008.

Others recall her as a sacristan, a Eucharistic minister, and a frequent participant in parish retreats at Wernersville.  She was proud and grateful for having made the “Spiritual Exercises” in daily life; and it was clear to me that the experience had transformed and deepened her spirituality, as the “Exercises” generally do.

I am so grateful that I was able to visit her at Jefferson Hospital for Neuroscience in the days immediately following her stroke last month.  I felt honored that she had specifically requested my presence; and I sincerely hope that the Sacrament of the Sick was a comfort to her.  She was not able to speak above a whisper, but she managed to say – quite clearly, I might add – “one of my favorite people.”  It was something she often said on meeting me – part of our usual banter back and forth.  She also managed to say before I left, “Thank you so much for coming.”

No, thank YOU for coming, Cornelia.  Thank you for coming so faithfully to Old St. Joseph’s for so long, and for sharing your gifts and your presence with us in so many ways.  You have set the bar for discipleship and service high; and we are all grateful for the example and the challenge.  I, for one, plan to stop in frequently at Bridget Foy’s on the corner of 2^nd and South Streets where I can see that portrait of you – a frequent and valued customer – looking out at me from under that elegant black chapeau.  And whenever I celebrate the 11:30 Mass on Sunday, I’ll be looking up to my left, hoping to catch a glimpse of you smiling down from the balcony…

© 2013 Fr. Daniel M. Ruff, S.J.

Near the end of the made-for-TV movie, starring Jack Lemmon as Morrie and Hank Azaria as Mitch, the two are meeting for what they both suspect will be the last time.  Morrie, now confined to his bed, tells Mitch about the beautiful spot he has chosen for his grave.  He invites Mitch to come visit him there and continue to tell Morrie his problems.  Mitch says that it won’t be quite the same.  Then, struggling with his emotions, he looks Morrie in the eye and asks, “What if all this was just wasted on me?  Out in the world, outside this room, everything’s not so clear.  What if I can’t really learn your wisdom, because I’m not like you?”  Morrie responds: “But you are like me.  Everybody is.”

Mitch declares that he can’t accept it, and that he doesn’t want Morrie to go.  Morrie then joins hands with Mitch and says, “Love you.”  Mitch, now overcome, sobs “Love you, too, coach.”  Morrie smiles and says: “I know.  And you know something else?  You always will.”  Mitch, preparing to leave, says that he will come back next Tuesday and bring his wife.  He then hugs Morrie and completely breaks down.  Comforting him, Morrie says: “Of course, next Tuesday.  We’re Tuesday people.”

I thought of all this as I prayed with the Gospel this week; because on this Sunday before the feast of the Ascension, we hear our Lord at the Last Supper preparing his disciples for his departure – that is, his return to his heavenly Father’s right hand.  After the Ascension (which we will celebrate this Thursday), Jesus would no longer be with his friends – his students, if you will – “in the flesh.”  It seems pretty likely that they receive this news much as Mitch receives the news of Morrie’s impending death.  Commentator Jude Botelho writes: “They know that Jesus is going to leave them as he has accomplished his mission on earth and is about to return to his Father [but] His imminent departure makes them fearful.  How will they manage without him?  How will the Community grow?  Will they succeed in the mission he has entrusted to them?”

Just as Morrie reassures and comforts Mitch, affirming that their relationship will continue but in a different way, so, too, Jesus has to reassure his disciples that it is good for Him to go so that He might be able to send his Spirit who will be with them always.  Jude Botelho again: Jesus “wants to be more intimately present to them [than he has even while physically present;] and [paradoxically,] for this to happen He has to leave them. But he is leaving behind His Word and those who keep his word will experience His presence in their lives.”

That presence within them we call the Spirit.  It is the living love between Jesus and his Father.  Infused with and animated by this Spirit of Jesus dwelling within, Jesus’ apostles – including you and me – become his ongoing presence in the world, his eyes and ears, his voice, his hands and compassionate heart.  Thus, like the original companions of Jesus, we make it possible for others to encounter Jesus in and through us. 

Spiritual writer Anthony Castle illustrates this with the story of “an old sculptor who had, among many other pieces of work in his workshop, the model of a beautiful cathedral.  It was covered with the dust of years, and nobody admired it, although it was an exact model, inside and out, of a fine cathedral.  Then one day the old man placed a light inside the model, and the light shone out through the beautiful stained glass windows.  From that moment on, everyone passing by would stop to admire the model’s beauty.  The change wrought by the light within was marvelous. It is so with us all. We must have the light within.”

And here is the other thing: when we have that light which is the Spirit within us, it transforms us.  Indeed, our very transformation itself becomes part of the Good News which catches the attention of others as they interact with us.  Like the first apostles after Pentecost, the indwelling life and light of the Spirit free us and empower us.  Thus, we are no longer frightened of the freedom which God continually seeks to offer us.

We see this in the reading we heard from Acts.  Paul and Barnabas, who have been preaching the Gospel of Jesus Christ to the gentiles with considerable success, are distressed by the judaizing hardliners who are insisting on circumcision before baptism.  Paul reasons: if the Spirit has already entered the hearts of these gentiles and led them to believe in salvation through Jesus Christ, and if baptism is the real portal of entry for discipleship, then why on earth should they need to become Jews first?  Why preoccupy themselves with the 613 commandments of the Mosaic Law when Jesus had summed up so simply what is essential: Love the Lord God with all your heart and all your soul and all your strength, and love your neighbor as yourself?

And so, Paul and Barnabas journey to Jerusalem where they make their case to Peter and the other apostles and elders.  In the process, they effectively convoke the first Church council and also set in motion the first “communal discernment.”  Guided by the Spirit, the apostles and elders eventually confirm Paul’s instincts and send word around to all the local churches: “It is the decision of the Holy Spirit and of us not to place on you any burden beyond these necessities,
namely, to abstain from meat sacrificed to idols, from blood, from meats of strangled animals,
and from unlawful marriage.  If you keep free of these, you will be doing what is right. Farewell.” 

In other words, the Church decided at its very first general council that it was not to be first and foremost an imposer and enforcer of unnecessary rules; bur rather, it was to be a conduit for the living and liberating Spirit, whose continuing movements and promptings could be discerned guiding individual members and the community as a whole.  Who but the Spirit, for instance, could have foreseen the recent election of a Jesuit pope, and one as groundbreaking as Pope Francis has proven to be so far?

The apocalyptic vision of the book of Revelation, which we heard in our second reading, in a senese is even more radical.  Given a glimpse of the heavenly Jerusalem, the visionary author declares, “I saw no temple in the city for its temple is the Lord God almighty and the Lamb.  The city had no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God gave it light, and its lamp was the Lamb.” 

We all know already that “in heaven there is no beer”; but it seems, based on this testimony from the author of Revelation, that there is also no temple or church.  The glory of God – perhaps also a reference to the Spirit? – provides miraculous light directly.  In other words, in eternal life, the communion between God and the redeemed will be direct, no longer requiring mediation via human institutions, not even churches.  In the meanwhile, the Spirit at work in and through the Church gives us the peace of Jesus Christ that the world cannot give.  So, even now in the silence of our hearts, but also in the events and relationships of our lives, we can hear, see, and feel God, like Morrie, say to us “Love you”; and we can dare to allow ourselves to answer, “Love you, too, God.”

Scripture commentator Jay Cormier illustrates this present-day anticipation of eternal peace and joy when he writes: “Every night you and your child snuggle up in his or her bed for a story. Sometimes your child will talk about his day or ask you about something that scared or confused her. As only a mom and dad can, you listen with understanding and sensitivity, reassuring them that they are loved and protected no matter what. You and your child both cherish these moments – and God is there with you in your child’s room…

“God is in your backyard as you help your son master the art of the bunt. God is in your den as you and your daughter struggle through her geometry homework. God is at your table as your family gathers each evening for supper. God is in your bedroom as you and your beloved end another busy day in each other’s arms.”

Cormier sums it all up this way: “Wherever you experience compassion and forgiveness, whenever you give of your time and talent to make someone else’s life a little happier or a little less stressful, God dwells in that space, God dwells in that moment.”  Yes, sisters and brothers; because Jesus has sent us his Spirit, God dwells in you and in me.  And isn’t that precisely the wonder, the hope, and the promise of the Eucharist which we celebrate together here?  The Lamb is the light of the City of God – blessed are those called to his Supper, both here and in the life beyond. 

At the end of the film Tuesdays with Morrie, the old professor has died; but he lives on in the transformed minds and hearts of his students.  The last line – given in a voiceover by Mitch – offers a simple summation of the impact of the indwelling Spirit in our Church.  Mitch says simply: “The teaching goes on.”  Amen?  Amen.

© 2013 Fr. Daniel M. Ruff, S.J.

And here’s the point: as personal friends and followers of Jesus Christ, and as bearers of the Spirit’s gifts, we are fully equipped for and called to ministry.  That is why, in the scripture readings for the remainder of Easter season, we will hear a growing emphasis on the efforts of the apostles at work in the early Church, continuing the ministry of Jesus, praying and acting in his name and on his authority.  The none-too-subtle point, I would suggest, is that we are to follow the example of those early disciples – to “go and do likewise.”

What might that look like?  Well, recall the example of Paul and Barnabas in the first reading which we heard from the Acts of the Apostles.  On their travels to Lystra, Iconium and Antioch, they “proclaimed the good news” and made disciples.  They appointed elders – that is, local leaders for the Church – and commended those elders to the Lord (that is, they prayed for them).  And they “called the church together and reported what God had done with them and how he had opened the door of faith to the Gentiles.”  In other words, they continued to preach to and support those already converted.

Taking a page from the book of former New York mayor, Ed Koch – who frequently asked his constituents “How’m I doin”?” – we might ask ourselves “How’re we doin’?” here at Old St. Joseph’s over against the example of Paul and Barnabas?  Certainly we try to preach the good news in our homilies, in our adult education offerings, in our pastoral and sacramental ministries, in our outreach to the vulnerable and needy through our Food Faith & Friends program, in our recent Lenten Cross and Parish Day of Service, in our collections for special needs worldwide.  And I suppose we made three disciples if we count the three people received into the Church this Easter season through the Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults.

But I as a Jesuit – and hopefully all of us, as members of a Jesuit parish – remain haunted by the Ignatian magis, which is the stretching for “the more,” the greater good.  How much are we, as individuals and as a parish, reaching out to share our faith with the hostile or indifferent souls who surround us in our secular, materialistic society?  Are we at least giving example – looking Christ-like enough for them to notice and be curious?  Do we exude enough peace and joy to make them wonder what we are up to?

And how about “appointing elders” – that is, local leaders?  Are we stepping up with our gifts and our time and effort when needs emerge here at Old St. Joseph’s?  Are we willing to join committees, to run for Parish Council, to serve as mentors for new volunteer leaders?  And do we “commend our elders to the Lord” – that is, do we pray for Church and civil leaders, and more especially, for our local leaders, ordained and lay?  Trust me: your pastor can use all the prayers he can get!  But I feel sure that our committee chairs would say the same…

We do, of course, call the church together – that’s what we are doing here this evening, what we do each day and five times on Sundays, when we gather at Jesus’ command to celebrate the Eucharist and his real, abiding presence in our midst.  I try, all of us Jesuits try, to “report what God has done with us” as a parish, here in Willings Alley and beyond.  And I try to do this in my weekly column in the bulletin – which I occasionally share with lay authors from the parish when they have good news to report.  But do enough of us report enough to one another, and to those whose lives we touch at home, at work, and elsewhere, about what God is doing in our lives?  Are we unapologetic for our faith, without forcing it on people?  And are we, serving as instruments of God’s grace to “open the door of faith to the Gentiles” – that is, to those who surround us on every side, the ones who do not believe, and yet struggle desperately for meaning?

The scriptures are challenging this evening, sisters and brothers.  As we heard in the book of Revelation, it is God’s desire to “make all things new.”  The place where the rubber meets the road is that he wants to do it in and through us.  After all, in this time of ours – after Jesus’ ascension and the coming of the Spirit on the first Pentecost – God declares (also in the book of Revelation) that “his dwelling is with the human race.  He will dwell with us and we will be his people, and he himself will always be with us as our God.” 

Consoling thought, but also a challenging one, for what it means at that we are now to be the instruments of his presence and activity in the world.  We who have fed on the Bread of Eternity and have drunk the Cup of Salvation, having taken the risen Christ into our very persons, are gradually being made into the risen Christ in a mysterious way.  Therefore, it falls to us to gradually bring about the promised “new heaven and new earth” of the book of Revelation.  And how?  By practicing the “new commandment” given to us in John’s Gospel by the glorified Christ: “love one another.  As I have loved you, so you also should love one another.”  To live that “new commandment” is to make Christ really present in our world.  As he says: “This is how all will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” 

It is a simple commandment, easy to remember; the sense of the words is easily understood.  The challenge is to implement and practice it consistently in the diverse and challenging circumstances of our daily lives.  How do we love one another on the days when we don’t especially like each other?  How do we muster and show compassion and reconciliation to our “enemies,” to those who wish us ill or would do us harm?  As Jesus tells his friends in Matthew 19: “For human beings this is impossible, but for God all things are possible.”

Author Elie Wiesel, a survivor of the horrors of Auschwitz during the Holocaust, recounts in his book Night how the Nazi prison guards in the camp did everything possible to break the spirit and morale of the prisoners.  To that end, the guards would urge the prisoners to turn against their relatives and friends and to think solely of themselves and their needs, lest they perish.  In other words, the soldiers were urging them to be selfish and concerned only about their own welfare.

Wiesel goes on to explain that those who fell victim to this sinister ploy gradually declined in morale, in health and eventually died.  But the other prisoners who bravely and loyally lived for a parent, brother, sister or even a friend, were buoyed up by some invisible but unmistakable power within themselves and they survived.  Such was the crucial difference between, says Elie Wiesel, selfishness and selflessness.  The Spirit is a Spirit of Love – and love gives life.

A certain Brian Keenan spent four difficult and trying years as a hostage in Lebanon. After his release, he wrote: “It is only when we reach out beyond ourselves to embrace, to understand and to finally overcome the suffering of another that we become whole in ourselves. We are enlarged and enriched as another’s suffering reveals us to ourselves, and we reach out to touch and embrace.”  In a nutshell, then, a truly selfless love, like that of Christ Jesus for his people, will always make us healthier, richer and happier.

Theologian John Martens writes in a recent America magazine: “Only love can heal the wounds of injustice, however they are acquired.  Injustice and evil leave deep scars on the soul that justice alone cannot heal.  Justice can create good order and punish wrongdoers, but it cannot restore the soul to love.  The irrationality of sin and evil leave behind time-bombs of antagonisms and hatreds, and nothing can heal these absurdities but love.  Hope encourages us that against present evidence, life is worthwhile; faith instructs us that the solution to sin and suffering is available to all; but only love “will wipe every tear from out eyes.”

The call has been issued, sisters and brothers.  Our mission as disciples is clear.  As you unite yourselves with the risen Christ in the Eucharist this evening, ask him for the wisdom, the courage, and the strength to recommit yourself to him, and to his law and mission to love one another as he has first loved us.

© 2013 Fr. Daniel M. Ruff, S.J.

Now you are already part of the family even when you still sit at the kids’ table.  That’s why you’re at the family Thanksgiving meal in the first place – because you were born (or adopted) into your family.  But when you move to the big table, it means you are growing up.  Maybe you even get to eat some special grown-up kinds of food that little kids wouldn’t like.

You’ve been coming to Mass with your family since you were babies.  That’s because you were adopted into this family – the family of faith – by a special sacrament that you received as a baby.  What is it – anybody know?  Yes, at your baptism, your parents and godparents spoke on your behalf and adopted you into the family of Jesus.  You received his Holy Spirit within you and became adopted sons and daughters of Jesus’ Father in heaven.  Jesus is your brother.  And that is why you have been coming to Mass since you were very young.

But today, with First Communion, you finally move up to the grown-ups’ table.  You have been learning about what this means all year long in your P.R.E.P. class with Ms DiNardo.  And you know, in a certain way, we could even say that when we gather here in church as a family of faith to celebrate Mass, it is to share a Thanksgiving meal – although this one is not about pilgrims and native Americans and turkey with stuffing.

At American Thanksgiving in November, we celebrate freedom and prosperity.  We give thanks for an abundant harvest that provides enough for us to eat; and we thank God that in our country, we are free to believe and to pray as we wish.  And we celebrate our own family.

When we gather here for Mass as the family of Jesus, we greet one another, just as we greet guests at American Thanksgiving.  We give thanks together that God is merciful and kind even when we make mistakes or fail to be as good as we want to be.  We glorify God together in hymns of praise.  And the priest – kind of like the dad at American Thanksgiving – says prayers to express our family values, hopes, and dreams.

Then we share stories from the Bible to remind ourselves of our history as a family of faith – how we came to be God’s adopted sons and daughters, and what that means to us.  Like we heard in the book of Acts, where Paul and Barnabas “called the church together” and “told the people what God had helped them to do,” we also share stories of wonderful things that God has done for us, and what he has made it possible for us to do.

In a lot of homes, Thanksgiving is the one day of the year when the family says grace together at the table.  The Creed at Mass is sort of like that Thanksgiving grace at home.  After the homily, as we prepare to go to the Lord’s table, we all profess our shared faith together.  And just as some families go around the table and let every member of the family say what she or he is grateful for on Thanksgiving, so in the Prayers of the Faithful, we give voice to our general needs before God, and we also pray for particular individuals and situations that need our special prayer.

Finally, we bring food – bread and wine – to our table.  We also bring our offering of money which is used to support our family home here at the church, and to feed and help the poor people who are not as lucky as we are.  Then priest does what Jesus did so often when he shared meals during his time on earth: he takes the bread and wine and blesses them with a long prayer of thanks and praise.  And when he does this, something very wonderful and amazing happens to the bread and wine.  Or maybe I could say that someONE amazing and wonderful happens to them!

Can any of our first communicants tell me what – or who – happens to the bread and wine?  Right.  Jesus happens!  Isn’t that wild?  I can’t exactly explain how it happens.  But we believe it.  And why?  Because Jesus promised it, and gave us the first example of how to do it at the Last Supper.  And he told us to do it to remember him. 

Just like the two disciples on the road to Emmaus, we recognize that Jesus is really with us when the bread is broken and shared, when the wine is poured out and shared.  Even though we eat only a little sliver of bread and drink only a little sip of wine, and even though we see and feel and smell and taste only bread and wine, we know afterward that Jesus is inside us – because we feel filled up spiritually. 

What we really get in the Eucharist is a little taste of heaven, a little bite of eternal life.  It is like we heard from the book of Revelation: “God’s home is now with us, his people.  He will live with us, and we will be his own.”  When we receive communion, God comes to live withIN us, inside us.  We belong to him in a very special way, and because we all experience the same thing, we become more closely united to Jesus and to each other.  And we are filled with hope for eternal life in heaven – where “there will be no more death, suffering, crying, or pain.”

And eating the Bread of Life and drinking the Cup of Salvation also changes us from the inside out.  It makes us more like Jesus, who no longer walks about as a human being here on earth.  So that means that now, as we heard in John’s Gospel, it is WE who must love one another, just as Jesus has loved us.  WE must carry forgiveness and kindness and caring to all our human sisters and brothers.  We must let them meet Jesus in and through us, so that they, too, will want to join our family here – the family of disciples of Jesus, of adopted sons and daughters of his Father.  That is why, after the final blessing, the priest sometimes tells us to “Go and announce the Gospel of the Lord” or to “Go in peace, glorifying the Lord by our lives.”

All of this, first communicants, you will experience in a wonderful new way today.  Already one with you through baptism, we are happy for you; and we are happy to have you join us at the grownups’ Table of the Lord.  We give thanks for you and with you.  And we welcome you with great joy and gladness.  Congratulations!

© 2013 Fr. Daniel M. Ruff, S.J.

So the would-be stoners of Jesus are “right” – within the limits of what they think they “know.”  But the trouble is that Jesus is revealing something radical and new.  He more than hints at the heart of the matter by giving today’s Gospel remarks in Jerusalem, in the Temple precincts, on the Jewish Feast of the Dedication – the purpose of which was to celebrate the presence of God in that very Temple. 

As Fr. Jude Botelho, a priest from India who writes a preaching blog, reminds us: “The temple was not just a building; for Israel it was the visible place where God dwelt with his people.  To go to the temple and worship in the temple was to approach God.  Now within this setting Jesus teaches a completely different way to God.  He stands within the precincts of the temple and boldly proclaims that it is by hearing His voice that one can come to eternal life, and never be lost. One does not approach God through a building, no matter how beautiful or sacred.  One does not approach God through laws, rituals and sacrifices no matter how sacrosanct.  Jesus is the only way to the Father.”

It was and is an audacious claim; and it was made possible only by a larger and even more outrageous plan on the part of God.  Even for us who claim to be Christian believers, with the benefit of two thousand years of resurrection faith behind us, it is still a struggle to wrap our minds and hearts around the incarnation – Jesus as God-with-us, clothed in human flesh – not to mention the even more incredible mystery of his terrible death at our hands and of his subsequent resurrection to eternal and glorified life.  Thus, the righteously indignant who were picking up rocks and warming up their pitching arms back in the Temple on the feast of the Dedication are perhaps to be forgiven for failing to hear and embrace the truth of Jesus’ words.

Which brings us to the thing in today’s scripture readings which separates the sheep who belong to the Good Shepherd – and we hope they include ourselves – from the goats and the grumblers and the would- be stoners.  Jesus tells us: “My sheep hear my voice; I know them, and they follow me.”  And the fact that Jesus’ sheep are known by him and follow him tells me that they actually do more than just “hear” him.  They really listen to him.

In a New York Times article published late last fall, Dr. Seth Horowitz, a Brown University scientist who studies hearing, reminds us that we hear all kinds of things during our waking hours: “the humming sound of a printer, the low throbbing of traffic from the nearby highway and the clatter of plastic followed by the muffled impact of paws landing on linoleum — meaning that the cat has once again tried to open the catnip container atop the fridge and succeeded only in knocking it to the kitchen floor.”

But Dr. Horowitz goes on to note that if someone or something prompts our brain to take control of the sensory input which is hearing, then we are doing more – we are actually listening.  Listening, he writes, is what happens “when an event jumps out of the background enough to be perceived consciously rather than just being part of your auditory surroundings.  The difference between the sense of hearing and the skill of listening is attention.”

After some technical science about exactly how hearing and listening work, Horowitz concludes this way: “Hearing, in short, is easy. You and every other vertebrate that hasn’t suffered some genetic, developmental or environmental accident have been doing it for hundreds of millions of years…  But listening, really listening, is hard when potential distractions are leaping into your ears every fifty-thousandth of a second — and pathways in your brain are just waiting to interrupt your focus to warn you of any potential dangers.  Listening is a skill that we’re in danger of losing in a world of digital distraction and information overload.”

Indeed.  So it can be hard enough in our noisy modern world for us sheep even to hear Jesus in the midst of all the competing noise and information, let alone to really listen to him.  It is certainly my sense that for many of our contemporaries, and even sometimes for ourselves, all those “potential distractions leaping into our ears” make it hard to hear what religion offers, and what it calls us to.  And the conflicting demands on our time and our love make it even harder to actually “pay attention” – to listen, to think and to respond.

And there is, of course, a great deal more to hearing the Good News from Jesus and responding to it than just the workings of sound waves and brain processes.  Hearing his voice and deciding to follow speaks, in fact, of a relationship – of a decision to believe, to trust and to love.  20^th-century journalist and freelance writer, Brenda Ueland, once wrote of listening in general that it “is a magnetic and strange thing, a creative force.  When we really listen to people there is an alternating current, and this recharges us so that we never get tired of each other.  We are constantly being re-created.”  And psychotherapist and bereavement expert, Sue Patton Thoele, adds: “Deep listening is miraculous for both listener and speaker.  When someone receives us with open-hearted, non-judging, intensely interested listening, our spirits expand.”

Never are these assertions more true than when it is the risen Jesus, the Good Shepherd, to whom we are listening.  His words are truth and life – they begin, even here and now, to recreate us, even as he was recreated and transformed by the resurrection.  And because he knows us – and “receives us with open-hearted, non-judging, intensely interested listening” as no other can – our listening to him and his listening to us do cause our spirits to expand – with love, with trust, and with a desire to follow him on the path of life.

The end of our transformation by this relationship to the Good Shepherd is described in the book of Revelation: we will stand before God’s throne and worship him day and night in his temple.  And the one who sits on the throne – the sacrificial Lamb who is also the Shepherd – will shelter us.  We will not hunger or thirst anymore, nor will the sun or any heat strike us.  For the Lamb who is in the center of the throne will shepherd us and lead us to springs of life-giving water, and God will wipe away every tear from our eyes.  All that from hearing Jesus’ word as truth, from listening in our hearts, and from responding by following as disciples.

The book of Acts makes clear, by the way, how we are to show our discipleship.  Like Paul and Barnabas before us, we pass on the Good News to others.  Will they always listen?  Almost certainly not, just as some refused to listen to Paul and Barnabas.  But as those early disciples did, we too are to press on.  We will encounter many who will be delighted to hear the life-giving word and will glorify it; those destined for eternal life will come to believe. 

And as for those who will stir up persecution against us and expel us from their territory – we have only to shake the dust from our feet and move on, filled with joy and the Holy Spirit, trusting in the faithful and provident care of our Good Shepherd.  He has promised, after all, that no one can take us out of his hand; because his Father, who has given us to him, is greater than all, and no one can take us out of the Father’s hand.  Good news.  Comforting news for us often fearful sheep.
Trusting in the Good Shepherd’s care for us frees and empowers us, in turn, to shepherd others.  Fr. John Pichapilly, an Indian priest known for his preaching and his popular sacred music, writes: “I will never forget the testimony of a pastor whose experience I heard on radio one day.  I do not remember the pastor’s name.  But I can recall most of what he said when he gave this testimony: ‘When I started out, I wanted to be a great preacher, someone whom people revered and thought of highly.  As I got older and wiser, I began to realize that people don’t want just a preacher.  They want a pastor – that is, a loving shepherd.  

“One day this hope became evident to me as I went to see an AIDS patient in the hospital.  This was in the early days of the disease, when people were still wary and fearful; so when people came to see this man, they kept their distance, remaining close to the door.  Even a pastoral care person who had visited, the man told me, had said a prayer from in the doorway.  But, when I went to see him, I went over to him held his hand and said a prayer.  And he cried, because that was the first time anyone other than medical personnel had touched him since he had been in the hospital.’”

Fr. Pichapilly explains: “The point of the story is that whether one is a great preacher or not, people who are hurting or sick want someone to be pastoral – that is, to care for them as a good and loving shepherd would care for his vulnerable lambs.”  To follow the Good Shepherd, sisters and brothers, involves listening, trusting in his unfailing love and care for us, and then extending that pastoral care to other lost and wounded sheep who surround us on every side.

During this Easter season, we find the disciples of Jesus in a confusing and awkward place.  They know that Jesus has been raised from the dead, and they sense that this has changed everything for them, and indeed, for the world.  But they have not yet received the Holy Spirit, who will come to them on Pentecost, so they don’t quite know how to put the pieces together.  They are torn, having one foot in the world of grace and glory, light and life; while the other foot remains in the world of dirty laundry, office cubicles, and stubbed toes.  And so, they struggle.  How can they know their divine destiny and yet continue to go on washing the dishes and taking out the trash?  And how can they share their experience of resurrection faith with people who are at best ignorant and, at worst, threatened by and hostile to the Good News?

Peter’s response in today’s Gospel seems unsurprising to me.  I don’t know if you do something like it; but I do it all the time.  Distraction.  Avoidance.  Let’s get back to the familiar, the comfortable, the way things were in the “good old days.”  Let’s see if we can get back to “normal,” whatever that might be.  “I’m going fishing,” declares Peter.  And his six pals seem relieved and more than ready to follow: “Great idea, Pete!” they say.  “Count us in!”  And off to the boats they go.

There are a million variations on this.  Some are fairly innocent.  Maybe if I go back to my old job…  Maybe if I move back to the city of my youth…  Maybe if I lose 15 pounds…   Maybe if we bring back the Latin and the incense and light the candles on the high altar…  Others are less benign and potentially more dangerous.  Maybe if I drink enough to stay buzzed all the time.  Maybe if I eat my way through the Caribbean cruise.  Maybe if I lose myself in a meaningless and inappropriate relationship.  Maybe if I pull the covers over my head and just stay in bed for a few days.

What matters is what Peter and his fellow disciples learn soon enough.  Having encountered the risen Lord, you really can’t go home again – at least, not to Galilee and fishing and business as usual.  Because the resurrection really has changed things.  It has changed us.  It has made us fishers of women and men; and it demands a response – a change, a conversion and transformation.  So now, if we try to do it “our way” – if we try to retreat to the familiar and the known and the comfortable – we come up empty handed.  Or at least, the old rewards no longer satisfy…  “That night they caught nothing…”

But here’s a question for you.  What on earth can Peter possibly have been thinking when he followed the advice of a stranger on the beach and cast those nets yet again?  He and his colleagues are certainly tired and frustrated.  They still have nets to clean and mend before going home for breakfast and some shuteye.  Peter is – or at least, used to be – a professional fisherman.  He knows the good spots, the wind and the tides, the trade secrets; and all of that has yielded nothing.  What stirring in his heart persuades him to try casting his nets again based on the suggestion of an unknown beachcomber who might be a nut job?

But for some reason – some glimmer of hope, with a dollop of “what the heck” – Peter does choose to recast that net.  And then, John tells us, they “were not able to pull it in because of the number of fish.”  There are a couple lessons here for Peter and his fellow apostles – not to mention for us.  Probably the most important is to involve God in our plans and projects.  This insight undergirds the Ignatian instinct for “finding God in all things.”  It is also the point of the discernment question: “Where is God in this present situation?”  Find God and you’ll find the fish – or the money, or the strength to go on, or the love and support you need, or whatever it is you’re really fishing for.

And the second lesson: look for God in the ordinary; find God where you are.  The risen Christ will find you in the here and now.  God may speak through a random stranger in the subway, a song on the radio, a touching moment in a movie, or even, miraculously, in a homily in church.  So wherever and whenever you may feel the inner nudge of the Spirit – take a risk.  Cast the net.  Make the phone call to the person you haven’t spoken to for years.  Sign up for the dance class.  Accept the invitation to go camping.  And look for abundant bounty, however unexpected, from the God of surprises.  After all, what is the resurrection of Jesus if not the ultimate plot twist, the biggest surprise ending ever?

It is John, the beloved disciple, who figures it out first – just as he did at the empty tomb.  “It is the Lord,” he cries.  But having heard the good news from his younger colleague, nobody can do love and gratitude like Peter – the original 110 per-center!  Talk about throwing yourself into something (in this case the Sea of Galilee)!  I always imagine him emerging onto the beach dripping wet and then hugging Jesus like some great soggy Saint Bernard.  We have to assume that having survived the cross and having been raised from the dead, Jesus retains his sense of humor and doesn’t mind getting a little bit wet.

The rest of this Gospel story, sisters and brothers, is an object lesson in cooperation and in Gospel mission.  “Bring some of the fish you just caught,” says Jesus.  Granted, the fish were caught with his guidance and help; but it was Peter and the other disciples who caught them, for all that.  The message seems to me to be: from now on, this is a joint venture.  “I, the risen Lord Jesus, will guide you and grace you.  I will prompt you through my Holy Spirit; and I will assure surprising success and abundance so long as you have the faith and the guts to seek out and follow my lead; so long as you will tell the naysayers and the skeptic, as the disciples in Acts told the Sanhedrin: ‘We must obey God rather than men.’”

“But,” Jesus continues, “never doubt that your part does count.  You catch ‘em; we’ll cook ‘em together.  You are my delegates now for continuing the mission on earth, in human time and space.  Just as you must seek out and find me in the ordinary – so others must seek and find me in and through you.  You must be my witnesses – trusting in me, and not fearing consequences or cost.  You must help the lost and confused who yearn to hope, to believe in my resurrection, but don’t know how to look for it here and now, in their families, their friends, and their colleagues.”

Finally, as if to hammer the lesson home to Peter, his right-hand guy, Jesus puts an arm around Peter’s shoulder and says: “Pete, c’mon, walk with me.”  And we all remember this part of the story.  “Do you love me?”  “Well, gosh, sure…”  “Feed my lambs.”  Then a second round.  And then, painfully, a third round.  “Gee, whiz, Lord, you know that I love you!”  “Uh-huh.  I do know that.  So feed the sheep already.”

Again, I don’t know about you; but with me, Jesus has gone through this at least three hundred – no, probably three thousand times.  “It’s real simple, Dan,” he patiently reminds me.  “Love me.  Love my sheep. End of story.”  You shall love the Lord your God with all your mind, with all your soul, with all your strength.  And your neighbor as yourself.  Because whatever you do for the least of my sisters and brothers you do for me.  And be ready for surprises, cause I have to warn you – it ain’t gonna be like you expect it to be, and it ain’t gonna be on your terms…”

We come to this table in the in-between time.  We know and believe that Christ has been raised to new risen life, but we don’t always know how to find that in paying the bills and feeding the cat.  Yet, we continue, at Jesus’ bidding, to gather here on Sundays and to live out the Good News in symbol and gesture.  Together, we search the Lord’s risen life in ordinary bread and wine, in halting words from the Lord’s unworthy servants, and in the faces of strangers on our right and our left, whom we know to be sisters and brothers. 

In the Mass, Jesus asks each of us, “Do you love me.”  The correct answer, which we say with every “Amen,” is “Yes, Lord, you know that I do.”  And Jesus responds, “Then bring some of the bread and wine you’ve made” – and by his Spirit, when we approach the table, we recognize him and cry out as beloved disciples: “It is the Lord.”  As he did so long ago on the beach at Galilee, he feeds us.  Having embraced him hidden in our neighbors at the sign of peace; we dine with him at the Eucharistic banquet table. 

And then, as he once did with Peter and John and rest of his disciples, he sends us out to fish for people.  “Feed my lambs.  Tend my sheep.”  Keep the truth of resurrection alive in my world.  Teach others to seek and find it, hidden in the ordinary fabric of their lives.  And help me to transform this broken, incomplete world into the reign of divine peace, love and justice for all.

©2013 Fr. Daniel M. Ruff, S.J.

Peter’s response in today’s Gospel seems unsurprising to me.  I don’t know if you do something like it; but I do it all the time.  Distraction.  Avoidance.  Let’s get back to the familiar, the comfortable, the way things were in the “good old days.”  Let’s see if we can get back to “normal,” whatever that might be.  “I’m going fishing,” declares Peter.  And his six pals seem relieved and more than ready to follow: “Great idea, Pete!” they say.  “Count us in!”  And off to the boats they go.

There are a million variations on this.  Some are fairly innocent.  Maybe if I go back to my old job…  Maybe if I move back to the city of my youth…  Maybe if I lose 15 pounds…   Maybe if we bring back the Latin and the incense and light the candles on the high altar…  Others are less benign and potentially more dangerous.  Maybe if I drink enough to stay buzzed all the time.  Maybe if I eat my way through the Caribbean cruise.  Maybe if I lose myself in a meaningless and inappropriate relationship.  Maybe if I pull the covers over my head and just stay in bed for a few days.

What matters is what Peter and his fellow disciples learn soon enough.  Having encountered the risen Lord, you really can’t go home again – at least, not to Galilee and fishing and business as usual.  Because the resurrection really has changed things.  It has changed us.  It has made us fishers of women and men; and it demands a response – a change, a conversion and transformation.  So now, if we try to do it “our way” – if we try to retreat to the familiar and the known and the comfortable – we come up empty handed.  Or at least, the old rewards no longer satisfy…  “That night they caught nothing…”

But here’s a question for you.  What on earth can Peter possibly have been thinking when he followed the advice of a stranger on the beach and cast those nets yet again?  He and his colleagues are certainly tired and frustrated.  They still have nets to clean and mend before going home for breakfast and some shuteye.  Peter is – or at least, used to be – a professional fisherman.  He knows the good spots, the wind and the tides, the trade secrets; and all of that has yielded nothing.  What stirring in his heart persuades him to try casting his nets again based on the suggestion of an unknown beachcomber who might be a nut job?

But for some reason – some glimmer of hope, with a dollop of “what the heck” – Peter does choose to recast that net.  And then, John tells us, they “were not able to pull it in because of the number of fish.”  There are a couple lessons here for Peter and his fellow apostles – not to mention for us.  Probably the most important is to involve God in our plans and projects.  This insight undergirds the Ignatian instinct for “finding God in all things.”  It is also the point of the discernment question: “Where is God in this present situation?”  Find God and you’ll find the fish – or the money, or the strength to go on, or the love and support you need, or whatever it is you’re really fishing for.

And the second lesson: look for God in the ordinary; find God where you are.  The risen Christ will find you in the here and now.  God may speak through a random stranger in the subway, a song on the radio, a touching moment in a movie, or even, miraculously, in a homily in church.  So wherever and whenever you may feel the inner nudge of the Spirit – take a risk.  Cast the net.  Make the phone call to the person you haven’t spoken to for years.  Sign up for the dance class.  Accept the invitation to go camping.  And look for abundant bounty, however unexpected, from the God of surprises.  After all, what is the resurrection of Jesus if not the ultimate plot twist, the biggest surprise ending ever?

It is John, the beloved disciple, who figures it out first – just as he did at the empty tomb.  “It is the Lord,” he cries.  But having heard the good news from his younger colleague, nobody can do love and gratitude like Peter – the original 110 per-center!  Talk about throwing yourself into something (in this case the Sea of Galilee)!  I always imagine him emerging onto the beach dripping wet and then hugging Jesus like some great soggy Saint Bernard.  We have to assume that having survived the cross and having been raised from the dead, Jesus retains his sense of humor and doesn’t mind getting a little bit wet.

The rest of this Gospel story, sisters and brothers, is an object lesson in cooperation and in Gospel mission.  “Bring some of the fish you just caught,” says Jesus.  Granted, the fish were caught with his guidance and help; but it was Peter and the other disciples who caught them, for all that.  The message seems to me to be: from now on, this is a joint venture.  “I, the risen Lord Jesus, will guide you and grace you.  I will prompt you through my Holy Spirit; and I will assure surprising success and abundance so long as you have the faith and the guts to seek out and follow my lead; so long as you will tell the naysayers and the skeptic, as the disciples in Acts told the Sanhedrin: ‘We must obey God rather than men.’”

“But,” Jesus continues, “never doubt that your part does count.  You catch ‘em; we’ll cook ‘em together.  You are my delegates now for continuing the mission on earth, in human time and space.  Just as you must seek out and find me in the ordinary – so others must seek and find me in and through you.  You must be my witnesses – trusting in me, and not fearing consequences or cost.  You must help the lost and confused who yearn to hope, to believe in my resurrection, but don’t know how to look for it here and now, in their families, their friends, and their colleagues.”

Finally, as if to hammer the lesson home to Peter, his right-hand guy, Jesus puts an arm around Peter’s shoulder and says: “Pete, c’mon, walk with me.”  And we all remember this part of the story.  “Do you love me?”  “Well, gosh, sure…”  “Feed my lambs.”  Then a second round.  And then, painfully, a third round.  “Gee, whiz, Lord, you know that I love you!”  “Uh-huh.  I do know that.  So feed the sheep already.”

Again, I don’t know about you; but with me, Jesus has gone through this at least three hundred – no, probably three thousand times.  “It’s real simple, Dan,” he patiently reminds me.  “Love me.  Love my sheep. End of story.”  You shall love the Lord your God with all your mind, with all your soul, with all your strength.  And your neighbor as yourself.  Because whatever you do for the least of my sisters and brothers you do for me.  And be ready for surprises, cause I have to warn you – it ain’t gonna be like you expect it to be, and it ain’t gonna be on your terms…”

We come to this table in the in-between time.  We know and believe that Christ has been raised to new risen life, but we don’t always know how to find that in paying the bills and feeding the cat.  Yet, we continue, at Jesus’ bidding, to gather here on Sundays and to live out the Good News in symbol and gesture.  Together, we search the Lord’s risen life in ordinary bread and wine, in halting words from the Lord’s unworthy servants, and in the faces of strangers on our right and our left, whom we know to be sisters and brothers. 

In the Mass, Jesus asks each of us, “Do you love me.”  The correct answer, which we say with every “Amen,” is “Yes, Lord, you know that I do.”  And Jesus responds, “Then bring some of the bread and wine you’ve made” – and by his Spirit, when we approach the table, we recognize him and cry out as beloved disciples: “It is the Lord.”  As he did so long ago on the beach at Galilee, he feeds us.  Having embraced him hidden in our neighbors at the sign of peace; we dine with him at the Eucharistic banquet table. 

And then, as he once did with Peter and John and rest of his disciples, he sends us out to fish for people.  “Feed my lambs.  Tend my sheep.”  Keep the truth of resurrection alive in my world.  Teach others to seek and find it, hidden in the ordinary fabric of their lives.  And help me to transform this broken, incomplete world into the reign of divine peace, love and justice for all.

©2013 Fr. Daniel M. Ruff, S.J.

In fact, when push came to shove, it was women who proved most steadfast in their discipleship – keeping faithful vigil at the foot of the cross despite the risks to their personal safety.  And of course, it was women who went to the tomb of Jesus on the first Easter morning – again despite risk – out of love and loyalty for their Master.  And so it was that women became the first to hear and believe in the resurrection of Jesus, and to announce it to the skeptical male apostles.

Ever since that first generation, the Church has consistently depended on the faithful and courageous discipleship of women, from St. Monica, to St. Catherine of Siena, to the Little Flower.  Similarly, here at Old St. Joseph’s, we could write our own history of heroic women who have served and led the parish in various ways throughout our 280-year history.  But for this week, I want to hold up just two heroines who walk with us still…

On Thursday, May 2, the Gesu School in north Philadelphia held its annual “gala” at the Hyatt at the Bellevue.  Originally the parish grade school of the “other” Jesuit parish in Philadelphia, the school’s future seemed dark when the Archdiocese decided to close the parish 20 years ago.  However, a group of visionary leaders, including Jesuits, I.H.M. sisters and lay people, decided to keep the school alive as an independent Catholic school which would be sustained through community-based fundraising.

As a result of their efforts, Gesu School has not only survived—it has succeeded in becoming a national model for inner-city schooling. It is the only independent Jesuit/IHM inner-city elementary school in the United States.  Gesu is governed by an interfaith board of more than 50 trustees, including business, religious and community leaders, volunteers, and parents.  Among the trustees are your pastor, as well as long-time OSJ parishioner, Vivienne Lambert Ehret, who was honored at the gala on May 2 with the Gesu Spirit Medal.

Vivienne was among the first women altar servers here at Old St. Joseph’s, and has served the parish in many capacities over the last three decades, including as a member of the Finance Council.  She first came to know about Gesu through involvement with the Christmas “Giving Tree” here at OSJ – a charitable Advent tradition which continues to the present day.  But it was when she sold her destination management company, Uniquely Philadelphia, Inc., in 2006, that she undertook the herculean task of computerizing the Gesu School Library, cataloguing over 4,000 books.

Eventually, “Ms. Vivienne,” as the children call her, became the school’s full-time volunteer librarian, recruiting an outstanding team of volunteers to staff the library and to offer age-appropriate library skills classes to each grade level on a weekly basis.  Once she received her Spirit Medal at the gala, the students – knowing “Ms. Vivienne’s” love for stylish hats – presented her with a showy piece of black-and-white headgear which perfectly complimented her evening wear.  Naturally, she put it on immediately.  Please congratulate her, and ask to see the hat…

Sadly, at present we don’t have an OSJ Spirit Medal; but our other heroic superwoman should certainly get some kind of formal service decoration.  On Thursday May 9 at the regular Food Faith & Friends meal, we honored and thanked another long-time OSJ parishioner, Marge Gregory, for her EIGHTEEN YEARS of volunteer service in the Outreach kitchen.  For all those years, Marge prepared her usual excellent food and ran a tight ship in the kitchen; but she also dispensed love and caring to our Outreach guests just as freely as she did to her beloved tots and toddlers at the 9:30 Sunday Mass.  As far why she chose to retire now, Marge told me that she had simply decided “it was about time.”

Goodness knows she has earned her “retirement”; but we will surely miss her spunky personality in the kitchen, and we will miss even more the twinkle in her eye and her warm smile.  Fortunately, we will see her often at Mass; and we absolutely count on her to visit the FF & F feeding program frequently – especially for big holiday celebrations like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter.  (Come to think of it, we have never had a visit from MRS. Santa Claus!)  We wish her and husband Vince a great summer in England with their son and his family.  And please make sure to thank Marge when you see her for heroic service above and beyond the call of duty…

©2013 Fr. Daniel M. Ruff, S.J.

As I recall, I heard lots of encouraging words.  In and of itself, this is not a bad thing.  But my recollection (I no longer have the research notes at hand) is that many of these encouraging messages had more to do with the “power of positive thinking” than they did with the Gospel of Jesus Christ.  For instance, I recall precious little about divine transcendence.  I recall precious little about who Jesus was and is for us who bear the name “Christian.”  And most striking of all – I heard almost NOTHING about sin, freedom, the problem of evil, or the challenge of the cross.  Given the presence in almost every Catholic church of a large crucifix looming front and center, the omission seemed worthy of serious reflection…

I was reminded of all this recently when I read an op-ed piece in the “New York Times” (8/7/10) by the Rev. G. Jeffrey MacDonald, a minister of the United Church of Christ.  I will grant that he may be painting with a too broad brush, but here is the essence of his argument: “The pastoral vocation is to help people grow spiritually, resist their lowest impulses and adopt higher, more compassionate ways. But churchgoers increasingly want pastors to soothe and entertain them…  As religion becomes a consumer experience, the clergy become more unhappy and unhealthy.”  Naturally, as a Protestant minister, he would feel more acutely the tension between his ideals and principles and the “comfortable preferences” of many of his congregants.  Protestant ministers, after all, are mostly “called” by the congregations that they serve; and if, over the long haul, they displease enough of their people enough of the time, they are apt to find themselves unemployed.  He recounts how “in the early 2000s, the advisory committee of my small congregation in Massachusetts told me to keep my sermons to 10 minutes, tell funny stories and leave people feeling great about themselves. The unspoken message… [was] clear: give us the comforting, amusing fare we want or we’ll get our spiritual leadership from someone else.” Catholic priests, being assigned as we are by our bishops, are to some extent immune to these pressures.  In theory, our relative job security should free and empower us to preach whatever messages the Spirit may place in our hearts – however challenging or uncomfortable they may be.  But alas, we ourselves are members of the prevailing culture.  Like those of our congregants, our own imaginations are shaped by the 22-minute formulaic “sit com” mindset, which insists that everyone must always find a way to live happily ever after (and in less than half an hour!).  We, too, are bombarded by commercials that insist “Coke adds life,” and that Bounty towels are “the quicker picker-upper.”  So, in a word, we are apt to be as desperate and eager to avoid conflict and to please as anyone else.       And while it is true that Catholics in a particular parish do not hire and fire their clergy, Catholics HAVE discovered the possibility of voting with their feet.  That is to say, they have created their own version of “get their spiritual leadership from someone else.”  So where am I going with all this?  Well, let me return to Rev. MacDonald to answer that.  Toward the end of his “Times” article, MacDonald says: “When they’re being true to their calling, pastors urge Christians to do the hard work of reconciliation with one another before receiving communion.  They lead people to share in the suffering of others, including people they would rather ignore, by experiencing tough circumstances — say, in a shelter, a prison or a nursing home — and seeking relief together with those in need.  At their courageous best, clergy lead where people aren’t asking to go, because that’s how the range of issues that concern them expands, and how a holy community gets formed.”

I think that describes pretty well what we hope for together here at OSJ.  Our Mission Statement says that we “desire to be transformed through the action of the Spirit into a community united with Jesus Christ.”  Further on in our Pastoral Plan, we aspire to “show our love for God by loving one another in an atmosphere that is caring, inclusive, and respectful of our differences.”  As weak, sinful human beings, we will naturally fall short of these ideals at times; but God help us if we stop challenging ourselves by speaking and hearing them regularly. I believe that as a faith community we desire nothing less than the “Good News” which is the full, authentic Gospel of Jesus Christ.  I hope that, unlike the Corinthian Christians, we will prove ready for “solid food” (I Cor. 3:2), and will refuse to settle for mere “comforting, amusing fare.”  Please pray for me and my fellow Jesuits that we will have the courage to hear and to preach the whole of the Good News with integrity, “so that the cross of Christ might not be emptied of its meaning.” (I Cor.1:17).  And pray for yourselves, that you will demand of us nothing less.

©2013 Fr. Daniel M. Ruff, S.J.

That being said, it must be noted that within a few decades of the Society’s founding (1540), the foreign missions (in the Far East and in the New World) and the running of schools had already emerged as the preferred works of a large share of the Society’s members; and those two foci remain prominent for the Society’s manpower down to the present day.  Historically, we Jesuits have not focused heavily on running parishes.  One reason, at least anecdotally, is that the old “pastor-for-life” model – now disappearing even for most diocesan priests – was in conflict with the Ignatian ideals of freedom and mobility.  When we did found and operate parishes, it was often in conjunction with mission work, as was the case when Old St. Joseph’s parish was founded.  Other parishes began as “college churches” – although in the case of our own parish, the college did not come along until more than a century later.

I offer all that by way of a long prelude to saying that since Vatican II, in its own self-renewal, the Society has embraced parish ministry in a new way.  This was evident at a meeting of Jesuit pastors from the Maryland, New York, and New England Provinces – i.e., the soon-to-be-united East Coast Province – which I attended in New York this past week.  There were thirteen of us present; and there are at least half-a-dozen more whose responsibilities made it impossible for them to attend.  As I typically do when I gather with Jesuit peers, I found the time largely consoling.  I came away with renewed hope and energy, and of course, with lots of good ideas.

I also came away with a sense of emerging consensus among my brothers that Jesuit parishes – while remaining in full collaborative communion with the local and global Church – ought necessarily to have a distinctive “flavor” of their own.  We talked a great deal about what might define this “Jesuit-ness” of our parishes; and we agreed that this sense of identity will be increasingly important as our manpower declines, and with it, the number of parishes we are able to staff. 

First and foremost, we agreed that our parishes should reflect the spirituality of the “Exercises” in how they operate; and also, that they should be vehicles or “platforms” for sharing and promoting Ignatian spirituality and the “Exercises.”  We also agreed that prominent attention to the “promotion” of justice must be a non-negotiable for Jesuit parishes.  A few other emphases, perhaps less strong but certainly clear, include: formation and continuing education for intelligent faith; the fostering and training of lay partners in mission and identity; and a sense of welcoming those who may feel marginalized in society and/or the Church.

This list feels right to me, and I hope to you as well.  I certainly came away from the meeting feeling that I had “backed the right horses” by investing a lot of my personal time and leadership energy over the last couple of years in both the Ignatian spirituality and formation committee and in the social justice committee.  I am especially proud and grateful for the well-subscribed Advent and Lenten at-home retreats which took place last fall and this spring.  We need to build on the success and energy of these programs as we look to our future planning.  I am also very proud and pleased with the generosity of so many parishioners in organizing, donating to, and participating in our Lenten Cross campaign which culminated in the very successful Parish Day of Service on March 23.  Again, we must build on this success as we move forward; the justice committee is considering two days of service during 2013-2014, and I am encouraging and supporting them in this.  In a word, it seems that we are “on the right track” as a Jesuit parish looking to our future.

On the other hand, the pastors’ meeting reminded me that we can’t rest on our laurels. Jesuits and their partners in mission are called to aspire to the “more” (“magis”) – to seek God’s “greater glory.”  There remain far too many in the culture around us, and even within the Church itself, who have yet to discover the rich personal relationship with the risen Jesus which is the great gift and grace of the “Exercises.”  And there are also many in our own city and country, as well as around the world, who continue to be hungry and thirsty, estranged and naked, ill and in prison.  We must believe with all our hearts that if we fail to respond to even the least of these, we fail to respond to Jesus himself (Matthew 25:44-45). 

In more immediate earthly terms, as the Society of Jesus discerns the future deployment of our shrinking manpower, it is continued growth in our “service of faith and promotion of justice” – that is, the continued cultivation and enhancement of our Ignatian identity and mission as a “Jesuit parish” – that will argue for Old St. Joseph’s as a viable mission field for Jesuits looking toward the future.  In this our 280^th year as a faith community, we continue to celebrate and give thanks for our rich and storied heritage; but we also listen with discerning hearts for where Jesus might be calling us as disciples, both at present and in the time to come.

© 2013 Fr. Daniel M. Ruff, S.J.