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Recent Homilies by the Pastor |
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Father Hanson's older homilies may be found here: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/dmh-homily/ [Will open a new window or tab.] For the Scripture Readings for Sundays and every day click here. [Will open a new window or tab.] |
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Homily: Fifth Sunday of Ordinary Time (Year B) 2012 Job 7:1-4, 6-7; 1 Corinthians 9:16-19, 22-23; Mark 1:29-39 What does the gospel mean when it talks about demons? Demons figure prominently in Jesus’ early ministry in Galilee as we hear in today’s reading. So what are demons? Are they the same as the devil, Satan? Do we believe in them? Are they real? Catholic talk about demons, devils and possession has moved to the periphery of theological chatter. Vatican II said not much at all about it. Moreover in reforming the Rite of Baptism a lot of explicit talk about casting the devil out of babies by exorcism was removed. Ironically the poor devils (and I don’t mean the babies) have gotten heaps more attention in popular culture. Novels like The Exorcist, The Da Vinci Code, and films about vampires and zombies like Twilight and HBO’s True Blood have generated mountains of cash for studios, writers, and movie stars. For myself, if I see one more ghoul or zombie on TV I’m going to puke! I find it curious that what is embedded in the bible and religion is scoffed at by the world as out of date and irrelevant; yet has become the center of endless fascination and endless tweeting by the masses. So what does the New Testament mean by demons? What does it means when it says:
Or when it says:
First, demons and the devil are different things. It is the former we will think about. Second, remember that the ancients, including the people who wrote the Bible, lived in a pre-scientific age and long before the Renaissance re-positioned the human person at the center of the universe. That was a profound change in thinking in which not only the sun replaced the earth in the model of the cosmos (to the scandal of Bible-believers), but the human person replaced God and the angels. But that’s another story for another time. Since the Renaissance, the Enlightenment of the 18th century, and the advent of psychology we humans can’t imagine anything other than ourselves in the cosmos. For the ancients, on the other hand, the cosmos teemed with life and they felt themselves, as we sometimes still do, at the mercy of its unseen and uncontrollable forces. There is more to this world than meets the eye: That’s what they believed. And they were right. What they considered demonic is everything which limits human life, produces pain, and seems to conspire against us. Also, and this is important, everything which cannot be readily explained or understood, which back then was a whole lot. Within this vast category of the demonic they certainly included illness. For example, some people in the gospels whom we might diagnose as having had a grand mal seizure of epilepsy, are described as possessed by a demon. What was observed was violent, unpredictable, scary and they couldn’t explain it. It got put into the demonic bin. But that is not the extent of it. The demonic is more than just that about which we are ignorant. It also includes powers and forces which are destructive and overwhelming, beyond our control. If I say 9/11, I think of the demonic. If I say Hurricane Katrina, I know something of the demonic. A hurricane is well understood, but there is not much you can do about a category five bearing down on you except get out of the way. Superman is not going to swoop down and blow it back to sea. We are helpless against its power. And marvel with gaping mouths at the destruction and suffering it caused. That is the demonic. I think one can still make a good case for the demonic today, without rejecting science or the life of the mind by which we make sense of the world in our modern age. And that is when the demonic shows itself as something launched or guided by human will. Think, for example, of the Nazi regime in Germany from the thirties till 1945. The gradual, creeping assertion of power over every sphere of life; the silencing by whatever means of any dissenting voice; the perverted racial theories leading to extermination camps; the gathering, irresistible power that choked nearly all efforts to halt it…all these are what I would label demonic. And there are plenty more examples. Is nuclear power demonic? As weaponry, surely. But for peaceful purposes maybe the jury is still out. But look at Fukushima. An accident but who yet knows its effects. No, the demonic is not just mythical. It is real and present. The central idea in the gospels, and what Jesus came to announce and bring to bear was the reign of God. And that meant an assault on the demonic, on everything which belongs to death, corruption, and sin. Everything which disfigures and destroys abundant living. Jesus is a healer. He brings in a new creation where harmony and life lead to joy and God’s praise. He wants to vanquish all that is destructive, and in fact, by his death and rising he already has. It was an assault on the demonic. What we celebrate in this Mass is his victory over death and his gift of eternal life to us who have been made part of his body. He is here to heal us and to drive out our demons. Let us go to him, as did the people of Galilee.
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Third Sunday of Ordinary Time (Year B) 2012 Jonah 3:1-5, 10; 1 Corinthians 7:29-31; Mark 1:14-20 The first reading from the book of Jonah is completely misleading. It looks like God told Jonah to go preach repentance to the Ninevites and he couldn’t get there fast enough, so eager was he to start. Quite the opposite is true. The Book of Jonah is a parable and it teaches an important lesson about God’s love and forgiveness. We all remember the part about Jonah swallowed by the whale (even though it never says a whale but a great fish). But that’s a minor plot detail. Let’s go back and take in the whole story. Nineveh was an ancient city in the Assyrian empire. Today it is an archeological ruin on the Tigris river across from the modern Iraqi city of Mosul, the scene of much violence in the recent war. Let’s bring it up to today. Assyria was ancient Israel’s arch-enemy and conqueror. For Jonah to receive a command to go preach repentance and forgiveness to the Ninevites would be unthinkable and hateful. What if your son had been killed by an IED in Mosul and you were told to fly to Iraq and be reconciled with his killers? How would you feel about that? That’s exactly how Jonah felt. The Bible says he “burned up with anger” at what he was asked to do. Frankly, the Ninevites didn’t deserve it. That’s how he felt; and he had a point. So what does Jonah do? He runs away. Most of the short book of Jonah describes Jonah’s running away from God. Running away from doing something he found too hard to swallow. It is about Jonah’s jealousy of God’s forgiveness and mercy. It is about trying to block God’s will and thwarting God’s plan. The book of Jonah is a powerful story and very much about today. To put it in a nutshell: It’s easy to forgive when you have nothing to forgive. But it tears your guts when you do. Jonah winds up in the belly of the fish because in running away on the ship, the crew blames him for a bad storm. Even when he gets a second chance and reluctantly goes to Nineveh, he changes his mind and drags his feet. Even after he finally preached repentance he is sick with grief. In the last chapter (chapter 4) God teaches him a lesson about how poisonous his anger and resentment is to himself. You should go home and read it. See for yourself what Jonah learned with so much bitterness. Go home and read it in your Bible then ask God to help you let go of all the un-forgiveness in your heart so that you may be flooded with forgiveness yourself, and with peace which cannot be disturbed.
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Homily: Epiphany of the Lord (Year B) 2012 Isaiah 60:1-6; Ephesians 3:2-3a, 5-6; Matthew 2:1-12 The gospel of the Epiphany of the Lord helps us to see what our Christian vocation is and how we are to go about it. The word “epiphany” is really a Greek word which the church has used for many centuries to describe the mystery of the Incarnation, the mystery of God becoming human in Christ. Epiphany literally means “shining forth.” It may be rendered: manifestation, revelation, appearance. The feast of the Epiphany of the Lord celebrates the showing forth of Jesus as the eternal Son of God and the light of the world. God, whom we cannot see, becomes visible. St. Paul tells us that Christ is the ikon, the image of the unseen God. St. Matthew tells this story through images: the light of the star which the magi followed, the image of their worship of him, their giving him gifts in recognition and acceptance of Jesus in the manger at Bethlehem. The task of a Christian is in the same way to be
the embodiment. The task of a Christian is to become the visible image
of God in Christ, so the world can see and love him. Our task is to
fulfill that vocation with as much ability, faith, and generosity as we
can muster. We do this through a life of discipleship, by following and
imitating Jesus. We do it by faith and service, remembering that Jesus
said he did not come, “to be served, but to serve and to give his life
as a ransom for many.” ( I believe that this was not just because they were generous and decent human beings, but because God was working through them. Consciously or unconsciously, they were an epiphany of God’s grace, a showing forth of God’s gracious love and presence in our midst. When we do this we become an epiphany of the courteous love of God for each of us. Be a star. Not a movie star or a celebrity. Don’t settle for that. Be a guiding star that brings light and points the way, like the star of Bethlehem. |
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Homily: Mary, Mother of God (Year A) 2011 Numbers 6:22-27; Galatians 4:4-7; Luke 2:16-21 Think about the epistle. We might think that St. Paul was a lawyer instead of a tentmaker. He talks about many things which are the daily work of lawyers: wills, inheritances, adoptions, and the law. Paul uses imagery from the Roman legal system to show us what the Incarnation, the birth of Christ, means for us. It means that God really became human with us: “God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law.” It means he shared our weakness and pain, our mortality and frustration. Before Christ we were slaves with no inheritance and no hope. We were at the bottom of the heap. But his bending low has brought us up. His becoming a slave made us sons and daughters. Not only are we free, we are adopted into the family:
And because we humans are always skeptical and slow to believe our good fortune “God sent the spirit of his Son into our hearts…as proof that we are children.” The poet T.S. Eliot put it this way (For the Time Being):
That is what Christmas means. In God’s eyes we can never ever be an It, only a You. |
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Homily: Christmas (Year B) 2011 Isaiah 9:1-6; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-14 The announcement of the birth of Christ, which we have just heard in the Gospel (Luke 2:1-14), is concrete and full of homely details. It is packed with information which enables us to visualize the event. We learn when and where the birth took place; who was in charge in the secular world at the time; why the happy couple were away from home; who took notice of the birth and came to visit; and the simplicity and poverty of the circumstances. Each detail makes it clear that the birth described happens within human history. It is not portrayed as a mythical event. The story does not begin “once upon a time.” Jesus is not born on Olympus like the Greek gods, or even, like the late Kim Jong-il on Baekdu mountain, mythical birthplace of the Korean ancestors. No, Jesus is born in a stable, alongside beasts of burden and with all the sounds and smells associated with them. Only later in the narrative, and to witnesses not yet at the scene, does a divine messenger announce to the shepherds, that is, to a bunch of locals, to nobodies, the meaning of the birth. The shepherds (and of course, we readers) get a heads-up which uncovers the deeper meaning of what has happened. “For today in the city of David a savior has been born for you who is Messiah and Lord.” That’s the preview, or if you wish, the spoiler, that signals the true and deeper meaning of this birth. Taken together, these two elements—an apparently ordinary human birth and an angelic message—tell us much more than all the detail Luke crams into the setup for his story. What it tells us is this: God becomes human in Jesus. Or to put it in the way John the Evangelist does in the Gospel for Christmas Day: “And the Word became flesh and pitched his tent among us.” These are affirmations of faith. I think most everyone is willing to grant that there was a man called Jesus who was a devout Jew, who lived and taught in first century Judea, who was crucified, and whose followers claimed was raised from the dead. In other words, whether or not you accept the claims made about him, there is no doubt that there really was a Jesus. Jesus was an historical figure whether or not you think he is God. What the gospel is claiming is something more than that, way more. The meaning of Christmas is, at least from God’s side, that God became one of us. And that says as much about us as it says about God, if you are willing to accept it. The fancy theological word for it is Incarnation, literally “enfleshment.” It means that God comes near, because “he so loved the world.” It means that human beings for all their disappointments, both those they cause and those they suffer, are something special. For all the ways we have messed up, at least once—in Jesus—we got it right. But more than once, many times more than once, more than we can imagine or know, we get it right because of him. Christmas is God’s act of faith in us. Christmas is God’s investment in us. Considering our performance—our wars, lies, hatreds—one might say God is not a savvy investor, he buys junk bonds! But Christmas says that’s not how God sees it. God is bullish on us, believes we have a future, is willing to extend us credit. In Jesus he puts down a binder and a first payment. 1 In times past, God spoke in partial
and various ways Thanks be to God.
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Advent 2011 |
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Homily: First Sunday of Advent (Year B) 2011 Isaiah 63:16b-17, 19b; 64:2-7; 1 Corinthians 1:3-9; Mark 13:33-37 I want you to think about a familiar sight in the Hamptons. Not the ocean, or farm fields, or big houses, but a small sign that sits outside many houses, big and small. It is a security company sign, and it usually says something like: “This property protected by [fill in the name of a company].” The sign is a warning to would-be thieves that an alarm system is installed at the premises, and they will be caught if they try to break in. (I would not in the least be surprised to discover that some of those signs are decoys; that there is no security system in place, merely a sign as a deterrent. But a bluff can sometimes be as effective as a genuine threat.) Today Jesus advertises a security fix just like Bellringer, ADT, or Shield.
His security plan doesn’t cost anything, makes no use of technology, and does not require a pin code or touch pad. It merely requires a bit of attention on our part. In the decade since 9-11 we have all become used to regular prompting toward vigilance. “If you see something; say something.” “Keep your luggage with you at all times.” “Please remove your shoes, place them on the belt, and step through the gate.” The Advent warning of Jesus, which used to sound quaint after two thousand years of his habitual failure to return, now takes on a certain weight and urgency. It has an counter-part in our daily life. As a last word I would like to shift the ground for watchfulness. I want to shift its basis from fear of attack to attention to life. Socrates said it best, “the unexamined life is not worth living.” Christ has not come in a definitive, apocalyptic way, it is true. But Christ comes to us everyday, in small but no less real ways. He comes not to the Theme from Star Wars, but in the patter of rain on the roof. Not with bombast, but in a whisper. May I suggest that we do not try to cram anything else into this Advent, already so busy that Black Friday begins now on Thursday. May I just suggest that we try to live our harried lives with a bit more attention this Advent.
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Homily: Sunday of Advent (Year B) 2011 Isaiah 40:1-5, 9-11; 2 Peter 3:8-14; Mark 1:1-8 There is a term used by art historians, pentimento. It is an Italian word, from the verb pentirsi, which means to repent. In art, a pentimento is the evidence that the artist has changed his or her mind. Sometimes the change is visible, as when the original has been painted over and can be glimpsed faintly through the overlaying paint. Sometimes the charcoal under-drawing in which the canvas had been prepped can be seen, but the artist has repositioned an element with the brush, like a face or a pose. Sometimes the pentimento is not visible to the naked eye, but can only be detected by infra-red or x-ray inspection. This technology has given a better understanding of the paintings of the great masters. It seems absurd to compare John the Baptist, in all his rough-hewn weirdness, to an academic art professor, but he plays the same role. John the Baptist instructs us in the art of living, and invites us to enhance our technique by incorporating a pentimento in the canvas of our lives. He proclaims “a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” Pentimento…repentance, they are related. Since we began by reflecting on a word, let us dig deeper and reflect on some other words. Mark wrote his gospel in Greek, and the Greek for “baptism of repentance” is βάπτισμα μετανοίας [báptisma metanóias]. If we make a very literal translation of that, you will begin to see what I am getting at. Mark tells us John the Baptist was announcing an “immersion of mind-change.” It’s barely English but it opens up some possibilities. The Greek word for baptism [βάπτισμα, báptisma], literally means dipping or dunking. Immersion; not just a little sprinkle, but being plunged all the way under the water. Not something half-way; something thorough going. The word which is translated “repentance” is literally “mind change,” μετανοία. The stem νοέω [noéo] means “I know.” Mετα [meta] placed before it means through or beyond, like our English “trans” as in “transformation” or “transportation.” What does all this gibberish amount to? Repentance starts with a change of mind. Like the pentimento of the artist, repentance means that we have changed our mind. Let me give you an illustration. If my doctor tells me that my high blood pressure and diabetes can be helped by a healthier diet and more exercise, that means that I have to change my life. I have to give up my life as a couch potato and start walking. But I don’t like exercise and I won’t keep walking on my boring treadmill until I understand and decide that walking is good for me and will prolong, and possibly even save, my life. Life change starts with mind change. Change won’t work until our mind, heart and will are all pointing the same way. And it starts with thinking, thinking differently. The gospel begins with an invitation to change. Change is hard; we resist it. We have a name for organisms which did not change. We call them fossils, and they’re all dead. Think it over.
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Homily: Third Sunday of Advent (Year B) 2011 Isaiah 61:1-2a, 10-11; 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24; John 1:6-8, 19-28 Identity theft is on people’s minds these days. We have learned to be wary of the many ways in which our identity can be compromised with disastrous results, mostly financial. I once had my telephone calling card number stolen by someone looking over my shoulder in Penn Station. It was months before the telephone company would let me off the hook. We are cautioned to take care of our credit cards, our social security number, our pin codes. If you are a traveler you have learned to be careful with your driver’s license and your passport. You are also used to being more closely scrutinized than ever before. One time in the U.S. embassy in Brussels I overheard a young woman who claimed to have lost her passport in Beirut try to talk her way into a replacement. The expression on the consular officer’s face told me she had about as much chance of success as Minnie Mouse. The question of identity comes up in today’s gospel. John the Baptist is interrogated by agents sent down from Jerusalem. It’s hard not to hear this gospel passage as anything but a security check. It happens on the border. The questions are insistent. The agents want to know who he is and what he is doing. They have some suspects in mind. Are you the Messiah? Are you Elijah? Are you the prophet? Each time the answer comes back “no.” You would think that would be good, right? It is not good. If you are not any of those people, who are you anyway? John has not satisfied their curiosity, but only raised their suspicions and fears. John needs to be accounted for. He must be pigeonholed. Until his identity is confirmed he is dangerous. Who knows what he’s up to. And doesn’t that sound familiar in these days of insecurity. The thing about John is he knows who he is. His self-identity is not the least bit in doubt. He knows who he is not, and that is as important as who he is.
St. John the Evangelist tells us straight up what the agents from Jerusalem are laboring to find out: who and what is John the Baptist?
We could do worse than to imitate John the Baptist—not in his dress or diet, not in his austere and uncompromising personality, but in his clarity of purpose and identity. Let us too bear witness to the Light. Let us witness to Jesus, the light of the world.
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