When the World Fell Asleep: 2nd Sunday of Advent

Perhaps the Israelites were just tired. Tired of being chosen.  Of bearing that burden and responsibility of carrying the mystery of monotheism to the Nations.  Tired of having to defend themselves.  Of persecution and the law.  Tired of the exiles and the traditions and the Passover, of having to remember, to hear, tired of Shema.  Tired of waiting for the messiah to come.  Tired of waiting still.

Perhaps Europe is tired too.  Tired of its history and of wars.  Tired of being the cradle of Western civilization:  the apex of art and music and architecture and philosophy.  Tired of councils, of orthodoxy, of parsing words and defending the faith (and living the faith too).  And tired of being chosen.  Chosen to bear the light of faith ad gentes.  Perhaps Pope Francis and Benedict before him are right: Europe is asleep, like a tired old woman.  Sleeping soundly. For being chosen to carry the truth to the Nations is tiring.

Perhaps we are tired, too.  Tired of turning every corner and having to defend our faith. Tired of the scandals, divisions, of trying to live up to an ideal that seems so far out of reach.  Tired of waking up every morning to be a parent, of respecting our spouse when he or she is not in the mood, of arguing for procreation and for marriage and for decency.  Tired of living up to a life that we can’t quite seem to fit into. Tired of being chosen, of trying to be a light here in the city of Leuven.

The problem is that realized eschatology is not always so glamorous.  Being a chosen people—if we can call ourselves that anymore—is not always so easy.  It requires patience.  It requires service.  And it requires suffering:  suffering because the message is so valuable, service because it is ours to hand on, and patience because we await the fullness of the promise once given that has not yet come.  But we are not so good at being chosen.  For we sin and we divide and we excommunicate and we war and we blame and make excuses and on and on and on.  So we place the ideal aside.  We are tempted to water down the truth.  We doubt whether it is real.  And we grow tired.  We even go to sleep. 

There was a moment in my first year as a priest, where after driving up and over the mountaintop over and over and over again to go to my other parish I just grew tired.  Tired of climbing.  Tired of the mountains.  Frustrated that the work seemed so great.  Saddened that the message was so beautiful, but so few wanted to hear it. But then Advent came around. The example of John the Baptist rang so true to me.  It wasn’t about me.  It wasn’t about my work.  It wasn’t about the mountains nor was it about my comfort.  It was about the one who came and who is to come.  It was, and is, about Jesus.

And so in the dark, in the quiet hours of the night when the world has gone to sleep, a voice begins to ring out.  A voice of one crying out in the desert: prepare the way of the Lord.  Make straight his paths.  A voice that is like the alarm going off in the morning when we have been out too late drinking Rochafores:  wake up.  Prepare. Your savior comes.  Make straight the paths.  Let him in.  Let him know you.  Let him love you.

The reason that John the Baptist could leave his life and live in the desert, detested by many, clothed like a crazy man, eating such odd food, and willing to give up his own life is the one reason that supplies the only solution that will wake us up, that will wake Europe up, that could wake the Israelites up.  HE KNEW THE CHRIST.  He knew that Jesus was the one that they had been waiting for.  He knew him and he loved him. 

I sat on a plane coming back from Rome this last weekend and listened to a Flemish woman talk on and on and on about the problems in the church until I was hoping that we would hit some really bad turbulence so as to end the conversation.  She told me of the problems with the mass, of language—Latin and Dutch and English and French, of conservatives and of progressives, of priests, of the hierarchy, of the teachings, of the music…  And don’t get me wrong many of her complaints were well grounded.  But at the end of the day her biggest problem from what I could see was not all of those things:  it was that she had fallen asleep.  She had fallen asleep to the reality that God in Jesus Christ has come to know her and love her and only in responding to that relationship could she wake up.  It seems that if she just knew Jesus, then the mountains of her problems with the church, and with the world, and with everything else would be leveled and she would wake up and be part of the solution. 

        

Many of us sit in classes day in and day out, we read books and research until our eyes cannot stay open anymore. We are searching, along with so many others, for something to wake us up from our present context. Some of the best minds in the world wonder what program will work the best to alleviate suffering, what structure must be put in place to bring justice, and what model of secularity will best assure the future of democracy.  And these questions are important.  But these things don’t contain in them that which the world longs for.  These things don’t contain the answers to a world in need.  And these things will only make us fall into a deeper sleep unless we heed the words of John today:

Prepare the way of the Lord.  Make straight his paths.   He desires to come to us and to meet us and to love us. He desires that we know him and meet him and love him.  Only this will wake us up.  Only this can make that tremendous burden of being chosen really possible.  For this is realized eschatology.  This is relationship.  This is the love that God desires us to feel and know in him.            

For many years the world was asleep in shadows and darkness and then the light on the horizon shown forth.  That light woke up the world and gave us saints.  It gave us Mary and her Magnificat and Paul and his pen; it gave us Cecilia and her song, and Benedict and his book; it gave us Catherine and her consistency and Thomas and his truth;  It gave us Michelangelo and his masterpieces; Dante and his Divine Comedy, Shakespeare and his Sonnets, Leonardo and his Last Supper; Bernini and his Baldequino, and it gave us Teresa and her tenderness, and Pio and his piety.  And it can do the same for us.  For only in Christ does the human person wake up to the fullness once promised so many years ago.

If we’ve forgotten what it means to know Jesus, then perhaps this Advent is a moment for us to remember.  If we’ve perhaps never fallen in love with him, then maybe this Advent is a time for something new.  If we have grown tired, perhaps it is time to wake up, and for us to wake the whole world up, to a savior who has come to set us free. 

Rest in Peace, Fr. Jerry Dorn: Homily for the Funeral of a Good Friend and a Great Missioner

We all know that Jerry was creative and had many artistic talents.  But I think it is safe to say that one could never really nail down just what kind of artist Jerry was nor could you specify what medium he usually used.  There was paint, to be sure, but there was newspaper, mud, grass, bushes from the yard, concrete, pinecones, I think you get the picture.  What made up his artwork was as diverse as his creativity would lead him.   His missionary life, as a work of art, was just as diverse and creative, too.

Last night we heard much about the work of art that was Jerry’s missionary life.  I would like to tie some of those memories and a few more in with the scriptures we heard today.  As most of you know I knew Jerry much later on the scene than many, just after he finished up in the administration.  I think perhaps when I met him he was entering into a new phase of life:  one more of reflection, perhaps a little less energy, a few more health problems, less mobility, but still filled with joy and a missionary spirit—that spirit never left him.  So much of what I share is actually stories of the way he saw life when reflecting back on it.  We know he had a tendency at times to, well I don’t want to say exaggerate, but color his stories as they were told.  So please forgive me for inaccuracies. 

I think part of what went into the artwork of Jerry’s life as a missioner would include a tension between letting go, and in letting go, receiving so much more.  He understood this to be: God cannot be outdone in generosity.

The experience of letting go began early in Jerry’s life.  He told the story often of his first trip to Glenmary with his family.  Jerry always said that when they arrived in Cincinnati he was more scared on that day than maybe ever: scared of what was to be, scared of not knowing, but especially scared of having to let go.  He would say that they drove around the property 3 or 4 times before finally having the courage to enter the residence.  Jerry said his dad knew his fear and said to him:  “Give it one year.  After a year, if you don’t like it, I will come and pick you up and we will farm and make a million together.”  So Jerry chose to let go, and so much more came

Letting go was also part of his novitiate.  It was a time for him of seclusion and solitude. He chose to let go of the world for that year.  In doing so, he found an abiding love for Jesus and for mission that would stay with him his entire life.  The year was so profound that his family, his parents especially, said the letters he wrote home were the most meaningful they ever received from him in his life. 

Some time later in Western Kentucky, known then as Brother Jim or BJ, he shared his heart and joy with the people, but that same heart would be torn open when a scroll of hundreds of names written as a petition to the president of Glenmary to keep him in that mission, could not keep him from changing assignments.  Driving to Cincinnati with tears in his eyes he let go, but much more would come.

And then there was the Farm.  New groups coming in, other groups leaving.   With all of the singing and guitar strumming and decisive volleyball playing, there were many friends that came and went, lives that were changed forever, but letting go that had to come. 

From the beautiful homes of Connecticut to the prisons of Eastern Kentucky, from the mountains of Georgia and Tennessee to the hills of Arkansas and St. Meinrad, letting go but always receiving more produced the piece of art that was Jerry’s missionary life.

From the outside one could easily ask why.  Why go through the pain of having to let go, over and over again, of being separated, of loving when you are at first not welcome nor loved, and leaving when no one wants you to go.  Why do this mission when it is so tough?

But Jerry had a deep theology on this. He talked about this a lot.  He understood it in the same way we see in today’s Gospel.  Jesus is getting ready to leave.  He knows he has to go. His disciples have that hollow feeling of emptiness forming in their hearts.  They don’t want him to go.  But he says that he must.  And that if he does, they can be assured that he will be waiting for them.  And that the spirit will come in his place.  In his leaving there will always be something more given.

But believing Jesus’ words requires faith, and it requires trust.  For us in the midst of our loss this day it might not be so easy.  But perhaps thinking back on our memory of Jerry can give insight into how we can make sense of this.  For if there is another element that went into the work of art that was Jerry’s missionary life, it would be the faith and trust he had in both God, and in others, something that was an example to so many of us.

There are people here who probably were once 50 feet up in a tree or on a cliff listening to Jerry yell up to them:  “Trust a brother, Trust a brother” as they prepared to repel down to the ground below.

And trust was important for Jerry, too, serving on the Council or serving with others in the mission.  He would always want to check in and see how the group was doing, to be honest even if it hurt, but to always hang there when times were tough. 

When Jerry was elected to the administration he often said that deep down inside he wondered how people could have so much confidence in him to do that job.  He actually went back home and asked his parents this very question:  “Mom and dad,” he said, “why do people keep trusting me with these different responsibilities?”  After a long period of silence his mother responded:  “when people sit across from you they think that you truly understand them, and that they can trust you, through and through.”

Perhaps that is the way that most of us have been affected by Jerry.  His ability to sit down and listen for hours, sometimes all through the night.  And when he listened to you, you pretty much knew that you were loved and that there was at least one other person in this world who knew you, and you could trust him to love you.

It is this kind of trust and faith that Paul is inviting the Romans, as well as us, to consider today.  It can be so hard for us to trust in this world. It can be especially difficult in a time like this.  But Paul says that we can trust God’s love.  And absolutely nothing can separate us from that love.  Many of us learned that trust and love from Jerry and so we can believe that the same is possible in God, along with so much more.

The last element that I would like mention that I think went into the piece of art that was Jerry’s missionary life was that of joyful, faithful commitment. 

I want to say to his family here today:  I know you know this, but he was so committed to you all.  He talked about you all constantly, he hung up every picture he received around that beautiful portrait of his parents, of your parents: Mr. and Mrs. Dorn, next to his mother’s rosary and his father’s wrench.  He prayed for you all in so many Masses, uniting you all to Jesus in the Eucharist.  And the foundation of joy and commitment he learned from you all he carried with him into every assignment he had.

The last year or so of Jerry’s life while he was living in East Tennessee he told me often of how happy he was.  He found in that house on the hill a place of quiet and peace where he could reflect on what he had experienced and learned over his 50 plus years as a missioner.  He said that the overwhelming feeling that kept coming back to him in the quiet of his heart was thankfulness to God for his call to missionary life. 

To us Glenmarians and to others who knew Jerry, his commitment was no less.  He loved this community to the end.  He would often mention that we were certainly a wild and crazy group of missioners, and that for all practical reasons there is no way we should still be going.  But he believed that God wanted and wants us to continue on—to continue to spread the love of Christ to those most in need.  To continue doing what he joyfully tried to do for over 50 years.  He always said that it was important to him to stay committed as a priest and committed to his Glenmary Oaths until his death.

Well that time has come now for Jerry.  The piece of art that was his missionary life is complete. 

And now he waits for us in that banquet of heaven (and he is probably telling God how to prepare the food, but of course eating it, too).  Our work as missioners is not yet complete.  But with the help of grace we will one day be united with Jerry in that Heavenly banquet with the Father.  I am sure we will be singing Alleluia.  But probably also, “Hey its good, to be back home again.  Sometimes this old farm, feels like a long lost friend.  Hey its good to be back home again.”

The Family Rendering Unto God What is God's

If we render unto God what is God’s, what is left for Caesar?

I have often found observing children, especially as they play, to be a good source for reflecting on theology.  One afternoon I was visiting with a friend and his wife.  They have a son, Matt, who is about 5 years old.  They had invited another couple over, who also brought their little 5 year old daughter, Samantha.  We adults carried on doing adult things, and the children carried on doing childish things.  I have to admit that the childish things seemed far more interesting.  But being an adult I could only observe from a distance.  Matt was being a good little boy trying to play with Samantha.  But clearly, this was a bit of a struggle for him.  For having Samantha there meant that he had to share.  Watching them play, there were clearly toys that Matt was willing to share with Samantha, and toys that she, as long as Matt had something to do about it, was not going to touch.  He would push the toys that he wanted to share towards Samantha, and then back away guarding the others.  This of course made the other toys only more enticing to Samantha, and within minutes a fight broke out and parental policing was needed.  These toys were like a part of Matt.  And there were clearly parts of himself that Matt was willing to share, and other parts that he was not going to give up. 

If we render unto God what is God’s, what is left for Caesar? 

The Gospel we heard today has been used in many ways to defend and develop numerous types of political theologies and philosophies.   It has even been used to defend liberal democracies, especially as seen in the United States.  I am not going to enter into that debate here. But I do believe that this Gospel poses to us all a challenge that most likely we (and this includes myself) struggle to live:  A challenge that can be seen in light of Matt and his toys.  Like Matt, there are parts of ourselves that we are willing to render unto God, and parts of ourselves that we are not yet willing to hand over.

In my first two years in the missions I would get so excited for Christmas and Easter.  Not only because this represented the highest liturgical time of the year.  But also, because at this time, I would be able to see the classic “Chreasters” return to Mass.  You know, the people who are Catholic and only go to Mass on Christmas and Easter, hence Chreasters.   Now I know that it is easy to get frustrated with these people.  On the one hand it is good that at least they are making an effort to be present.  At least they haven’t forgotten completely about their faith.  On the other hand, we know that FAITH IS SO MUCH MORE THAN THIS.  When Jesus says that we must render unto God what is God’s, he is not saying that thinking about faith twice a year is sufficient.  He is saying that God requires all of us, he requires everything, he asks for our full devotion and dedication and will.  All of our love. This is what differentiates Catholicism from many of the post-modern manifestations of religion.  Catholicism requires all of us: and this is why it is both a path to true joy, but also something that requires tremendous sacrifice and even pain on our part. 

But before we become too hard on the Chreasters, it might be worth admitting that maybe we all are Chreasters in our own way.

·      We come to church and light our candle and we feel good about ourselves.  And we have done our prayer deed, and don’t think about praying for another month.

·      We check Sunday mass off the list and then give little thought to worshipping God out in our so-called public lives.

·      We volunteer on a committee at church and think that well, we are doing quite a bit, and so we have figured out what it means to be Christian.

·      We give to charity and support the church, but we don’t give much thought whether the way in which we are earning our money is actually doing more harm to others than good.

The list could go on.  We are all guilty of this: priests, laity, and religious.  We all are Chreasters at some level in our own heart.   We do our minimum, and oftentimes these are very good things.  But we fail to see that faith could be so much more.

Part of the problem, as many of us know, is the way in which modern society is set up.  Everything attempts to stand on its own; to be autonomous, and therefore everything becomes fragmented and separated.  What happens at church stays in church, what happens at work stays at work, what happens on Friday night stays at Friday night.  Morality exists at church and ethics becomes what is done in public.  We then get caught up in this system that dissects us and fragments us, we become this kind of person here and that kind of person there.  And if we are lucky, we barely render unto God what is God’s on Sunday morning. And then it can only be true that the Mass becomes boring, that faith becomes irrelevant: for faith is meant to be universal, to penetrate every part of our lives and every part of reality.   That is what it means to be catholic.  

I suppose some could deny this narrative, and they are free to do so.  It is bleak and not something that particularly makes us happy.  But my experience as a priest in the missions, especially when dealing with families highlights this reality.  Hispanic families would emigrate from Mexico and move into the rural areas of the South.  For the first generation of parents faith was everything. They came from a heavily Catholic culture. They rendered unto God what was God’s.  They rendered everything.  But just one generation later, as I listened to these parents with tears in their eyes, their own kids no longer cared about faith.  Caught up in the culture of the United States God was forced from the lives of their kids to being something only in the Church, then only in the family, then only personal, and then it was gone. 

As this first session of the Synod on the Family comes to an end, I think it is important to highlight this crisis of faith as being the biggest threat to the family, and thus to the church and to society.  I have the greatest admiration for the families that go to St. Kwintens.  I have gotten to know many of you already and look forward to meeting many more.  You sacrifice tremendously for your kids.  You are trying and your efforts are inspiring.  But out of love as your priest and also a friend, I think it is important that we ask this question together:  What will make our families here any different from those Hispanic families in the missons?  Will we have the same tears for our children a generation from now?  I know there are exceptions to every rule and that even when some families do everything right their children don’t remain in the faith.  BUT this should not keep us from asking this important question:  How can families model to their children that we are called to render unto God what is God’s?  For it is only within family that we can learn that our belief in God, our Catholic faith, must penetrate every single aspect of our being and of our lives.   Unless we fight for this everyday and make cognizant that so much in society is pushing our families in the opposite direction we will be no different than those countless Mexican parents wondering what happened to their kids.   

When my friend’s son Matt struggled to share all of his toys with Samantha, he got down on his knees and modeled to his son what it meant to share all of himself with others.  May we get down on our knees and ask God that we might be able to model to our kids what it means to render unto God what belongs to God.  In the end, let us pray that there is nothing much left for Caesar.