Browsing Homilies

Twenty-fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time

12 September 2021
Re-Opening of Saint Noel Parish

Is 50:5-9a | Ps 116 | Jas 2:14-18 | Mk 8:27-35

Today we are reminded that following Jesus isn’t always easy. In Christianity, we model our lives after someone who gave himself away, over and over again. He gave of his time and his wisdom and his healing gifts throughout his earthly life, and in the end sacrificed that very life. As it turns out, following in his footsteps can also come with a fair portion of suffering.

Most us won’t be called to the level of self-sacrifice that Jesus models, but it remains true that the life of someone who is Christian is often harder than the life of someone who is not. I mean this in the sense that the commitments of Christianity are real; this is a life that makes demands of us. We believe—and are sometimes called to preach—things that are unpopular. When Isaiah’s ears are opened to God’s unpopular call to conversion, he has thoughts of rebelling and of turning back. He knows the response he will receive, but he endures, because once he hears what God has to say, he has to move forward with it.

Even the public prophecy of Isaiah is beyond what most of us are called to, and perhaps with good reason. It’s all too easy to use God as an excuse to pass judgment on others and to treat them with disdain. True fraternal correction, done cautiously and lovingly, can be an important piece of Christian life, but it ought to be approached with fear and trembling. So often, attempts to correct others lead to further alienation and dismissal of the Church’s difficult teachings, ultimately doing more harm than good.

Most of us will live out God’s call to self-sacrificial love in ways that are less visible but no less painful. Parents know this well: pregnancy takes an enduring physical toll and is a literal participation in Christ’s “This is my body given up for you.” The journey of parenting continues to pose risks and threats, sometimes including physical ones. Children throw blocks at faces, step on bodies, and grab onto sensitive neck skin by the fistful. Isaiah speaks of giving his cheeks to those who pluck his beard; dads of small children might know this all too well.

Even more are our hearts left vulnerable when we strive to form ourselves in Christ’s love. They will break over and over again: at the injustices that lead to poverty and at the wounds that result form it; at babies dying in the womb and at mothers left to feel alone in raising their children. This ongoing heartbreak can tempt us to despair—or it can tempt us to harden our hearts. We can choose to protect our hearts by ignoring the pain before us, to shut our eyes to others who are in distress. But in Scripture, God’s people often pray for new hearts, which are hearts made of flesh, hearts that can keep breaking.

The Wizard says to the Tin Man, “As for you, my galvanized friend, you want a heart. You don’t know how lucky you are not to have one. Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.”

“But I—I still want one.”

Even though it does cause us pain, we can pray with them that our hearts will never fail to break at the suffering of others. I finally had to turn off the TV these past few days, with all the coverage in honor of the events of 9/11. It all comes flooding back: the tears came and found myself with my hand against my mouth, shaking my head in disbelief, as if I were just seeing the footage for the first time.

From those tragic events, a year-and-a-half of this pandemic, 17 months of construction on our church, the difficulties and obstacles, one after the other, 12 months of not being able to gather in this sacred space, and now seemingly nonstop variants with this virus, the division and isolation it continues to cause, not knowing who or what to believe: yet, we are called to maintain hope even as we squarely face all that remains broken in our world, our nation, the Church, and within our families.

We are not promised comfort in this life of following Christ. But we are promised that we don’t do it alone. Jesus, who deeply knows our suffering, will be with us until the end of the age. Over and over again these readings repeat refrains of God being our help, God being near, God hearing us, God freeing our eyes from tears. We doubt this all too often; I’ve doubted it! Because suffering has a way of isolating us, of making us feel alone and weak and like we’re the only person this has ever happened to. We sometimes even blame ourselves; if only we were stronger or more faithful we wouldn’t feel this way. But this sense of isolation is one of evil’s greatest tricks. We are promised that we do not do this alone.

In the psalm, we walk before the Lord; there is a sense there that God has our back. In the gospel, we follow Jesus; he goes ahead, showing us the way. And, we are reminded of the famous prayer known as the Breastplate of St. Patrick, which ends with an invocation of Christ’s protection with us always: behind and before us, beneath and above us, at our right and at our left.

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