Homily for January 23, 2005
Liturgical Year A-Cycle I
3rd Sunday in Ordinary Time

Reading I
Is 8:23, 9:3
First the LORD degraded the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali; but in the end he has glorified the seaward road, the land west of the Jordan, the District of the Gentiles.

Anguish has taken wing, dispelled is darkness: for there is no gloom where but now there was distress. The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom a light has shone. You have brought them abundant joy and great rejoicing, as they rejoice before you as at the harvest, as people make merry when dividing spoils. For the yoke that burdened them, the pole on their shoulder, and the rod of their taskmaster you have smashed, as on the day of Midian.

Gospel :
Mt 4:12-17
When Jesus heard that John had been arrested, he withdrew to Galilee. He left Nazareth and went to live in Capernaum by the sea, in the region of Zebulun and Naphtali, that what had been said through Isaiah the prophet might be fulfilled: Land of Zebulun and land of Naphtali, the way to the sea, beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles, the people who sit in darkness have seen a great light,
on those dwelling in a land overshadowed by death  light has arisen. From that time on, Jesus began to preach and say, "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand."

Jesus begins His public ministry in the lands of Zebulun and Naphtali.  “A people living in darkness have seen a great light.  And those who inhabit a land overshadowed by death, a light has arisen.”  It’s interesting that Jesus chose this area of Galilee to begin His public ministry.  I would have expected He would have begun His ministry in Judah, around Jerusalem, where Jesus was of the tribe of Judah.  He was an ancestor of David.  Certainly, Judah and Bethlehem and Nazareth and those areas would be friendlier towards Jesus.  He would know those people in that area.  Instead, though, He leaves His home and He goes off to this strange place in Galilee to proclaim His message of peace and reconciliation and salvation.  The reason that Zebulun and Naphtali were called “the land of gloom and darkness” is because they were, as far as the Jews were concerned. The people who lived there were heretics.  Worse than Gentiles, heretics.

Just a little background on that area of Israel.  You know Jacob, who was also known as Israel, had twelve sons.  And they are the heads of the first of the twelve tribes of Israel.  And then the Hebrew people entered the Promised Land, led there by Moses, to the river and then by Joshua into the Promised Land.  They divvied up Israel into different geographical sectors.  Each tribe was given a place to live with the exception of the tribe of Levites.  They had no land of their own because they were the tribe of the priests and they were interspersed among the other eleven tribes so that they could lead worship. 

Jesus goes there, of all places, to begin His public ministry.  And how does He attempt to reach those people?  Not by threats or intimidation.  Not even by teaching as such but by being a light to them.  Throughout the gospel today and in the first reading from Isaiah, we hear those images of gloominess and darkness and of light and joy and peace.  Jesus goes there not to condemn them but to be a light to show them the way.

It's interesting, throughout His entire ministry, Jesus seems to be more comfortable with the greatest sinners.  The only people he really gets angry with are the religious leaders.  The sinners are His friends.  He came for them.  Of course, He tells them to turn away from sin and be faithful to the gospel but He’s more comfortable with them than He is with the so-called religious saints. 

What does this have to do with us?  Well, everything.  We are Christians.  We are “of Christ.”  A Mexican is “of Mexico.”  An Italian is “of Italy.”  We are Christians.  We are “of Christ.”    That means that we are to do as He did.  We are to live as He lived.  We are to be light to a world of darkness and salt in a world that has lost its flavor.  In a few weeks, we will hear that gospel, about light and salt.  It says, “You are the light of the world.  A city set on a mountain cannot be hidden.  Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a bushel basket – it is set on a lamp stand, where it gives light to all in the house.  Just so, your light must shine before others, that they may see the good that you do and give glory to God.”  So, it’s fair to ask this question:  if that’s the deal, if to be a Christian, another Christ, “of Christ,” means that we should be a light to the world, how are we doing?  Are we any different than those who don’t know Christ?  After all, we should be different. We know that death has no power over us.  We’re not afraid to die because we know what happens as we enter eternal life.  We know in Christ our sins are forgiven and that He is a font of mercy that cannot be extinguished.  We know in Christ that we are God’s children, that God is my Father and that He loves His children.  So, I am an heir to all that is God’s.  Therefore, I should be different from those who don’t know these things. I should be different from those who don’t experience these things.  But am I?  Are you?  That’s the question.

If indeed we are “of Christ,” we should be people, generally, who are optimistic.  We know how it ends, right?  GOD WINS!  The results are in.  Even when it looks like we are way behind, God will win!  And if you’re with God, you will win also.  Death has no power over us.  We should be optimistic.  We should be joyful.  And yet, so many times, Christians are no different than everyone else.  I remember when I was in seminary.  I went to seminary at Mount Angel, Oregon.  If you’ve been to Oregon, you know how beautiful it is.  The reason it is so beautiful on those nice days is because of all the rain on all the not nice days.  In seminary, we were on a hilltop, about 250 feet above the valley and from about mid-October or late-October through April, it’s just either socked in with fog or its raining and it’s like 44 degrees.  It’s like Ireland.  A cousin of mine once said, “It’s a lovely wee country God made for us but He forgot to put a roof over it!”  Well, in my last year of seminary there, I woke to the sound of birds singing in early April.  I looked out the window, and it was a beautiful, pure, crystal clear day.  You could see Mount Helena in the distance, just white and perfect and beautiful.  After mass, I was having coffee with some of my seminarian buddies and we were feeling great, especially those who were about to graduate.  I was about to leave the discipline of seminary and start the easy life of a parish priest….  Yeah, I know.  And then, along came Larry, a good friend of mine.  A gloomy friend.  We’re all happy--it’s a beautiful day and here’s Larry and he said, “Those birds!” (There was an expletive before the word birds.)  “They woke me up this morning!  Didn’t they wake you up?  We should shoot those birds!  I’ve got to get my sleep, you know.  I’ve got a lot of work to do.”  Nothing but complain – that was typical of him.  One night, he had locked himself out of his room.  It was about ten thirty at night and I was coming from spiritual direction.   I smelled his pipe.  And I said, “Larry, is that you?”  He was sitting in the dark outside, by the retreat house and he said, “Yeah.”  I said, “What happened?”  And he said, “Well, I locked myself out of my room.”  “Well, go get the key from Brother Sebastian.”  He says, “No, because he doesn’t like me.”  And I said, “You’re going to stay out here all night?”  And he says, “No, it’s OK.  It’s all right.”  So I went to Brother Sebastian, told him I was locked out of my room, got the master key and unlocked Larry’s room.  Father Ray used to say about Larry, “Larry, if you had a duck, it would drown!”  We said, “You worry about your hobby horse dying, Larry.”  He’s a good priest, Larry.  He’d be a lot better priest if he smiled. 

And then there’s this parishioner, one in a million, at my old parish.  I’ll call her Lilly Lamentation.  You know there are some people you don’t want to ask, “How are you doing?”  You know that and then you do it and you go, “Oh, no!  I said it again.”  And you get the whole run down of every problem in her family, in the world and in heaven.   But we loved her.  And she died and one of her friends, who is since deceased herself, came up to me at the funeral and said, “You know what Lilly should have on her tombstone?  ‘I told you I was sick!’” 

Then there’s the church look when you come into the church.  You have to be serious in church.   You have all seen that smiling Jesus picture?  Jesus is laughing, head thrown back.  A woman in my first assignment said, “That’s sacrilegious!”  I said, “What’s so sacrilegious?”  “He shouldn’t be shown making a fool of Himself.” Jesus was laughing.  How sad it is that she thought that. 

Then there’s the angry Christian.  Now, it’s OK to be angry and in fact, at times, we need to be angry.  But we shouldn’t be angry people.  And yet, so many Christians are angry.  Oftentimes those most devoted to the faith, in terms of devotions and mass and prayer, are angry.  Jesus wasn’t like that.  Children were attracted to Jesus – children are not attracted to grouches.  So, we are not to be angry.  Having said that, I have met lots of people of great hope and light.  For some reason the last couple of days, I’ve been thinking of Cecile Devine.  Many of you know her.  She played the organ here a few years ago, in this church.  She was very ill and it took a few years to die.  And every time I visited her, she was so happy.  She could hardly get out of bed and yet she didn’t care about herself.  She would say, “How are you, Father?”  And she would tell me some wonderful stories of her childhood and of her travels.  She loved Asia.  There’s another woman in Sombrillo Nursing Home.  Her name is Amalia, and she is 101 years of age.  She doesn’t hear very well, she can’t get out of her chair and I don’t think she can see.  She’s the happiest person there.  She has her wits – it’s not because she has lost something.  And every time I give her a hug, and I say, “Yo soy Padre,” “I am a priest.”  And she says, “Oh, Padre, Padre.”  And then she gives me her little crucita--a little sign of the cross on my forehead. There’s like a five minute blessing she gives me with every saint known to the Catholic Church called upon.  There’s a dent in my forehead when she's done.  She’s 101.  She can hardly see, she can hardly hear, she can’t move.  And she’s happy.  She is filled with joy.  That’s the light of Christ and that’s what we are called to be, as well.

One more example.  A friend of mine, his name is Phillip Lahey.  I want to tell you about Phillip.  He’s a little odd.  He’s a vegan.  He eats grass and stuff.  I call him “Bones.”  He must weigh about ninety pounds and when you give him a hug you can feel his whole spine.  And he prays and he prays.  He told me once that he was going to live just on the Eucharist.  I told him "NO."  I ordered him not to.  In any case, Philip, for the last 25 years, has devoted his life to saving babies.  His office is next to the abortion mill on San Mateo in Albuquerque where most of the abortions, I think, in New Mexico are performed.  He knows what the schedule is and he’s there.  He has saved hundreds of babies over the years.  As women come in, he’ll say, “Can I talk to you?”  He’s very polite.  He’s very, very easy.  Occasionally they will talk to him.  He will say, “Don’t hurt your baby.  Can I help you?”  Sometimes they will say, “Well, if I could just get my rent paid, if I could get a job, I could have some hope.  I could raise this child.”  “Well, we’ll get you a job, we’ll get your rent paid and we’ll get you a car.”  He has all these resources.  He knows my phone number. He has saved hundreds of babies.  I don’t know how many times he has been asked to be a godfather.

I was with him at the abortion mill, some years ago.  I don’t like to go to that place but I feel I need to because I believe that it’s a terrible thing.  There’s a lot of anger.  Every time I have been there I have been cursed at.  So, I was with him, in my clerical attire and after several women went into the clinic, the doctor came by.  His first name is Bruce.  I think he’s still there.  He probably performs most of the abortions in that clinic and in the state.  It’s a very lucrative business.  He came in and he looked at me first.  I was in my priest clothes and I gave him the worst mad dog look and I didn’t do that on purpose.  I confess to you, I hated this man. My look said just that.  And he looked at me as if to say, “Right back at you.”  Then he looked at Philip and smiled.  He knows Philip.  And Philip said, “Bruce, how are you?  I’ve been praying for you.”  He had just had an angioplasty, the heart procedure.  Bruce stopped and said, “Oh, thank you, Philip.  I know you were praying for me.  It went well.”  And Phillip said, “Bruce, I was praying that you would be cured.”  And I’m thinking just the opposite.  He said, “I was praying that you would be cured.”  And he said, “Thank you, Philip.  I appreciate that.”  There really was a look of love between these two men.  The doctor went in to do his “work,” his evil work, and Philip had the last word.  He said, “Don’t hurt the babies.”  And he said, “Yeah, I know, Phillip.”  Then Phillip turned to me because he had witnessed this exchange of hatred.  He said to me and this is pretty much his exact words, he said, “Father, I know you love the baby in the womb and the mother of that child but you are also called to love that doctor.  It is only through love that he has a chance to be saved.  If he doesn’t see that love in us, he will never see it.”  And I said, “Yes, Philip.”  That’s being a light in a place of gloom and darkness.