Tattoos are marks from our past

Homily: 11^th Sunday of Ordinary Time – Cycle C

          Seven and a half years ago (according to the article), Mount Angel Abbey's serene hilltop campus in north-central Oregon shook, as leather-clad Bobby Love rolled in on his motorcycle. Love removed his helmet revealing pierced ears and a mop of dreadlocks. With tattoos on his hands, arms and neck, he looked like an extra on "Sons of Anarchy" not someone attending a retreat for those who might become Benedictine monks. As he dismounted his bike, he was aware of the images on his skin and the absurdity of his arrival. As awkward as he must have felt attending a discernment retreat at a Benedictine monastery, I imagine that it must have been just as awkward for the monks who received him that day.

          I imagine the monks probably looked him over in much the same way that each of us might look over a stranger who walked into our church here looking the same way.  Perhaps we might stop and think, “Who is this guy?” and “Where did he come from?”  Because, perhaps, we’ve become accustomed to associating men and women with tattoos, dreadlocks, and who ride loud motorcycles with those who live sinful lives, we would likely also think to ourselves something like “Whoa, he’s in the wrong place” or “Wow, he’s probably done some pretty bad things.”  Then, if he came forward to receive communion, we might find ourselves saying “Really?  That guy’s going to communion?”  I know that we would all want to react better, but look around you.  Nobody here looks like this guy that I’ve described and so the shock of seeing someone like that among us would cause us to react instinctually; and our instincts, which are always out to protect us, would react in a defensive way.

          In many ways, this is the reaction of the Pharisee in today’s Gospel reading.  He, an upstanding Jew, threw a dinner party to which Jesus was invited.  During the dinner, this woman, whom everyone in town knew was a sinful woman, made an entrance and then made a scene as she knelt at Jesus feet, bathed them with her tears (and you can imagine just how much you would have to cry in order to produce enough fluid to actually wash something), dried them with her hair (meaning that her hair was uncovered, which was taboo both in public and in the presence of men), and then anointed them with oil, kissing them incessantly.  Simon, the Pharisee, whose rigorous observance of the law would make him very sensitive about ritual impurity, is rightly upset that this woman, whom everyone knows is ritually impure because of her sins, would come and disrupt his dinner party in this way and that she would touch a rabbi, whom he would have at least assumed was intent on staying ritually pure.  Perhaps even more, Simon was amazed that Jesus allowed her to do it without protest.  Simon couldn’t see past this woman’s past.  But Jesus, on the other hand, did.

          Jesus, seeing her present, tattooed as she was because of her sins, acknowledges her contrition and pours out his merciful love upon her, much to the shock of Simon the Pharisee.  Simon thought that Jesus should rebuke her for her sins, but Jesus knew that this wasn’t a moment for rebuke; he knew that she wasn’t here trying to make excuses for her sins, but rather she was trying to make atonement for them.  Jesus did not judge her past (for it was obvious that she had already judged herself) and he did not judge her future (that is, whether or not she would be able to leave off her sinful lifestyle), he judged only her present; and in her present she showed deep sorrow for her sins and deep love for Jesus.  In her littleness, as she lovingly poured ointment on Jesus’ feet, Jesus lovingly poured out his mercy upon her.

          Perhaps it’s not hard to see ourselves as the Pharisee.  Like when we imagined the tattooed, dreadlocked, motorcycle-riding stranger coming into our church, participating in Mass, and receiving communion, our tendency to judge instinctually may cause us to focus on whatever that man’s past may be, instead of acknowledging his present.  We must acknowledge this tendency within us and, if we wish to be more like Jesus, we need to work daily to counteract this tendency within us so that, instead of closing ourselves off to others, we remain open to others: to meeting them in their present, just like Jesus did for the woman in today’s Gospel reading.

          Perhaps the greater challenge for us today, however, is to see ourselves as the sinful woman.  Each of us has a past that is tattooed by our sins; and although they might not be just as visible as physical tattoos are, they nonetheless remain with us the rest of our lives.  If we think that turning away from our sins and starting to live a more upright life alone is enough, then we’ve stopped at becoming a Pharisee.  Simple observance of God’s commandments can never achieve for us the abundant life that God wants to give us.  It is a necessary step, of course, but never the only one.  Only if we also turn to our Lord in deep sorrow for our sins—which, in itself, means that we’ve also acknowledged our past as having been sinful—will we find the merciful love of God poured out upon us.  In other words, we must abandon ourselves to Jesus’ mercy if we want to enjoy the fullness of life.  This is exactly what Saint Paul speaks to in our second reading today: No mere observance of the Law can earn for us eternal life.  If it could, we would have had no need for Jesus!  Rather only faith in Jesus—that is, trust, confidence, abandonment to him—will open for us the floodgates of his merciful love.

          My brothers and sisters, all of us are covered in the tattoos of our past sins.  Thankfully, I dare say, most of us here have already felt God’s merciful forgiveness for these sins.  Nevertheless, try as we may, new tattoos appear when we fail in our battles against sin.  If we then fail to acknowledge these for what they are—and, in turn, look only to our attempts to live according to God’s commandments (saying often to ourselves, “But I’m a good person”)—then we limit ourselves to being Simon the Pharisee: the man who was justified in his own eyes, but cut off from Jesus’ merciful love.  When each of us acknowledges that we each have much of which we need to be forgiven, we will then love Jesus even more and Jesus, in return will even more abundantly pour out his merciful love upon us.

          Bob Love—the tattooed, dreadlocked, motorcycle-riding man who took part in that discernment retreat at Mount Angel Abbey—is now known as Brother Andre.  Although he no longer rides a motorcycle and his dreadlocks have long since been cut off, he still has the tattoos on his hands and neck, his Abbot denying his request to have them removed.  The Abbot’s reasoning was that it was “part of who Br. Andre is”.  Perhaps, however, he hoped that it would be a visual reminder to the rest of the monks that Jesus doesn’t meet us in our past, but in our present; and that he walks with us into our future… that is, if we let him.

          My brothers and sisters, Jesus meets us in our present in a special way here in this Eucharist.  Let us offer to him here the fragrant ointment of our praise and thanksgiving as he pours out on us the ointment of his merciful love in the form of his Body and Blood; and let us allow him to walk with us into our future—into a joy-filled life that living according to God’s commands allows us to live—so that we might one day enjoy the life of perfect peace and happiness that awaits us in heaven.

Given at All Saints Parish: Logansport, IN – June 12^th, 2016

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P.S. Here's a link to an article about Br. Andre.  His is a fascinating story!

http://www.statesmanjournal.com/story/life/2014/11/07/mount-angel-abbey-art-museum-brother-andre-love-iconography-icons-benedictine-tattoo/18602733/

Eternity became visible

          Merry Christmas to all of you.  May the joy of the birth of Jesus, Our Savior, fill your hearts and homes throughout this holy season.

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Homily: The Nativity of the Lord (Vigil)

          It was the fall of 2008 when I sat down to the first session of my Early Church History class at Saint Meinrad (which is the seminary I attended).  In shuffles a rather elderly monk: thin, nearly swimming in his black habit, slightly bent over, a few wisps of gray-white hair still on his head (and on his beard, for that matter), thick glasses, a few books in his hand and a gentle smile on his face.  He set his books on the desk and arranged a few papers on the podium (his notes for class, I assumed) and checked his watch to see that it was time to start class.  He began with a simple prayer asking for God’s wisdom to be with us (Fr. Cyprian’s prayers always felt sincere, never contrived, which revealed a deep, heartfelt spirituality).  Then he looked out at us and said: “History is about making dead skulls talk.”

          Of course, the joke is that Fr. Cyprian teaches Early Church History because he is old enough to have been there to experience it himself; but the truth is that he has a deep love of history—not dates and names, but the true human drama that took place at those times and places—and he loves sharing that experience with others.  If Fr. Cyprian was here today to tell us about this great feast that we are celebrating today, I’d imagine that he’d begin in this way:

“Today, we are celebrating a birthday.  And not just any birthday; but rather the birthday of a king: a king who needs no pedigree of his own but who nonetheless shares one with the ancient people of Israel.  He was born into a peasant family—the son of a carpenter and a poor Jewish girl—but his birth was heralded by nothing less than the full army of heaven’s angels.  Yes, my friends, today we celebrate a day unlike any other: a day in which God made history.”

As you might imagine, I did quite well in his class and I learned from it a love of history.  In his spirit, I think that there are three things that we who are here to celebrate this feast should take away with us today.

          First, we must acknowledge that with the birth of Christ something definitive has happened in history.  The birth of Jesus, the Son of God Most High who took on the nature of a human being without diminishing any of his divinity, is most definitely something new.  Even though we did not read through the genealogy of Jesus, which was an option for today’s Mass (and trust me no one here is more grateful for that than Father Eder over there), one can quickly look at it and see that the birth of Jesus marks something new in history.  After forty-two generations of recounting that so-and-so was the father of so-and-so, and he the father of the next one, Matthew arrives at Jesus and says “Jacob the father of Joseph, the husband of Mary.  Of her was born Jesus who is called the Christ.”  Jesus is the only one on that long list whose biological father is not named.  This was definitely something new.

          Then Matthew recounts how the birth of Jesus comes about.  Joseph, who, I’m sure, would have never thought that he would amount to anything more than a small-town carpenter, and who probably never aspired for anything more than to have decent work, start a family, and to leave a patrimony for his children, suddenly finds that his virgin wife has conceived a child.  He can only assume the worst.  As righteous man, he knew he had to divorce his wife (for that is what Jewish law demanded); but apparently he was also a caring man and so he decided to divorce her quietly, so as to keep her from shame.  His dreams, however, began to crumble.  That’s when the angel revealed a new dream.

          Now, I don’t know what my reaction to this dream would have been, but I can assure you that “when he awoke, he did as the angel of the Lord had commanded him” would not have been one of the options!  I mean who ever heard of a virgin conceiving a child without having relations with a man?  That’s just crazy, right?  Perhaps it was the prophecy that the angel quoted: “Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel, which means ‘God is with us.’”  Isaiah prophesied this to the Judean king Ahaz—one of those kings named in Jesus’ genealogy.  Perhaps Joseph remembered this prophecy and thus, even though he was surprised by its fulfillment, he could have the courage to believe the angel’s message.  Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI, in his book about the infancy narratives of Jesus, wrote that the idea of the Messiah was not yet part of the Jewish religious mindset when Isaiah prophesied this to king Ahaz and so what he did was he formed a keyhole whose key had not yet been made.  Over six-hundred years later, Jesus became that key.

          This, of course, was something new: something that could only happen by God, something that would change the course of history forever.  In fact, it is bigger than history itself.  The theologian Hans Urs von Balthasar once wrote: “Christmas is not an event within history but is rather the invasion of time by eternity.”  This—that something definitive happened at the birth of Jesus—is the first and most important point.

          The second thing that we should take with us today is that this “invasion of time by eternity” is a gift; and it is a gift for all peoples.  In today’s second reading we heard Paul speaking to the congregation in the synagogue in Antioch and addressing not just the Israelites but all who were present (even the Gentile believers, who were called “God-fearers”).  There is no discrimination here.  The Son of God took on human nature to bring salvation—that is, redemption, hope for a life without suffering, and help in the midst of suffering—to everyone: to you, to me, to everyone here and to everyone who is not here.  Jesus is the common ground where everyone, regardless of background, can meet and see in each other a brother, a sister, a friend.

          The third thing is that the receiving of this gift forms those who receive it into a community.  When any one of us looks upon the child of Bethlehem lying in a manger and sees in him—even if only dimly—eternity somehow present in time and accepts it in faith, that one becomes united to every other person who has ever accepted this same truth into their hearts.  We become a community distinguished by this belief who live by this belief and thus become the privileged place of encounter with Emmanuel, God with us.  Therefore, our acceptance can never be partial.  We can never say, “Oh, I like to celebrate Christmas, but I don’t believe that Jesus was truly God made man.”  This is empty!  It is the beautifully wrapped gift box that has nothing inside.  It is a promise of some joy that ultimately goes unfulfilled.  Either you receive the gift, and become one with the community of believers, or you refuse to receive it, and remain outside of it.

          My brothers and sisters, as we celebrate this great day—the day the Word made Flesh became visible to us—let us remember that something new has happened, something that changed history completely; and that it is a gift to us, a gift that still has the power to change our history, too.  And let us remember that when we receive that gift we receive with it a community of brothers and sisters who share in our joy and who long for the day of ultimate fulfillment when Christ returns.

          Today, eternity was made visible to us.  Here in this Eucharist we come face to face with it once again.  And so, to all of us who have received the gift of faith in the Christ-child I say “come, let us adore him.”

Given at All Saints Parish: Logansport, IN – December 24^th, 2014